spencersoddsocks

"Have you met Hotch?" Another one of them said. "SSA Agent Hotchner, Unit chief of the BAU. Loads of accolades this guy."

He smiled politely at the praise but then his eyes settled on you and it almost vanished as you tried to suppress the mountainous eyeroll that was begging to spill over.

"We haven't been formally introduced." You held your hand out for him, introducing yourself. His palm hit yours and his fingers ghosting the soft skin as he pulled away. It tickled lightly and you took a minute step back and a gulp of flat champagne.

Every second you we're in his presence the more you wanted to light yourself on fire. Or maybe it was the heat in his gaze as it dragged down you.

"What sector do you work in?" He asked across the group.

"I'm head of Counter Terrorism." You responded, and really tried not to smirk at the slight flash of surprise on his face. Last time you had spoken, you had been a lowly desk agent. Had it really been that long?

"I'm surprised we haven't ran into each other." He said. You knew none of the other people noticed it but his hard brow and white knuckles around his whiskey glass told you otherwise. It was a dig.

"My team are great at handling anything before it even has to get to me." You kept for feet planted, toes curled into the bed of your heels. "Oh, I think I hear someone calling me. Goodbye Gentleman."

You knew it was petty to undermine him and his team. But the smile that pulled at the corners of your mouth as you made your way to the bar was undeniable.

Quickly, you glanced over your shoulder and almost gave yourself whiplash turning back around. He was already staring you down. Then someone actually called out your name, just as the bartender passed you a real drink. Not some flat, bland liquid that doesn't calm the burning in your feet.

He looked almost the same. The same dark hair that he ran gel through, the same ridged back, like he had a rod pressed against it. The same intense glare and the same stupidly good looking face that never failed to make you hot.

The scotch burned a little at the back of your throat, holding an uncomfortable warmth that tickled as you glanced around the room again. Attempting to find the voice calling your name.

Then, you were embraced tightly. The force of her almost knocking you off your feet and the smell of an almost too sweet perfume drifting upwards.

"Hello Pen." You smiled into her hair, the blonde curls swished along your cheeks. "I didn't know you we're coming."

"Who am I to ever say no to a party?" She exclaimed, with that ever so happy smile on her face.

Pen was the one good thing that came out of, whatever it was that you and her unit chief used to get up to in the dead of night behind closed doors. Or in a squad car, or the one time in his office. But that certainly wasn't relevant to the fruity cocktail that had appeared in your hand.

"This isn't a party, it's a boring meeting with old men, who wear cologne 20 years expired." You rolled your eyes, "How did you even get this, it's a set drinks menu?" Taking a long sip anyway, it was stronger than you had anticipated.

"I gave the bartender very specific instructions after I saw you in that dress." Linking her arm in yours and dragging you around the room.

"Are you trying to get into my pants, Penelope Garcia?" You shot at her with a smirk.

"I'm not a man who wears 20 years outdated cologne, so I don't think I'll have much luck." She retorted.

"Right." Coughing slightly, you jabbed an elbow into her ribs. But you couldn't help but swipe your eyes across the room in a desperate attempt to locate him. You couldn’t. An unsettled feeling swiped through your stomach at his lack of presence.

“Am I that much of a cliche?” You snorted and wiped your damp palm down the side of your dress.

“Eh.” She gave it a thought for a second. “Yeah. But I love you all the more for it.”

Penelope let out a quiet gasp, before she pulled you towards the group of people that you least wanted to see. The BAU

“Chocolate thunder.” Penelope smiled as she sidled up to him, wrapping herself around his muscular arms.

“Babygirl.” He leant over and pulled her closer to him. “Who have you brought to see us? Derek Morgan.” He introduced himself, making a space for you in their group.

You introduce yourself, giving them a tight smile and keeping your hand stuck tightly to your side. It wasn’t that you didn’t like the BAU, they had a great job and Pen spoke highly of them. Of their heroic actions, saving people just in the brink of time. It was inspiring.

The problem was their boss, their boss that for some reason was currently nowhere to be found.

“So what sector do you work in?” The dark haired woman asked, a similar fruity cocktail in her hand.

“Counter terrorism. How are you guys finding the BAU? I hear it’s a whirlwind.” You asked, idley sipping on your drink.

“It keeps you on your toes for sure. We spend a lot of time darting around, the private jet is a plus.” The blonde one, that you knew as JJ shrugged.

You laughed, your head tipped back. “I wish we had one of those in CT. If we ever go out of state i’m always pressed up against a stranger.” Rolling your eyes as you cringed slightly of the memory of rubbing shoulders with a stranger.

“So how do you know Pen?” Derek asked and glanced over to her, still wrapped on his arm.

“I met her on my first day at quantico. Told her I liked her shoes in the elevator.” You smiled at the memory, “Then she invited me for lunch and the rest was history. Now she can’t get rid of me.”

“She forgot to mention that she looked like a total badass.” She giggled.

“Hotch, Hotch!” Pen’s eyes lit up and waved the man you least wanted to see was on his way over. “Have you met my friend?” Her hand gripping your shoulder and spinning you towards him.

Your face hardened at the sight of him, mouth set into an unmoving line and brows pinched together. His face looked like it always had, the stony, frozen expression that was permanently on his face.

“We met earlier.” He said shortly. Stepping around the outside of the group and making room before he stepped in opposite you.

“The guys were singing his praises. Called him FBI royalty.” You hummed, an edge of sarcasm laced through it. A teasing glint in your eye.

He didn’t match it in the slightest. “She was telling me that we haven’t met because her team is that good.” He shot out.

“Well, Strauss isn’t knocking down my door.” A fake sweet smile shone towards him. But your glare was cool as ice.

“Hmm.” He looked like his teeth were going to explode with how hard he clenched them together.

“Right.” Penelope said, cutting through the too long silence with her usual peppiness. “Did you know that she shot a 100 in her recent test?”

“I didn’t tell you that.” Your head shot over to her with a line forming in between your brows.

“I looked it up.” She shrugged.

“Damn!” Morgan exclaimed, “The highest I’ve shot is a 98.”

“99.” Emily smirked at him, a hand on her hip. “The only other person I know who shot a 100, is Hotch.”

Everyone looked towards him, but you hadn’t stopped your hard stare.

“That’s not fair, he used to be a sniper.” JJ huffed, crossing her arms across her chest.

“Well, you know what they say about snipers. Verrry trigger happy. Isn’t that right, Aaron?”

The smirk on your face was huge, egregious even. The satisfaction that settled in your gut hit better than the strong drink that Pen had given you. With that, you span on your heel and walked away.

Leaving the rest of the BAU, stood cringing and looking anywhere but their boss. And him staring at your retreating figure with a fury he knew only one thing could quell.

——

The hotel room they had put you in for the night was not too shabby. The bathroom had a huge bathtub that you couldn’t wait to dip into. A balcony that you’d sit and drink your morning coffee on, and a huge king size bed with the fluffiest sheets you’d slid into.

You pushed open the windows, letting in a cool breeze that swished the curtains into your bare shins. Goosebumps pulled up on your arms at the tickling sensation.

Then, a knock at the door caught your attention. You’d assumed it was Penelope, so didn’t bother to pull some pyjama pants on. The oversized tshirt brushing the tops of your thighs.

“Hey!-oh.” The smile on your face slid off. It was not Penelope. You were not staring at your friend and the coloured streaks in her hair, you were staring at a red tie and dress shirt covered chest. “What do you want.”

He was still furious, standing in the door way with his jaw ticking to the side and the vein in his neck prominent. But he still said nothing, fuming at the sight of you and staring at you with a look that you’d assume was akin to the look he gave mass murderers. It almost made you shiver.

Huffing, and a deep roll of your eyes at his silence. You began to close the heavy door in his face.

Suddenly, his foot was jammed in between the gap and shoved it open. A gust of air pushed your hair back and you took a minuscule step back.

“What are you doing?” You murmured, attempting to hide the shake in your voice. Gaze darting over his shoulder as the door clicked shut, then the lock not long after it.

“You humiliated me.” He stated, taking a large step, filling the gap between you. You took another step back and you felt your heels hit the wall.

“It’s not humiliation if it’s the truth.” You scoffed, your mouth running faster than your brain. “I remember, what was it? Three minutes?”

“That’s not true and you know it.” He hissed, the noise erupted deep from his chest. “I’d been away for two weeks. I don’t remember you complaining.” His eyes narrowed into slits.

“Snipers are known to take the shot too early.” You shoved past him, your shoulder knocking into his roughly.

You remembered that case. He’d been away for two weeks on a child abduction, every couple days another snatched from under the parents noses. No time for relaxation, of any kind.

Then, the second he got back. He was at your door, suit still crinkled. Neither of you had lasted long.

A large hand grasped your shoulder, spinning you around and yanked you into his hard chests His grip settled on your bicep, nostrils flaring as he looked down at you.

“Worried you can’t take it?” He rumbled, fingertips digging in.

You couldn’t help yourself, the scoff coming from your lips before it had even crossed your mind.

The next thing you knew, a strong hand clasped around your jaw and pulled you up to his lips. His crashing against yours, his tongue immediately forced its way into your mouth. You let out a squeak, muffled by him not letting you up for air.

His hands were moving, they tickled down your ribs and made home for themselves under your ass and lifting your socked feet from the ground. Finally, he pulled away to let you gasp for breath.

“I’m going to make you cum so many times, you can’t even remember your silly little comment.”

Now that took your breath away, as you stared at him dumbly with your legs wrapped around his hips. “What?”

His lips nipped your earlobe and the next words sent a shiver down your spine and soaked your panties through. “I’m going to ruin every other man for you.”

You crashed your lips back to his as he lowered you onto the bed. Clambering over you with his hand snaking up the outside of your thigh, he hooked a finger under your underwear and yanked them down your legs.

His head lowered to the apex of your thighs, placing a few light kisses before holding them apart and dipping in.

He wasted no time, like a man on a mission. Pulling you closer to his mouth and licking long swipes up you from hole to clit. Each time he reached your clit he flicked his tongue sending sparks of pleasure up your spine.

“Aar- fuck.” You panted, already fisting the sheets with one hand, the other darting to his hair. You could feel the slight amount of pomade that he had combed through it before the evening.

He didn’t let up, zeroing in on your clit and sucking it in and getting grazing it slightly with his front teeth. Tongue licking up and down, just how you liked it. It sent your back arching and your mouth stumbling over your words.

“Jesus christ!” You cried out, teeth clamped over your lip hard enough to taste blood. The muscles in your thighs tightened as you crashed towards the edge. Desperate to hold off for longer, not wanting to prove his point.

But Aaron Hotchner didn’t like being wrong. Keeping the same pace, but then he hummed. The vibration made your toes curl and a strangled groan escaped from you.

“Oh my god!” It was futile to pretend any longer, letting the tension go. And came. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You whispered through gritted teeth, cunt gripping around nothing.

“What the fuck Aaron.” You said, cheer rising and falling rapidly.

He pulled off the a squelch, the entire bottom half of his face covered in your slick. Now, he was the one smirking.

“What was that? Three minutes?” He echoed your earlier sentiment. Before, you could say anything to snark back, his two fingers had pushed inside of you. Comment dead on your tongue. “Hmm?” He hummed as he started to pump them in and out.

Your hand shot down and wrapped around his forearm. “What, what are you doing?” Still sensitive, each graze made you whimper. “Aaron.” You sighed.

“Making you give me another one.” He smirked, fingers curling up and the pads hit the sweet spot inside of you. The slightest roughness of them made you gasp out again.

Your thighs clamped around his hand as his fingers sped up again and you slumped forward. Head resting against his shoulder, moaning into the crook of his neck.

He knew exactly how to coax noises out of you. Your legs starting to tremble, still gripped to his forearm.

“Fucking hell.” You got louder again, each pump of his finger letting out a wet noise and a delicious scrape against your g spot.

A deep laugh came from his chest, taunting you as your nails started to clasp onto his expensive dress shirt.

“Cmon baby, cum again.”

Cunt tightening around him, it squeezed his fingers in a vice as his voice sent you over the edge. And you did give him another one, just as he asked.

“Fuck you, fuck you!” You moaned out.

He always left you panting, like you’d just ran a marathon. But he stole the air from your lungs when he slid his fingers into his mouth and sucked them clean. Then, his hands traveled to his buttons and quickly discarded his shirt and slacks. Throwing them in the same direction as your panties.

“You can give me another one.” He wasn’t asking, he was telling.

He was crawling over you, almost foaming at the mouth. “You ok?” He checked in, pulling off his boxers.

“Yeah.” You confirmed, with a weak nod.

“Mmm, good.” He rumbled, jumping into action and attached his lips to your neck, and sucking marks that he definitely shouldn’t.

The feeling of his dick sliding up through your slick sent your eyes rolling and finally the deep stretch of him entering had you crying out.

“Aar.” Still ever so sensitive, you couldn’t even get his whole name out. Then, made you babble as he fucked in and out. “Ohmygod, mmmph.”

You could tell you wouldn’t last long, quite literally eating your earlier words. Each press of his dick, left you carving red marks down his back.

Even though his brow was furrowed in deep concentration, grunts slipped from his lips as he felt you tighten around him. But he still looked so, so pleased at himself.

The sight of you limply sprawled on the bed. Hands gripping to him for dear life, words dead on your tongue. Just, loud, incoherent moans that filled the room. A thin layer of sweat over the whole of you, hair stuck out every which way.

You looked completely fucked out.

“Beautiful.” He hummed, pressing a quick peck to your lips. Just the sight of you like that, because of him, had him almost exploding right there. Fingers dragged down to your already sensitive clit and swiped across it.

“Aaron, gunna, gunna.” Your eyebrows pulled together, hands now clasped on his biceps.

“Cum for me honey.” He said, sweetly. He leant down to capture your swollen lips, swallowing your almost scream as you came for the first time. The pulsing of your cunt had him uncharacteristically moaning too.

Finally, he came for himself. Each last drop pumped inside of you. Still kissing rather gently, as he slipped out of you slowly.

“I’m sorry for what I said.” You sighed, body flopped on the bed. “But if it gets me fucked like that, I’m not that sorry.”

“It’s ok.” He smiled and let you rest your head on his chest. “I should clean you up.” His eyes darted down to his cum leaking out of you. It made his cock jump.

“In a minute.” You smiled up at him, quickly pecking his lips. “You’re still a sex god.”

He laughed as he gave you a longer kiss back. “Still?”

“Always.”

He was gone and then back, wet rag in hand as he cleaned his cum off of you. Smirking at the jolt when he lightly grazed your clit.

“Do you want to go on a real date?” He asked, “Not like pizza then sex after a case. But like dinner.”

“After you’ve cleaned your cum off my pussy?” You smiled at him cheekily, but a brush of the rag over your clit had you shut up. “Yes yes! obviously we can go to dinner.”

“I’ll make the reservation.” He climbed back next to you, wrapping his arms around and resting his head atop of yours.

——

a/n: heyyyy! i am alive. this is slightly shorter than normal buttt i had great fun writing it. i’m hoping to get back on a schedule! this was kinda bad but i haven’t written in a whole so i hope that’s ok! 

bucky, on the other hand, was glowing. beaming like a man who didn't have to jerk off into his own hand in silence anymore. he didn't even have to tell you anything.

steve noticed that even though you had someone else to take care of you along with him, you seemed needier, more insatiable than before.

the sleeping situation would usually be steve sleeping on his back, you tucked against his chest, leaned over the side of him, and bucky behind you, draped over you with one arm around your torso and the other one under your pillow.

you'd never shower alone once you asked bucky to stay.

steve would hop in the shower, wanting the hot water to soothe his muscles and not long after he’d feel your hands sneak around his waist, your nipples hard against his back as your hands roamed the plane of his torso and went lower and lower.

he’d groan when you wrapped a hand around him, stroking it lazily as the hot water splashed on him, shudders leaving his lips until he had enough and turned around.

he’d look down at your big, pretty eyes, water dripping from his hair and onto your cheeks as you smile delicately up at him.

steve’s big frame would crowd you onto the tile until he could grip the backs of your thighs and wrap them around him, hard cock between your folds rubbing up and down until he drove you as crazy as you drove him, until you’re begging him to fuck you.

sometimes bucky would be near, sometimes he’d be in the bathroom nonchalantly brushing his teeth, sometimes he’d walk in mid-fuck and undress and join you until you ran out of hot water.

you'd never be alone.

you'd lay on the couch with your legs on steve's lap, his hands absentmindedly rubbing up and down your calves, while bucky sat on the floor in front of you, letting you play with his hair.

bucky didn’t have to do much to move in, just brought his small collection of sweats and underwear and he was done.

steve would come home to you on the couch just in your underwear and bucky giving you a back massage and you’re in a different plane of existence bc it feels so good and “hey, sweetheart” and you just lift your head up barely to give him a kiss “hi stevie” and plop face down on the couch cushions again as bucky works your shoulders and steve chuckles and goes to the menu drawer to decide what to get for dinner.

bucky would be the easiest one of the two to rile up. you’d find yourself under him lazily and deeply making out as he ground his hips into yours more often than not.

they made good on steve’s promise. your pussy never went empty.

every time one of them was on a mission, you and the other would send him texts, pictures, videos, audio messages of the filth you’d get up to unsupervised.

and if both were gone? you wouldn’t be allowed to touch yourself for anything other than edging until they came back.

You sat on your floor in an old sweater that smelled faintly like vanilla detergent, highlighter stains painted across your fingers like bruises. Your notes were everywhere — scattered open textbooks, half-empty coffee cups, desperate little reminders scribbled in the margins,like remember ATP — adenosine triphosphate.

You were drowning in mitochondria, cell division, Latin words that curled around your brain.

Right...brain! Cerebrum or whatever.

Your knee bounced anxiously while you reread the same paragraph for the fifth time, lips moving silently.“Ribosomes synthesize proteins…”

Nothing stayed inside your head.You groaned softly, letting your forehead fall against the edge of the mattress beside you.God, you were tired.

A soft knock echoed through the apartment, sudden enough to make you jolt upright.Your pen slipped from your fingers.

For a second, your heart kicked hard against your ribs. You stared at the door, breathing shallowly while the rain tapped against the windows.

Another knock came,but slower this time...and familiar.You frowned, brushing hair out of your face. “It’s open,” you called weakly.

The handle turned and then he stepped inside.Bucky Barnes — loverboy.Tall, broad, impossibly solid in the dim yellow light of your room. His dark red henley clung to his chest from the rain outside, hair damp around his face, metal hand catching the low glow of your desk lamp.God,you loved that henley.

His eyes moved over the disaster surrounding you — biology notes spread across the floor, empty coffee cups, your tense shoulders curled inward like you were trying to survive yourself.

“I should’ve never given you that spare key,you scared me.” you muttered, dropping your face into your hands dramatically.

Bucky closed the door behind him with a soft click.“Nah,” he said quietly, toeing off his boots. “Pretty sure you’d be dead by finals week without me.”

You peeked at him through your fingers.“I’m serious,” you groaned. “I think biology is actually trying to kill me.”

Bucky hummed sympathetically as he crossed the room. The floor creaked beneath his weight.“C’mere, sweetheart.”

Your cheek pressing into the damp cotton of his shirt. His heartbeat was slow and steady. Nothing like yours.

Bucky’s big hand moved up and down your back awkwardly, like he was trying to calm a frightened animal.“It’s just a test,” he murmured.

You pulled back immediately, staring at him in disbelief.“Just a test?” you repeated.Bucky blinked once. “...Yeah?”

A laugh escaped you.“James Buchanan Barnes,” you said slowly, “if I fail this exam, my GPA drops, my scholarship gets reviewed, my future dies, and I end up living in a shoebox apartment surviving on instant noodles.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly.“You already survive on instant noodles.”

You gave him a look“Bucky.”

“Right. Sorry.”He tried again.“You’re smart,” he said carefully, like he was placing glass on a shelf. “Smarter than anyone I know.”

You groaned, dragging both hands down your face. “That doesn’t help either.”

“Right,” he muttered under his breath.The room fell quiet.Bucky looked genuinely distressed now, metal fingers flexing against his knee. You could practically see him trying to fight an invisible enemy and losing horribly because the enemy was your nervous breakdown over molecular biology.

Back in the forties, he probably could’ve fixed things with a cigarette, a kiss to the forehead, and stealing somebody’s car.But this?Biology finals at one-thirty in the morning?This was defeating him.

Bucky sighed, a deep rumble vibrating against his chest. His large, warm hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers gently kneading the tense muscles at the base of your skull.“That’s enough, sweetheart.Pack it up. Bedtime.”

“No, no, no,” you stammered, pulling your head away and immediately throwing yourself into a defensive position. You slid back down to the floor, grabbing your ATP flashcards with both hands like a shield. “I can’t sleep. If I sleep now, my brain will perform a factory reset. Have you heard of sleep-induced information purging? Because I just made it up, and it feels scientifically accurate.”

His eyes stayed serious. He dropped down onto the floor beside you, stretching his long legs out carefully between the minefield of open textbooks.“You didn’t make up a science rule, you just drank your body weight in espresso,” he pointed out, gesturing with his metal index finger toward the stack of empty mugs in the corner.

“Look at you. It’s past two in the morning. You don’t even know your own name right now, let alone the... what is this? What’s a mitochondria?”

“The powerhouse of the cell!” you blurted out instantly, sounding like a malfunctioning robot.

“See? You know it,” Bucky nodded, nudging his shoulder against yours. His damp hair smelled faintly of the rain outside, but his body was throwing off pure heat. “But if you don’t get at least a few hours of shut-eye, you’re gonna collapse right onto your exam paper tomorrow. Your head won’t be in the game. I know that look. Guys in the trenches used to get it right before—”

“Do not use trench warfare as a metaphor for my biology final, Barnes!” you groaned, burying your face back into your hands. “I won’t be able to sleep anyway. My brain is vibrating. If I close my eyes, I just see chromosomes pulling apart. I’m losing my mind.”

Bucky watched you quietly for a beat, his jaw shifting as he weighed his options. Then, without a single word of warning, he reached out, scooped his arms under your knees and back, and hoisted you right off the floor like you weighed absolutely nothing.“Bucky! What are you doing?! Put me down!”

“Rescue mission,” he muttered shortly. He turned and carried you the two short steps over to your bed, navigating the cluttered floor with terrifyingly perfect balance, making sure not to step on a single notebook.

He dropped you onto the mattress with a soft thud, but the second his hands left your waist, you were already scrambling backward. Your hands gripped the edge of the blanket, your eyes darting back toward the floor where your flashcards lay scattered.“Bucky, I’m serious, I need to look at meiosis one more time—”

“No, you don’t,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. He didn’t follow you onto the bed right away. Instead, he stood at the edge, unlacing his damp boots and tossing them aside. When he looked up, his blue eyes were dark, fixed entirely on you. “I told you to rest. You’re not listening.”

“Because I can’t!” your voice cracked slightly, the sheer exhaustion and caffeine making you desperate. “My brain won’t turn off. I can’t just lie here and stare at the ceiling. I need to study, Bucky, please—”

“Sweetheart,” he interrupted, and there was a new, low vibration in his tone that made the breath catch in your throat. He crawled onto the mattress, his large, heavy frame looming over yours until you were pressed back against your pillows. He trapped you between his arms, his metal hand resting flat against the mattress right next to your head, pulsing cold against the sheets while his human hand gently caught your chin. “I know you can’t turn your brain off. So I’m going to do it for you.”

You blinked up at him, your heart hammering for an entirely different reason now. “What?”

Bucky didn’t answer with words. He leaned down, his damp hair brushing against your cheek as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. He pressed a warm, slow kiss right against your pulse point, inhaling the scent of your vanilla detergent and sweet sweat. A soft, involuntary shiver wrecked through your body, your hands automatically coming up to grip the fabric of his red henley.

“Bucky...” you breathed, but it lacked any of the protest from before.

“Shh,” he murmured against your skin, his thumb caressing your jawline. “Don’t think about the test. Don’t think about biology. Just focus on me.”His human hand slid down your neck, over your collarbone, and down to the hem of your oversized sweater. His touch was burning hot against your bare skin as he slowly slid the fabric up, his eyes never leaving yours.

Before you could even process the shift in the room's atmosphere, Bucky shifted his weight, sliding down your body. His large hands gripped your hips, anchoring you to the bed as he parted your legs, settling himself comfortably between them on his knees.

“Bucky, wait,” you gasped, your fingers knotting into the sheets. “The notes—”

“Forget the notes,” he whispered, his hot breath fanning across your inner thigh, making your toes curl instantly. His metal hand slid up to cup your hip, holding you perfectly still. “Let me take care of you, sweetheart. Just lay back and take it.”

The cool metal of his index finger brushed against your inner thigh, a stark, shocking contrast to the intense heat radiating from the rest of his body. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers tightening into the mattress as he aligned himself. Bucky didn't rush. He watched your face closely, his blue eyes dark and heavy with an intense, protective focus.

Slowly, deliberately, he worked his metal finger inside you.The sensation made you arch off the bed with a sharp gasp, your back curving as a wave of pure pleasure crashed through the exhaustion fogging your brain. The smooth, unyielding surface of his vibranium hand was completely different from anything else—perfectly sculpted, rhythmic, and incredibly precise.

“There you go,” Bucky murmured, his low voice vibrating right through your skin. His human hand remained firmly anchored on your hip, heavy and warm, keeping you grounded while his metal finger slid deeper, finding a rhythm that made your head tilt back into the pillows.

"Bucky, oh god," you whined, your previous anxiety completely evaporating, replaced by the overwhelming feel of him.

He flexed his hand slightly, curling his finger inside you to hit a spot that made your breath catch entirely. Your hips hitched upward instinctively, seeking more of the sensation. A low, dark rumble of satisfaction approved from his chest.

“I told you,” he whispered, leaning up slightly so his warm breath fanned over your stomach, his damp hair framing his face like a shadow. “Just focus on me. Nothing else exists right now, sweetheart.”

He added a second finger, the intricate plates of his hand moving seamlessly together.You reached down blindly, your hands finding the thick muscles of his shoulders, clinging to his red henley like a lifeline as he began to move faster, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

The slick, friction-heated metal of his fingers slid deeper, and your walls tightened around him in a desperate, subconscious reflex. A dark groan tore from Bucky’s throat at the sensation, his broad shoulders tensing as he felt just how tightly you were gripping him.

“God, sweetheart” he rasped, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly register that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

He leaned over you, his chest pressing against yours, trapping you beneath his heavy warmth. “Look at you.Taking me so good,bet you could take my cock”

Your breath hitched at his words, the blunt weight of them hitting you harder than the pleasure rippling through your core. You looked up at him, eyes wide and heavy-lidded, your hands gripping the damp fabric of his henley even tighter. The sheer size of him looming over you—broad-shouldered, thick-chested, and completely overpowering—made the thought of it feel impossible.

“I can't,” you gasped out, your voice cracking slightly as your hips twitched against his hand. “Bucky, no... you're too big. I couldn't.”

“Is that right?” he murmured, his gravelly voice vibrating against your lips as he leaned down, hovering just inches from your face. “Too big for you, sweetheart?” You nodded frantically against the pillow, a soft whine escaping you as he hit that perfect spot again.

You nodded frantically against the pillow, a soft whine escaping you as he hit that perfect spot again.Bucky’s smirk widened, a wicked, knowing glint flashing in his dark blue eyes. He didn’t slow the relentless, perfect rhythm of his metal fingers, but he leaned in even closer, the heavy heat of his chest pressing flush against yours.

“Don't give me that,” he rumbled, his voice dropping into a low, teasing purr that vibrated right through your collarbone. “I notice how you look at me. Especially lately, since I've grown more muscles. You look at me like you're drooling, sweetheart.”

The heat in the room felt stifling as a mix of embarrassment and realization washed over you. You tried to glance away, but the intensity of the moment held your attention, making it impossible to look anywhere else but into his eyes.

Gathering what little courage you had left, you looked up at him through your eyelashes. “Bucky?” you whispered, your voice trembling, smaller and more fragile than it had been all night.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he rumbled, his gaze locked onto yours.You bit your lower lip, shifting beneath his heavy weight.

“Can you... can you do something for me?” You hesitated, the next words catching in your throat before coming out very, very shyly. “Could you put your other hand on my neck?”

Bucky’s fingers stilled inside you for a fraction of a second, the sudden pause making your hips hitch in protest. His brow furrowed slightly, his blue eyes searching your face, dark and unreadable.

“Why's that?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave, rough and careful all at once. “Why do you want my hand there?”

“Um... to...” You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, mortified but desperately craving it. “Just to apply pressure there. Please.”

The request hit him like a physical blow. You opened your eyes just in time to see the exact moment Bucky went completely feral.“Christ, sweetheart,” he rasped, his voice entirely ruined.

In a flash of movement, his large flesh hand came up, his thick fingers wrapping completely around the front of your throat. He didn't squeeze to hurt, but the weight of his palm was heavy, instantly pinning you into the pillows. The sudden, intense pressure against your windpipe sent a shocking jolt of adrenaline straight to your core.

“You want me to choke you?” Bucky growled, leaning down until his lips brushed against your ear, his breath scorching hot. “You want to feel how heavy I am? You think you're too small for me, but you want my hand right here while I make you come?”

You let out a fractured, high-pitched whine, your hands flying up to grip his thick wrist. You weren't trying to pull his hand away from your throat; you were just trying to hold onto something stable while your entire world spun out of control. Your hips hitched upward instinctively, desperate for the friction, your inner muscles squeezing his fingers in tight, frantic pulses.

“Yeah, just like that. Squeeze me,” Bucky ordered, his thumb pressing firmly against your jawline to keep your head tilted back. His dark blue eyes burned down into yours, watching your pupils dilate, tracking every flush of color on your skin. “Take it all, sweetheart. Don't you dare close your eyes.”

The combination of the restricted breath, the heavy, dominant pressure on your neck, and the wicked speed of his hand was too much for your coffee-addled, exhausted brain to handle. The anxiety of your biology final was completely incinerated, replaced by a blinding, white-hot crest of pure pleasure.

Your back arched off the bed, a breathless, choked-off cry catching in your throat as your orgasm crashed over you. Your walls clamped down on his metal fingers in a violent, helpless rhythm, milking him for everything you were worth.

Bucky let out a low, victorious sound, keeping his hand firm on your neck for a few seconds longer, riding out the peak of your climax with you until your hips finally stopped trembling and slumped back into the sheets.Slowly he slid his fingers out of you, the sudden absence leaving you feeling completely breathless and empty.

He released the pressure on your throat, his large flesh hand immediately sliding up to cup your cheek, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear of pure overstimulation from the corner of your eye.

“Good girl” he whispered, his voice softening, though his chest was still heaving from his own exertion. He crawled further up the bed, pulling your limp, shivering body straight against his chest, tucking your head securely under his chin. “Next time, you're gonna take all of me.”

There used to be a time where he could make as much noise as he wanted to, within reason. A time where he could flick on the lights and hum a happy little tune to himself without fear of disturbing any sleeping lovers. But it isn’t just him anymore. His once solitary apartment—his bachelor pad, as Morgan used to call it—is now a shared space, and he wouldn’t change it for the world. He would happily spend the rest of his late nights fumbling around in the dark, holding his breath, if it meant that he got to return home to you.

But tonight, though he does continue with his usual dance in the dark, the last thing on Spencer’s mind is letting you sleep.

“Psst. Hey.”

You wake disoriented, half-buried among your hoard of soft pillows and softer blankets. You’re sprawled out like a starfish, limbs strewn across your shared bed, with your face partially obscured by your favourite purple and orange quilt—a birthday gift handmade by Spencer.

Leaning over you is Spencer himself. Hair tousled. Glasses sitting halfway down his nose. Backlit by the light of the moon peeking through the blinds and looking very much like a guardian angel.

All you manage in response is a low grumble. Words feel too far out of your reach as you squint up at him, face all scrunched up in this confused, sleep-riddled expression that is probably about as far from sexy as you can get. 

You’re dimly aware of the state of your hair, and of the fact that you’re sleeping in a shirt that very obviously isn’t yours; you like maths, sure, but not enough to parade yourself around in a shirt displaying a right-angled triangle with the words “I’m always right” printed under it in big, ugly lettering. You’ve told Spencer to throw this shirt out more times than you can remember, and yet here you are wearing it when he isn’t around. If he hasn’t already figured you’ve been missing him, then he’s bound to find out as soon as he sees that cursed shirt.

“…Spence?” you mumble, struggling to keep your eyes open.

He greets you with this huge smile, bright and excited in all the ways that are sorely inappropriate for such a late—or early—hour. 

“There she is.” He leans down to kiss your cheek, and he stays there for a moment, letting his words hit your skin as he murmurs, “there’s my angel.”

“You’re back,” you observe, stating the obvious. You rub your eyes, still trying to pull yourself out of your haze as he settles down beside you.

“I am.”

He sounds far more enthusiastic than you do, peppering your face with kisses like he’s been away for months, and not a week—six days, technically.

He was due to come home tomorrow night. At least, that’s what he told you. You wouldn’t put it past him to lie for the sake of surprising you like this.

“How did it go?” Your fingers find his face in the dark, and you cup his cheek. “The case. Did you—”

“Shh.” Spencer presses his lips to yours, silencing you with a kiss that seems to thrum with something more, something unspoken, but he pulls back before it can be explored. “Just let me kiss you.”

“Spence,” you whine, but your protests are quickly muffled as he kisses you again.

Still, despite your attitude, you lean into him. Your hands slip into his hair, and you thread your fingers into the silken brown strands as you pull him closer. You try to sit up, but he gently pushes you back down.

“It went well,” he eventually murmurs. “I missed you.”

“’Missed you, too. How well is ‘well’?”

Spencer sighs against your mouth, and he pulls away with a barely contained smile. He tilts his head slightly as he looks down at you, studying you in all of your sleep-ruffled glory. “We caught the unsub,” he says, “no one on the team got hurt, and Los Angeles can sleep well knowing they don’t have a serial killer to worry about.”

“Only paparazzi.”

“And celebrity stalkers.”

“Same thing.”

“Very true.” He kisses the tip of your nose. “But that’s enough about me. How have you been? Have you been sleeping okay?”

“Well, I was…”

He flashes you this faux-sympathetic pout. “Sorry.”

“Empty words,” you mutter, shaking your head. “I was having such a nice dream, too.”

“Oh?” Spencer shifts, bringing himself closer to you as he props his head up with his hand. “What were you dreaming about?”

You shrug. “Oh, you know…some pretty FBI agent, a queen-sized bed, and…” your voice trails off for a moment, and you puff air into your cheeks before adding, “whipped cream.”

Spencer’s brows shoot up, and he nods along animatedly as though you’ve just uttered something profound. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Sounds like fun.” He trails his fingers, touch feather-light, along your jaw. His glasses continue to slip until they’re balancing precariously on the end of his nose, and you’re certain they’re about to fall right off and hit you in the face. “But I feel like whipped cream on a queen-sized bed would just result in quite a…sticky mess, right? I mean, the amount of laundry that would come of it—”

With your index finger, you push his glasses back into place. “Shh, let me have my fantasies.”

“Okay, okay,” he concedes with a sigh—light and breathy, almost like a laugh. “And I’m very sorry that I interrupted such an…interesting dream.”

“Very interesting,” you say.

“I’m sure it was.” His hand is holding your jaw, barely. He’s handling you with such an impossible gentleness, angling your face towards his with such subtlety, that you hardly even notice he’s doing it. “Let me make it up to you?”

“Hm…maybe.” You find yourself leaning into his touch instinctively, gazing up at him with love-laced curiosity as you ask, “what do you have in mind?”

Spencer purses his lips for a moment, pretending to be deep in thought as though it isn’t painfully obvious that he has, in fact, come in here with a plan. His hand leaves your face, and he begins carefully peeling away your blanket. “The same thing I’ve had in mind for the last week.”

“I’m listening.”

The words come out a fraction quieter than you had been intending. You try to bite back a smile, but your efforts prove futile as Spencer pushes the blankets aside to reveal you in just a t-shirt and underwear. Again, his t-shirt. One that he clearly recognises, because his face lights up with this stupidly smug grin. When you roll your eyes in response, he leans down to kiss your cheek.

"It suits you," he murmurs, almost whispers, and he follows it up with another quick kiss before sitting up. 

He nudges your knee, silently asking something of you. Your brain is, admittedly, still a little foggy, so there's a moment where you just stare at him, buffering, before you spread your legs and hope it's the correct move. Thankfully, it is. 

He settles between your legs, on his knees, and leans over you. One arm braced against the mattress, the other brushing hair from your face. He inches his face closer to yours, taking a long moment to just…look at you, admire you before (hopefully) kissing you again.

You decide he's taking too long, so you cup his cheeks and pull him down until his lips meet yours, and it seems that every ounce of restraint he had been exercising thus far dissolves in a matter of seconds. He kisses you like he's been starved of oxygen, need-driven and thoughtless—as thoughtless as Spencer Reid can get, that is—like he'd devour you whole, if physics allowed it. 

His glasses, no longer in place on his nose, press against your browbone, and you break the kiss just long enough to take them off and set them aside, out of harm's way, before turning back to him. Lips still parted, ready for him to dive back into you.

But Spencer's focus has now shifted to your neck. He trails his lips down until they meet the junction between your neck and shoulder, where he knows you're most sensitive. He nips lightly at the skin, and you feel him smile, proud, as your breath catches. Then, he works his way back up until his teeth find your earlobe.

"You know, it's a generally accepted theory that erotic dreams may be representative of latent non-sexual desires, or needs, that aren't being met," he explains in this soft, honeyed tone as he pulls back. His hands travel down your body, palms brushing over your curves through your (his) shirt. "They can come about as a result of loneliness, or a need for safety—even low self-esteem."

His fingers hook under the band of your underwear, and you raise your hips without hesitation. He pulls them down slowly, so slow it’s almost hard to watch, because he just loves making you wait, skimming the fabric along your legs before casting them aside. 

"There's also a possibility that you may see qualities in this pretty FBI agent that you lack in yourself," he continues, lifting your leg to press a kiss to the inside of your knee before progressing, steadily, down your thigh, "such as…attention to detail, maybe. Or perhaps…orderliness…a level head…"

"Spence…"

At the sound of your voice, Spencer looks up at you, brown eyes wide. Almost innocent-looking. You never should have told him that those eyes, and that damn deer-in-headlights look, were your weakness—all he’s done since then is use them against you.

"Mhm?"

"We agreed to keep Freud out of the bedroom," you say.

Spencer grins, baring his teeth against your thigh as he chuckles softly. "I know, but it's kind of difficult. He's so relevant."

"I’m sure he is," you mutter, doing your best to look unamused despite the smile tugging at your lips. "I have an idea."

"And what would that be?"

"Stop talking."

He gasps, faking offence as his hands squeeze your thighs. "I thought you liked my ramblings."

"I do," you say, "when we're not…like this."

"Oh, I see…you're getting impatient."

You stay quiet, denying him the satisfaction of a response. If you disagree, then odds are he'll drag this out even longer. And if you agree, if you validate him, then it'll just go straight to his head. And his ego is already big enough as it is.

"I could be a lot worse," he adds with an unassuming smile, "if you—"

"Spencer."

"Yes?"

"…please."

The word is an admission in itself, but it beats the alternative.

Spencer sighs. "Well…if you insist." He lowers himself, settling fully between your legs as he brushes his nose against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him to be. "I suppose I won't boreyou with all the dreams I’ve had while I’ve been away…"

"Wait, what—"

A sharp gasp cuts through your words as Spencer's mouth finds your clit, and any coherent thought vanishes, replaced with hot static and an overflow of need that has built up in his absence. His fingers press divots into your thighs, keeping them open as he works you with a proficiency that only he could manage; that eidetic memory serves him well when it comes to memorising you. Your body, your essence, your nuances; all the little things he can play to that have you writhing beneath him, forgetting everything that isn't the way his mouth feels, and the hunger that it ignites within you.

Need mounts almost to desperation as you lift your hips in a silent plea for more, and you whine when he gently presses you back down against the mattress. Your fingers find their way into his hair, curling into the chestnut strands as you push his face deeper into you. He makes this noise in response; a low, pleased hum, and it reverberates through you in a way that has you fucking reeling with pleasure. 

He releases his grip on one of your tensed thighs, and the next thing you know he's slipping a finger inside you with ease. A second finger follows and, before you know it, you're arching your back and trying to stifle moans in the hopes that the neighbours won't hear you as Spencer finger fucks you with practiced, calculated precision, hitting that sweet spot repeatedly and bringing you closer and closer to the edge at a carefully controlled pace. He knows you, inside and out, probably better than you know yourself—no, definitely better than you know yourself, because not once have you managed to achieve this kind of high when you've flown solo. It's second nature to him, something he can do without thinking—something he needs, just as much as you do, after such a long week.

His name tumbles from your lips, whispered like a prayer between hymnal moans. He looks up at you and, for a moment, his gaze locks onto yours. What you see in those dark eyes in that split-second is nothing short of worship. Tainted around the edges with a smugness that he can never quite hide when he has you like this, especially when you start to devolve into helpless whines and whimpers and choked, breathless curses. The way you always do just before he brings you over the edge.

The orgasm hits you right when he wants it to; halfway through whining his name, so all you can manage is a weak “Spence-” before the tension snaps and you lose yourself completely. You moan into your hand, and your thighs clench around his head—not that he seems to mind—as he continues guiding you through it, squeezing every ounce of bliss out of you before it all subsides, and you melt beneath him, dazed and drunk on your own ecstasy.

Spencer sits up, red face glazed with a thin sheen of sweat, and wipes his chin with the back of his hand. He watches you for a moment, gaze travelling across your form like you're a work of art in his stupid t-shirt, and he allows you to catch your breath before leaning down and capturing your still-parted lips in a slow, tender kiss. Your hands return to his hair, and you pull him that little bit closer, unable to stop yourself from moaning softly as you taste yourself on his tongue.

You trail a hand down his body until your fingers brush against his prominent erection and, when you do, Spencer breaks the kiss with a gentle shake of his head. His fingers close around your wrist, and he pulls your hand away even as you whine in protest.

"Not tonight, sweetheart," he whispers.

"Why not?"

"Because," he punctuates his words with a kiss to the corner of your mouth, "I just want this to be about you."

You pout. "Why can't it be about both of us?"

All Spencer does in response is flash you a knowing smile—one that raises far more questions than it answers—before lowering himself until he's lying flush against your body, being careful not to put too much weight on you. 

"You're weird," you mumble.

"You like it."

"I do."

Spencer nestles his face in the crook of your neck, and you can still feel him smiling against your skin as you run your fingers through his hair. It's hard to believe that he's only been gone for a week; it feels like it's been so much longer than that. Too long. 

You'd ask him to never leave again, if you thought you could. But you know exactly what his answer would be; soft-spoken, sympathetic, disappointing. He can't be here every night, not without giving up his job, and you'd never ask him to do that. 

Instead, you go a different direction.

"So…" you murmur, "about those dreams you mentioned…"

He lifts his head. Eyes narrowed; brow raised. "Oh, now you want to hear about them?"

"Yes. I’m curious."

He purses his lips for a long moment, keeping you on edge until he finally shrugs and says, "no."

You frown. "No?"

Spencer nods, and that smug, knowing little smile returns. Only now it's tinged with a hint of something disconcerting—something sinister, almost. He kisses your cheek once, then your nose, and then, finally, your lips.

"I think it'll be better if I show you," he says, keeping his voice light and innocent. "Tomorrow."

The loneliness was penance for what he’d done, and he’d serve his sentence willingly. He didn’t deserve forgiveness. Steve Rogers might have been a good man, once, but he believed that good man had died when she had. There just hadn’t been a body. Only a lonely ghost, destined to haunt a tiny cabin in a far-off spot in a forest people didn’t venture into all too often. But it was better that way.

Steve felt that the forest responded to him in a way it might not if he had been a regular man. But there was nothing regular about him, not anymore. The leaves seemed to sigh when he walked under them, the moss seemed to curl tighter to logs and trunks. The tiniest animals didn’t skitter through the underbrush quite so much as they did when he wasn’t hunting as a creature. The forest had folded him into its great, green embrace, and welcomed him.

He was lucky that people didn’t tend to travel so deeply that they came upon him. It happened sometimes—some hikers just believed that they had a natural compass as an extra sense—and he'd reluctantly help them back to a path that would take them far away again. Three years in the woods had worn away at his social skills, yes, but Steve had been more than ready to adopt a more standoffish persona. He couldn’t take care to be too friendly lest people thought it an invitation to wind their way back to his home, to poke their noses in where they didn’t belong.

He remained blunt, to the point. He’d turn away, broad shoulders brushing tree branches, without so much as a goodbye. His rifle would bump against his back as he walked. His general appearance, rugged in every sense of the word from the flannel shirts to the dirty boots, the hair he’d grown out to match the beard, along with his hulking height and stature, was another helpful deterrent.

Despite his coldness to humans, he wasn’t an outright savage. He’d take the time to free animals from the gruesome traps some hunters would set up, saving them from the rusty snap of metal jaws. And Steve was also a very, very good shot. If an animal was beyond saving, he wouldn’t miss, and he’d make their suffering end as cleanly as he could. Inhumane traps like that would be taken apart and disposed of. They had no place in what he’d come to know as his forest.

The smaller creatures, mice and birds, might not have feared him, but the larger ones certainly did. Whether he liked it or not, Steve was king of the forest, a mantle that weighed on his shoulders like cement blocks. So, he’d spend his time in his cabin whittling figurines or reading one of the same four paperbacks that had survived the journey, so yellowed and worn that they looked decades old. He’d hunt and fish and lay in the dark, swim in the lake in the summer months. But always, he was alone, with nothing but his own cruel memory as company.

You very much loved your job. Being a freelance photographer had always been your dream, your work just good enough to pay your bills. You were still coming into your own. Engagements and gender reveals were your biggest money makers, but you thought you liked street photography the best. You even had a decent following on social media, with people inquiring about booking your services enough that you got to travel over to the neighbouring states pretty frequently.

But your portfolio was starting to look a little bare, a little boring, of late. Street photography was more difficult when you kept venturing into small towns without so much as a city square. Big cities just weren’t in your budget right now, especially not when you’d just signed a six month lease on an apartment that really shouldn’t have cost as much as it did, but the string of business you had on the docket was all in the same area, and you’d figured—why not?

You hadn’t been in town very long, but you’d already surmised that people much preferred outdoor activities here rather than cheese and wine tastings, upscale clubs, and hot yoga. No, it was much more down-to-earth here. There were three separate tackle and bait shops, multiple sporting goods stores, and grills and lawn mowers lined the outside of the hardware store like trophies.

It wasn’t necessarily your vibe—you’d never been the type of girl to enjoy hiking, let alone running—but it was interesting, that was for sure. On your first day there, you’d seen four separate men wearing the same exact plaid shirt. Your online following was a larger total than the town’s census. But in a town this small, it wasn’t too long before you heard something that piqued your interest, just a little bit.

You’d been in the town’s most popular coffee shop, snuggled into the blue and orange booth in the corner. The amenities might have been basic, but they still knew how to foam up a latte, so you weren’t complaining. Editing photos was a more tedious task, but it was something you enjoyed the rhythm of. Usually you had headphones with you, but you’d forgotten to charge them, so you listened to the idle chatter around you, instead.

“Jacoby swore it was the size of a brown bear. Said it looked him right in the eye, too. But it took him back to the path like it knew he was lost.”

“Huh, surprised it didn’t take a chunk out of him first.”

“I don’t know, I’ve heard about this wolf before. Seems sort of friendly, even though it’s always alone. Not the first time I’ve heard of a hiker being brought back to the trail like that.”

You dialled into the conversation when you heard about this wolf. Your finger slowed on your trackpad as you listened to the men at the table across from yours.

“Leave it to Jacoby to get himself lost like that. Ain’t his dad a hunter? He should know directions by now.”

You grimaced at your screen. You’d much rather hear of this benevolent creature than how much of an idiot this Jacoby guy was. One of the men laughed. “Yeah, well, you could hand Jacoby a map and a compass and he still wouldn’t know how to find his own ass.”

It looked like that was the end of the story. You sipped the dregs of your latte, the stoneware mug still warm in your hand. This set of photos needed to be complete to send to the client by tomorrow, and you weren’t going to get any of it done by listening to small town gossip. But then…

“Anyway, I thought there were no wolves around here. Foxes and coyotes, yeah, but not wolves.”

“Well, like I said, every time I’ve heard about it, hikers have said it’s by itself. Must not have a pack or something.” A pause, and then a chuckle. “Hey, maybe it’s just the big, bad, wolf.”

Suddenly the perfect shot seared itself in your mind with a clarity you couldn’t even hope to capture with the perfect focus on your lens. A beautiful wolf, maybe pure black or white, staring directly into the camera. Maybe it would be standing on a big boulder, looking regal. Sunlight would dapple its fur, and moss and ivy would be crawling up the trees around it…

You’d certainly never taken a photo like that before. But wouldn’t it be stunning in your portfolio? You didn’t even think about it that long, your mind already made up. That would be the photograph of a lifetime, and you were going to be the artist.

You almost shut your laptop in your excitement, wanting to get up at that exact moment and go venturing out into the woods. But your equipment was at home, and you really did need to finish editing.

You’d mostly tuned the men out, an exhilarating hum in your bones as you kept working on your edits. You weren’t really listening when they continued on to say, “D’you think that guy who lives out there’s ever encountered it?”

“Nah, probably not. He would’ve shot it by now, don't you think?”

“Eh, I guess. My uncle met him once. Scary son of a bitch. Maybe the wolf hasn’t crossed him ‘cause it knows it would get stuffed and put on display. That dude’s probably into taxidermy and all that shit.”

All you really paid attention to was that there was a man living in the woods, and he’d probably be the perfect person to ask about this wolf. It sounded like a brilliant plan. And if he did turn out to be some sort of creep, you had pepper spray somewhere in an old purse. You’d be just fine. Besides, all artists had to take risks at least once in their careers, right?

A more practical person might have stopped at one of the many sporting goods stores and gotten some things to prepare, like appropriate shoes, perhaps a backpack and compass, a sturdy water bottle, and pants with enough pockets to keep essential items like a flashlight or satellite phone on hand.

Yes, a more practical person just might do that.

You, however, were much more of a ‘fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants’ type of girl. You didn’t know where this man in the woods was located, nor the wolf, but you figured that you’d just go with whoever you found first. Surely it wouldn’t be that hard to find the man, at least. Couldn’t you just look to the sky and find smoke curling from a chimney or something? It was a bit muggy out for late spring, so you selected your favourite white dress from the closet. You braided your hair to keep it out of your face. Then you gathered up your car keys, your camera bag, and your hopes and dreams, and headed out.

Your cellphone dictated the directions to you. It was a decent drive outside town limits, halfway up a hill, but eventually your tires crunched over the gravel of a very small parking area. A sign that really needed to be repainted was tacked to one of the trees. ‘Silverlake Woods Hiking Trail A’ was inscribed on the board in faded white paint. You supposed there must be hiking trails B and C somewhere too, but A sounded like a good first step.

The sun was still high in the sky as your shoes scuffed stray gravel onto the path. You were absolutely sure, as you navigated the dips and curves of the trail, listening to the cheerful birdsong, that you’d find some sort of success. At the very least, you’d be able to practice taking nature shots.

Steve was very used to the familiar sounds of the forest. He might not have known what day of the week it was, but he could tell the time of day based on the sounds. There was a rabbit snuffling around the undergrowth a little ways away. He could hear its body moving, slow hops as it searched for something to eat. He could tell without seeing it. As it was, Steve was laying on his back in the minuscule kitchenette trying to fix the sink. Water had been smacking him in the forehead in a slow drip for the last ten minutes. Living in seclusion like this, he’d gotten pretty good at fixing problems when they came up. He only ventured into town for things once or twice a year, under strict emergency.

The wrench clicked every time he twisted it, the sound blending in with all the others he could hear—the birds, the rabbit, the leaves brushing together in the breeze. The snap of a twig…

He smelled you at the same moment he heard the twig. Floral, but manufactured, not natural. Perfume. Under it, something clean and powdery. Deodorant, maybe. His whole body went stiff. The water was dripping more sluggishly now, and he didn’t even flinch at the next bead of it that landed and slid sideways down his temple and into his hair.

The scent of you underneath the products you used was softer, sweeter, but not too much. Not in an overwhelming way. More like the flavour of strawberry cream. He could taste it in the back of his throat.

As alarming as it was to Steve that someone was getting close to his territory, he was more concerned that you seemed to be alone. He couldn’t smell anyone else. Sure, there were plenty of women in town that were seasoned hikers. But usually he’d smell bug spray, along with rations carried along in a backpack. He’d hear the buzz of a walkie talkie or the murmur of a partner. Surely you weren’t just ambling along without the proper preparations. You were still on one of the paths, Steve thought, since his cabin was a decent way off from any of them. Realistically, you should pass right by him. But still, he was tense as he listened to your distant footsteps, and the occasional click of something he couldn’t quite name.

You were finding yourself to be quite delighted by the forest. Maybe sandals hadn’t been the right footwear—there were a surprising number of fallen logs and broken branches about—but the paths were pretty easy to navigate in broad daylight. Well, maybe that was a bit of a stretch, because the sun wasn’t as strong as it could have been. The trees were all thick with leaves, blocking out the sun for the most part unless you happened upon a clearing. The lack of light made the forest cooler than you’d imagined as well, the trees acting as a never-ending awning.

Your camera bumped against your sternum as you moved. You’d gotten some nice shots already, wild berry bushes and pretty birds that you’d passed by on your walk. Still no sign of the wolf or the man, but you weren’t worried. You hummed a little tune as you continued on. A flash of brown and white in your periphery had you turning your head to the side, squinting through a thicket of bushes.

A deer nibbled daintily on a leaf, its ears twitching as it kept a constant scan for danger. Quietly, you adjusted the lens of your camera and zoomed in as much as you could without sacrificing clarity. The click of the shutter made the deer glance your way, but it didn’t deem you as a threat. You looked at the photo and frowned. It was a little too far to be a great shot.

Carefully, you stepped off the path and onto the wild grass. It tickled your ankles as you navigated around the bushes. You just wanted to get a bit closer. The deer kept eating its lunch, unperturbed. You kept stopping every few feet to take more photos. You wondered if you could get close enough to let it sniff you. Maybe you could get a shot of its glossy eyes, its soft snout. Maybe it would even let you feed it.

It felt like a scene from a fairytale. The deer would go still every time your steps were too loud, but it hadn’t decided to run from your approaching figure, not yet. You hunched your shoulders inwards, trying to appear smaller, less scary. You were close enough now to extend a hand.

But this wasn’t a fairytale. Fairytales wouldn’t have your foot catching on a tree root as you took another step, wrenching your ankle and sending you down to the forest floor, hard.

The shriek of pain was distinctively human, not animal. “Fuck,” Steve muttered under his breath. He laid under the sink for a second longer. He hadn’t even seen you yet, but he’d already decided you’d be possibly the stupidest hiker he’d ever have the displeasure of meeting.

He could still hear you rustling about in the underbrush, but he let your scent guide him as he ambled out of the cabin’s safety. You were far enough that you wouldn’t have seen the cabin, but he knew you’d stepped off the trail.

He saw the white of your dress first and almost choked on his breath. He hadn’t seen a woman in a sundress in… Well, it had been a long time. But he couldn’t appreciate the sight of you, because what idiot thought that was appropriate to wear out in the wilderness?

You were sitting with your knees close to your chest, your hands fluttering around one of your ankles. Steve did a double take at your choice of footwear. Sandals with so many straps, they might as well have been made solely of string. Something glinted in the grass beside you. Your scent was a little more cloying now—well, the perfume was—but he was close enough to pick up other things, too. The faintest hint of coffee, something more chemically like air freshener. You were quite a pitiful thing.

He crossed his arms over his chest, stopping a few feet from you. Alright, it was time to get your sorry ass up and out of here before night fell. The walk back would take you at least an hour. “Are you okay?” He asked, voice gruff after days of silence.

When you turned your head to look up at him, only just noticing that he’d arrived, Steve felt a jolt down his spine. You might have been the dumbest person around, but God…

You were beautiful.

It had been years since he’d been around people socially, but even still, he didn’t think he’d ever seen a girl as pretty as you. Except… Well, he didn’t want to dwell on her right now. He should focus on getting you out of here, not the shape of your eyes or the way loose strands of your hair fell in wisps around your face.

“I don’t know…” You said, looking down and extending your foot a little, wincing as you did. “I fell and twisted my ankle pretty bad.”

If you were afraid, you didn’t show it. He couldn’t detect any traces of fear from you, not the acrid tang of it at the back of his throat, nor the sound of an elevated heartbeat. “Can you stand?” He made no move to help you.

Your fingers tangled in the grass before you pushed yourself upwards, wobbling when you did. You took one limping step forward, towards him—not what he wanted—before you let out a hiss of pain. “I don’t think I can walk on it. It hurts too much.”

Already, Steve could see that it was beginning to swell. He bit his tongue. Even if he helped you back to the main road, supporting your weight, you probably wouldn’t be able to drive. And it was going to get dark soon, at least here in the forest. The trees blocked out so much light that it would seem like nighttime before long. He had a decision to make, and he wasn’t pleased about it, not one bit.

It was time to see how stupid you actually were.

“I can wrap it for you, if you let me help you back to my cabin.” Even though he was offering help, his tone was short, more of a bark than a sincere offer.

But you only smiled at him, expression sunny enough to make up for the fading light. “Oh, would you? That would be great, thanks. Oh, could you just grab my camera for me? I dropped it when I fell, but I think it’s okay.” You pointed at the grass. That must have been the glinting object he’d seen.

He stepped closer to you to pick up the camera, and you took it from him gratefully, slipping the strap over your neck. You really weren’t afraid at all. It was like you had no sense for danger. He could be a murderer for all you knew, bringing you back to a cabin fitted with a dungeon to keep you in. But here you were, optimistic as anything. You made him think of a dumb bunny, one who would be so focused on a delicious patch of foliage that it wouldn’t notice the predator standing right behind it with its teeth bared. But there was nothing Steve could do about it now, as he slipped an arm around your waist to help you walk. He did his best to ignore how thin and flimsy the fabric of your dress was as you limped alongside him. It would have been easier to just hoist you up in his arms—you were tiny, compared to him—but that was a line he refused to cross.

There might have been no path to Steve’s cabin, but he knew the way so well, he could remember exactly when to sidestep hidden holes dug by animals or tricky thickets that could have caught on your dress. “So, you must be the guy that lives here, right? What’s your name?” You asked, staring up at him quizzically.

He avoided your gaze. He didn’t want to be friendly with you. He wanted to send you on your way, as soon as possible. He didn’t answer, hoping you’d drop it. But you poked at his side with nimble fingers, as if he was a good friend. “I’ll tell you mine first,” you added, taking his silence as him playing coy.

He was about to refute it, to tell you that he didn’t care what your name was, because he’d never see you again once he sent you packing, but you said it anyway, and it stuck to his brain like wet paper. Like your name was important. It didn’t matter, he thought, trying to dismiss it. But still, it echoed like a sweet song in his ears. “So, yours?” That time he did make the mistake of looking down at you, catching you batting your lashes and flashing him a toothy grin.

“It’s Steve,” he said, teeth gritted.

“Steve,” you repeated. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He held back a snort of disbelief. You might have told him your name, but you were still very much a dumb bunny to him. You let out a soft gasp then, looking forward. The cabin was in view.

It was nothing special, Steve thought. It was made from trees he’d cut himself, which he thought was evident. The roof was uneven, the shingles varying shades of brown. The door had a gap at the bottom, which let in bugs in the summer, and bits of snow in the winter. The water tank was tucked away at the back. The chimney jutted out like an unseemly splinter. But it was home, as dishevelled as it was.

The wind whistled, blowing your hair across your face and rattling the trees. Steve could taste it then, the impending storm. And when it stormed, the paths in and around the forest tended to flood. His arm around you tightened in frustration. You were now probably going to be stuck here for the next twenty-four hours.

“Wait, stop…” You halted as you said it, letting go of Steve and grabbing at your camera. “The lighting’s not great, but… I can fix it in post. I need to capture this.”

You held your camera up, adjusting the settings, before snapping a few photos. He watched you with a slight grimace. He didn’t particularly like that you were capturing his private space on camera, but he doubted you’d share them around. You’d probably look at them later and decide that it was an ugly little house not worth remembering. When you were satisfied, you let the camera hang against your chest again and snaked your arm back around Steve, allowing him to lead you to the door.

It swung open with ease, and you were already in the matchbox living room. The ceilings were a little low. Steve maybe had six inches between him and the light fixture, a yellow tinted shade that did nothing to brighten up the room and everything to sallow it. The couch was really a futon of checkered red and cream. The side table was little more than a slant of wood fitted over an empty barrel. There was no television, just a hand crank radio. Puzzles that had never been completed were in their boxes, shoved onto the first two shelves of the scratched bookcase. The rug was an old throw blanket. Steve didn’t even have a table and chairs, the space was so small.

He deposited you on the futon and took the three steps down the tiniest hallway in the world, to the bathroom that resembled the size of one you’d find in an airplane. The first aid kit was a battered green tin that he’d hung on the door, which he grabbed now in one big hand. Its contents clattered together as he walked back to you. You’d scooted yourself to one corner of the futon and swung both of your legs up onto the other end.

“Those shoes look like deathtraps.” He muttered, flicking open the tin’s clasps and settling it on the side table.

“But they’re cute.” You said, admiring your impractical footwear.

“The wildlife doesn’t really give a crap about ‘cute’. Take it off.”

You did as ordered, reaching to start undoing what seemed to be a very complicated series of twists and loops. Once the sorry excuse for a shoe was gone from your foot, Steve’s hands hovered over your ankle. “May I?”

You nodded. “Go ahead.”

He was gentle as he assessed the damage. It was probably a sprain. Definitely swollen, but it wasn’t the worst injury he’d seen. Still, it would probably do you well to keep the pressure off. It wasn’t long before he was wrapping your ankle, his movements methodical and practiced. He was no stranger to injury. It had taken him quite awhile to adjust to living out here, and he still suffered the forest’s bite on occasion. When he finished with you, he closed the tin. “Feel alright?”

You wiggled your toes in answer. “Better, I think. Thanks.”

Upon standing, Steve chanced a glance outside. It was already much darker, but the storm clouds over head had certainly hastened the day’s end. He was sure he’d hear rain falling in the next hour. “Look, uh,” he turned to face you, scratching at the back of his neck, “you’re probably going to be stuck here overnight. Storms like this tend to wash out the paths.”

And then, because he couldn’t resist: “Do you not check the weather before journeying out into the wild? Well, no, I guess not… Not if you’d also wear such ridiculous clothes to come out here.”

It was mean, but he’d been meaner to other hikers. And it didn’t seem to have any effect on you, anyway. “It was sunny when I left,” you said brightly. You seemed to be totally at peace with staying in a stranger’s home overnight. He wondered if you’d also hit your head when you’d fallen.

“I’m going to make something to eat,” he said begrudgingly. It was a bit early, but he needed to be away from you for a minute. Even if ‘being away’ meant standing ten feet to the left, in the kitchen. “It’s not gonna be anything fancy though.” He warned, eyeing you.

You only smiled. “That’s okay. I’ve had my fair share of gas station hot dogs. Can’t be worse than that!” And then you became wildly interested in your camera, going through the photos you’d taken.

Steve could only shake his head at your delusional nature and duck through the archway and into the kitchen.

It really was nothing fancy. Chicken soup, the kind that came from a can. Steve had stocked up the last time he’d been anywhere close to a store. Heating it on the stove had taken less time than he’d hoped for, and then he was sitting beside you on the futon. It was almost comical, really. You, a tiny bird of a girl, sitting primly next to him, a bear of a man. His bowl looked more like a cup in his hands.

You’d both sat in silence for the first few minutes, but it wasn’t long before you started babbling away. He had a feeling that you were something of a talker. “You must know these woods like that back of your hand, right?”

He glanced at you sidelong. “Yes.”

You wriggled in your seat like you were an excited puppy. If you weren’t careful, you were going to be wearing your dinner on your dress. “Okay, so tell me this: I keep hearing about this lone wolf that lives around here. Have you ever seen it? Is it true?”

Steve’s spoon tapped against the side of the bowl when his hand jerked in surprise. He felt his shoulders go stiff as soon as you’d said wolf. “I’ve never seen it,” he said carefully. It was technically true.

“Hmm,” you hummed, food forgotten. “You’ve never seen it, but you’ve heard of it?”

He was irritated that you seemed so enthralled. “Not really. Don’t interact with people much.”

“Oh, really?” Your eyes were wide, dumbfounded. “Well, I’ve heard that its sort of become like a symbol of safety for the hikers in town. Apparently whenever someone gets lost here, the wolf finds them and leads them back to the trails. Isn’t that cool?”

The wolf wasn’t a hero. It was a killer. He was a killer. “You know that wolves are dangerous wild animals, not cute puppies, right?”

You shrugged, an easy smile on your face. “I know. But this wolf can’t be all bad. Otherwise, it would have taken a few chunks out of the hikers, don’t you think? I wonder why it doesn’t have a pack. It’s sort of sad.” You tapped your spoon against your mouth in thought. “Anyway, that’s why I came out here. I wanted to find it and take its photo. I’ve never done wildlife photography before.”

At this, Steve couldn’t help the incredulous look he gave you. “So, you just decided to come out here with no preparations, no knowledge of the forest, and full intentions to come face to face with an animal that could and would kill you if given the chance? Did you even tell anyone you were doing this?”

You shook your head with a frown. “Well, no. I’m new to town. Who would I tell?”

“Are you stupid? If that wasn’t bad enough, you’re sitting next to a total stranger. I could murder you, you know, and you’re acting like you don’t even care. Do you have a death wish?”

“…I have pepper spray.” You patted around at your hip and pulled a spray can shorter than your spoon out of your pocket.

Oh my God, Steve thought. I’ve officially seen it all. He put his empty bowl on the side table and grabbed yours from you in one swift movement. Then he grabbed both of your wrists together in one big hand. He shook you, anger sparking in his eyes. “Your self-preservation skills are shit. Look how easy it would be for me to hurt you.” He plucked the spray can from your grasp and let it roll across the rug. He was waiting for fear to enter the equation, but you continued to look at him openly.

“If you were going to do that, you would have by now.” You sounded disgustingly earnest. He let go of your wrists like he’d been burned, and you gestured to your bandaged ankle. “I mean, look. I’m in a vulnerable state and I don’t know my way around, but you brought me here, wrapped my foot, and made me dinner. Why would I be scared?”

“Unbelievable.” Steve stood from the couch, rubbing a hand over his beard.

You blinked at him owlishly. “Can I have my bowl back, please? I wasn’t finished.”

It took everything he had not to fling it at you before he stalked off to his bedroom, the door rattling on his hinges after he shut it behind him.

You quite liked the cabin. It was tiny, but it was charming. You especially liked the little wooden figurines dotted around the place, no bigger than your hand. You’d already spotted a bear, a fox, and a deer. You assumed Steve had made them himself. No internet was definitely a choice that you yourself would never make, but you supposed it was probably quite freeing not to fall victim to doom scrolling or silly online dramas. You settled back on the futon once you’d finished eating, looking through your photos again. Some were a little too blurry and out of focus for your taste, but others had great potential. Three birds on a branch, mid-song. Some of the faraway shots of the deer were pretty stunning. Different flowers and berries you’d seen, things you didn’t know the name of. You would bet that Steve did. Maybe you could ask him about them in the morning. Maybe you could convince him to tell you the best trails to take to put yourself in the wolf's path.

You tugged the afghan blanket from the back of the couch over your legs, tucking its ends under your thighs as you got more comfortable. your ankle didn’t hurt too badly when you were sitting still. You were sure you'd be fine to drive tomorrow. the softest patter of rain started to ping off the roof. The window behind the couch only showed pitch black and your reflection. Your braids had become loose and dishevelled, so you removed the elastics keeping them together and shook out your hair, settling deeper into the checkered cushion.

You didn’t remember falling asleep, but you must have, because when you opened your eyes, pale gray light filtered through the window. But it wasn’t the window you’d been looking through the night before. This was a different one, because you weren’t in the living room anymore. Instead, you were sitting up, your fingers finding a coverlet in dark green over a bed that looked like it had been hand made. The wood was polished and clean, but you’d never seen a headboard with such beautiful carvings. You traced your fingertip over the swirling design. You were in Steve’s room. a heavy jacket hung on the back of the door. The closet was just a pole suspended onto one of the walls, the clothing sparse. Other than that, the room was empty, which was probably for the better, because you were pretty sure that if you leaned to the right a little more, you’d be able to touch the wall. The cabin really was tiny, just big enough to maneuver around but not enough to have more than one person living in it. Steve was taking the bachelor life up to the next level, you thought. He must have carried you in here sometime last night.

You stretched your arms over your head and yawned before carefully rotating your ankle, assessing the pain. It still hurt, but it didn’t feel nearly as bad as it had when you’d first fallen. Your dress was rumpled when you stood. Your walk was less of a hop this morning as you gingerly put your weight on your foot. Your steps were quiet enough that you were able to make it to the living room without disturbing Steve.

He looked uncomfortable there on the futon, curled up. He was far too big to sleep there, and you thought the angle at which he’d stuffed himself onto it would probably give him a sore neck at the very least. Even in sleep, he wore a perpetual frown, his brows drawn close, but it was more lax than you’d seen during his waking hours. After he’d stomped off to his room, you hadn’t seen him for the rest of the night. But now, you looked at his unruly mop of hair, his scruffy beard. His shoulders stretched the dark gray cotton of his t-shirt. He might have looked a little more like a beast than a man, but you thought he was handsome anyway. His lashes were long, longer than yours. His eyes were closed now, but their stormy blue shade when he’d been glaring at you yesterday reminded you of a tumultuous sea.

A floorboard creaked under your next step, and those stormy eyes fluttered open, his frown deepening. He focused on you immediately, heaving himself to sitting. “How’s the ankle?” His voice was rough with sleep as he rubbed at his neck.

“’S’okay,” you held it up for emphasis, balancing on your good foot. “I think I’ll be fine.” You looked around the small space. “Did you really sleep out here?”

He stared at the floor. “…Yeah.”

“I could have stayed out here. I’m smaller than you. Probably would have been more comfortable in your own bed.”

He shrugged, discomfort passing across his face. “Not right to take the bed when a woman’s got nowhere else to sleep.”

You were surprised by his old-fashioned chivalry. Contrary to what he’d said, you weren’t stupid. You knew you were a stray interloper in his home, and that he’d already done much more than he needed to. It was one thing to patch you up, but to feed you and let you sleep in his bed, too?

“Well, thanks. That was sweet of you.”

He grunted noncommittally before standing. You swore you heard his joints pop when he stretched. “It stopped raining a little after one in the morning. If you’re lucky, the bigger paths shouldn't be too bad.” He picked up your sandals by their long laces and held them out to you.

You were a little taken aback by his haste to get going, but you laced up your shoes anyway. “You don’t happen to have a dirt bike stashed away or something, do you?” It would certainly make the trek back faster, at least.

“No.” he said, voice dry.

Steve turned for the door and pulled it open without a second glance, and you scooped your camera up from the side table before following. You emerged into the weak sunlight, the grass wet on your toes as you trailed behind him. “Watch for branches and roots,” he tossed the warning over his shoulder. “And holes in the ground.”

You did your best to put your feet where he did. His boots left impressions on the grass. You couldn’t move all that fast lest you upset your ankle, but eventually, you made it back onto the path. It was a bit muddy from the rain, but you guessed the narrower ones were worse. “I’ll walk you about halfway, but then you’re on your own. Just because I know some of the forks in the path could be blocked off by fallen trees.”

It had taken everything in Steve to not just pick you up and carry you to your car. His strides were twice as long as yours, and you kept getting distracted, wanting to take pictures of fat dew drops on the leaves, or moss that looked “much greener than it did yesterday”. It was infuriating.

But finally, he got you to where he felt confident you could make it back. He’d been assessing your movements the entire time, and while you were still limping a little bit, it had turned out to be a less severe strain than he’d thought. When he’d stopped, letting you walk ahead, it had taken you a minute to notice he wasn’t following along anymore. You’d stopped short and turned back to look at him curiously. “Oh, are we halfway?”

“Yes,” he’d said gruffly. “don’t get distracted. Go back to your car and drive home. Got it?” He didn’t care if he was being bossy—he still thought you’d been out of your mind to come out here dressed like that in the first place.

You’d given him a half-smile and a thumbs up. “Okay.”

He stayed right there on the path and watched you until you were almost out of sight, but then…

“Hey!” Steve barked your name. You froze where you’d crouched down to snap a quick photo of something, caught. “Go back to your damned car!”

Another, more sheepish smile was directed his way before you stood and walked on. The white of your dress disappeared into the trees and Steve shook his head. Silly little bunny of a girl. At least he wasn’t likely to see you again.

He saw you again.

Steve was actually astounded that you’d remembered how to get to his cabin. When he’d smelled you that time, he’d just stepped out of the shower. His bathroom window had been open to let out the steam, a dark towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets spilling from his hair. He thought he’d imagined your scent. He stopped in front of his fogged up mirror and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to confirm that he was wrong, that all he could smell was the forest.

But no, it was your sweet scent wafting through the air.

He all but forgot about the state he was in when he stalked through the cabin to the front door, wrenching it open. And there you were in shorts and a flowy tank top, your camera looped around your neck like the last time. You waved as you picked your way though the grass, and he caught sight of what looked to be platform sneakers on your feet. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you, I’m looking for that wolf. But I thought I’d come and say hello first.”

You didn’t bat an eye as you raked your gaze up and down his form and Steve was suddenly very aware of his lack of clothing. “Go home.” He bit out.

“No way! I was just stopping by for a quick visit. Then I’ll go check out one of the other trails and see what I can find. I know there’s supposed to be a waterfall and an outlook somewhere around here. If I can’t find the wolf, I’ll settle for those today. Can I come in? I’m a little thirsty.” You had the audacity to give him a hopeful look.

“I don’t want you here.” He couldn’t keep tiptoeing around his rule. It wasn’t safe for humans to be around him, and certainly not one that lacked self-preservation skills in a way he’d never seen before.

“Please? I forgot my water bottle in the car.” You folded you hands together like you were praying.

Didn’t you get it? He didn’t mean he wasn't feeling social today. He meant he didn’t want to see you ever. “No. Get lost.”

“But I—”

“Listen, because I’m only gonna say it once: I’m not looking for and I don’t need a friend. So, stop coming by here, don’t ask me to come in or for a tour or to look for this damned wolf. Am I clear?”

“Well, someone clearly got up on the wrong side of the bed today. Fine, I’ll leave you alone. I was gonna show you some of the shots I took, but I guess it can wait.”

I guess it can wait. Steve was incensed. There would be no waiting. He had just told you never to come back. “You dumb bunny. I’m a great show with my crossbow. I don’t think you want to find yourself in my crosshairs. Do you get it now? Stay off my damned property and go back to your car and drive your ass back to town.”

You put your hands up in a defensive gesture, though your expression didn’t seem to beget any true understanding of his threat. “Okay, I hear you.”

But did you, though?

You finally turned and walked a few steps. He knew you were going to do exactly what you said and go trekking around a forest that you didn’t know and obviously weren’t capable of navigating well, but Steve didn’t want to put himself in your proximity anymore than he had to. He needed you to take the hint and go. But… “Hold on.”

You stopped, looking over your shoulder with what could only be described as a devious smile. He disappeared into the cabin for a second before returning to the door. “Take this. I don’t want to see you here again.”

He tossed a bottle of water in your direction, and you caught it, just barely. “Thank you, Steve. Have a good day! Oh, and your towel is slipping.”

You’d already turned away started walking back into the forest when he clutched at his towel, feeling his face heat with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. He supposed he should feel lucky that he’d been able to scent you, because he had a feeling that you would have just invited yourself in, otherwise. He probably shouldn’t have helped you, that first time.

Like an unwelcome stray, you kept coming back. Any hope Steve had had that you would grow bored of your quest and go back to town, keep doing whatever sort of photography you tended to specialize in, dwindled upon his third encounter with you. Your attire was still as ridiculous as always: plaid shorts and a thin tank top, but at least you’d had the common sense to bring your own water this time. And he could smell sunscreen on your skin, for once. But you’d ambled up to the cabin yet again, this time while he’d been clearing some creepers from around the door.

When he’d paused, shears squeaking in protest, and looked at you over his shoulder, you’d grinned and said, “So, no wolf yet, but I think I’m getting the hang of the paths now! I only fell in a blackberry bush once this time.” That explained the purplish smudges on your shirt and your legs.

“As opposed to…?”

Your smile turned sheepish. “I may or may not have become quite familiar with the types of berries that grow around here last time. Anyway, do you want to see the photos I took this time around? I got the cutest shots of a mother fox and her babies.”

Steve straightened, wiping his brow with the back of his hand and pushing his hair back from his damp temples. “Think I told you before, bunny, that I’m not interested in what you’re here for and I don’t care to look.”

You shrugged, unbothered. “Oh, I’ll win you over soon enough, Steve. I don’t know how you haven’t gone crazy out here all by yourself yet.”

He shifted on his feet. “The silence can be nice.”

“Well yes, it can be, sometimes. But all the time? I think I would have given all the trees names and personalities by now, if I was you.”

And from then on, he kept seeing you against his will, a couple of times a week. You always had a cheery disposition, even if you were scratched to hell and dusty from crawling through bushes. Even if you had twigs in your hair and cuts on your palms. Even if you’d upset a hornet’s nest and ran like hell, banging frantically on the cabin’s door to be let in.

Steve had continued to try and get you to leave him alone, trying for mean, threatening, and even downright douchey, but every single attempt had been futile. Eventually, as he’d disinfected one of the stings on your arm, he’d just muttered, “If you’re gonna keep coming around here, can you at least dress for it? No more of whatever this is,” he gestured to your skirt, which seemed to be entirely made of lace and frills, and your boots which were definitely more fashion than fortitude.

You made a face. “But all the hiking gear is so ugly.”

“So you’d rather be fashionable and dead than safe and alive?”

You let out an exaggerated sigh. “Ugh, fine. I’ll go to the store and get the same things that literally everyone in town has.”

And you did. That was really the surprising part—that for once, you’d listened. Anything else Steve had to say had fallen on deaf ears. Sure, a lot of what you showed up in was pink, as if the colour would make it less ugly somehow, and you’d replaced the laces of your new boots with literal lace, but at least you were wearing pants that covered your bare legs and you’d picked up a bag, albeit small, and put some honest to god equipment in it.

It was a strange thing, to realize that he was getting used to you. Though Steve still never greeted you in a way that screamed ‘friendly’, he had come to expect your scent in the air, the first sign that you were coming, and then your steps, still clumsy, through the underbrush. You had still been unsuccessful in your quest, and Steve planned to keep it that way. As far as he was concerned, you’d never get a photo of the wolf. But you hadn’t let it deter you. He was beginning to realize that despite your ditzy, lackadaisical nature, you were also quite resilient. He had absolutely no idea how he’d be able to convince you to stop trampling through the forest during the colder months. He had no desire to fish you out of the frozen lake or pull you from a snowdrift.

But despite you pushing your way into his life, interrupting his solitary confinement, Steve did begin to enjoy your visits. He’d never make it known lest you try to bridge the perilous gap of friendship even more ferociously, but it wasn’t the worst thing in the world when you announced yourself. Especially when you brought food.

The thing was, Steve was very used to his diet by now. He’d stock up on canned food once or twice a year from the general store furthest from town, but the rest of his food stores consisted of things he’d hunted and prepped himself. Like he’d told you, he was very good with his crossbow. And it helped to know what plants were edible around here. You likely hadn’t noticed the very meager garden around back—you’d never been able to explore around his cabin too much, because he knew you were there. You hadn’t seen the tiny cross with his late wife’s name staked into the ground, either.

But there you were one of those times, standing in a patch of sunlight and holding a pale purple box in your hands. He could smell its contents even before you opened it. “There’s this bakery that just opened up in town called Furiously Good Eats and their specialty item today was cherry pie.” You looked Steve up and down. “Probably been a while since you’ve had one of those, huh?”

“If you think food is gonna get me to like you…” but he stepped aside anyway, and you flounced right in, beelining for the kitchen and its single butcher’s block counter, where you placed the box with flourish.

You scoffed as you popped open the lid. “Please, you already like me. I’m very loveable, you know.”

“Uh-huh,” He pulled out two plates.

“It’s true. Voted ‘Most Loveable’ in my senior year of high school.” The knife you chose to use was really for cutting meat, but Steve found himself lacking any sorts of dainty pastry utensils.

Cherry filling oozed out onto the plate when you handed it to him, and you sucked your finger into your mouth thoughtfully. “Don’t suppose you have any ice cream, do you?”

At his blank look, you turned back to the pie and cut off your own slice. You both stayed standing in the kitchen, balancing your plates in one hand and forks in the other. The first bite flooded Steve’s tastebuds like nothing he’d experienced in recent years.

It was, in no uncertain terms, the perfect pie. The crust was flaky and light, the filling tart and sweet at the same time. But you were right—vanilla ice cream probably would have been a great pairing. Still, Steve wolfed down the rest of his piece in three bites and then looked hungrily at yours as you took more dainty, slow ones. Wordlessly, you slid the box closer to him. “The rest is yours,” you said, covering your mouth with a hand as you chewed. “I’m just sampling the goods.”

He was already cutting a second slice before you’d finished speaking.

The bakery deliveries, as delicious as they were, were something of a bittersweet phenomenon to Steve. All the things you’d brought so far happened to be exactly the types of desserts he liked, and he had no idea how you’d figured him out so easily without him having to say anything. But they also all reminded him of his wife. He could picture her in their first apartment together, though the memory seemed to have a fuzzy vignette over it now. He remembered her nimble fingers rolling out dough, or dusting cake with powdered sugar. He remembered how she’d laugh and slap his hand away when he tried to sneak a cookie from a cooling batch. It was hard not to associate all the things you’d bring him with her. He just couldn’t override those memories with ones of you. Not even when you’d brought eclairs and eaten yours so messily that you’d smeared cream on your nose and a little bit in your hair. As much as it was a nice gesture, it made Steve want to shut you out again. He hadn’t yet, and he couldn’t figure out why. There was no future here, not for you. You’d get tired of the woods eventually. You’d make friends in town at some point. There really wouldn’t be a reason to keep visiting him—he certainly hadn’t gone out of his way to be hospitable to you. He’d tried to drive you out.

But the fact of the matter was, he had come out here, uprooted his life and moved into the wilderness, because he didn’t think he deserved companionship. Not anymore, not after what happened, what he did. And he would probably do it again. He didn’t trust himself to get close to anybody, lest he put them directly in harm’s way. In his way. But he’d been allowing himself this small, selfish act, to let you into his cabin and into his life like you were one single flower, blooming in the sun amidst dead, blackened weeds. And now he wasn’t sure if he could pluck you from your bed of grass and tear your petals away without hurting himself in the process. Maybe that was part of his penance, to take a good thing and sully it. To not get to enjoy things for too long. Why should he enjoy something when his wife couldn’t luxuriate in anything? No sun on her skin, no taste of cherry pie.

And though all those thoughts kept churning through his head like a choppy river, every time you skipped through the grass to the cabin, you’d smile at him and chatter away, and he’d let you stay a little longer, and he’d begrudgingly ask you questions that would keep you talking endlessly. And for a single second, he’d almost forget.

The wolf was very elusive, you thought. You wondered if it was more nocturnal than you’d originally imagined. You’d believed that it must come out during the day, must have built a home somewhere near one of the paths, because how else would it lead so many hikers back when they’d lost their way? But now you’d exhausted every single one. It had been weeks of searching in between your regular photography sessions with clients, and you’d still seen no sign of it.

You didn’t mind that much, not one to let frustrations get the better of you. And really, you thought it would have been worse to see it right away and come back with a crappy shot. Instead, you’d used the time to practice your wildlife photography, figure out the best way to edit and enhance each one to bring out the best parts of the picture. And you’d taken plenty of photos of other animals, in the meantime.

But your favourite animal to photograph was Steve. He didn’t know, you were sure. He never wanted to look at your photos anyway. But your camera was now full of candid shots of him, as well. The ones you’d take before announcing yourself were good. You had one of him in profile, looking up at the sky. Another of him chopping wood. Another where the leaves had made different shadows across his brow, but the sun had still picked out the precise blue of his eyes. You had one of him standing in his kitchen with his back to you, and you’d traced the shape of his shoulders with your finger afterward, when you’d uploaded it to your computer. Yes, you had many, many photos of him that you’d taken somewhat in secret. You’d taken pictures of his wooden figurines too, random things in his cabin, to disguise the obvious sounds of your camera’s shutter going off, and he’d become so used to the sound and your idle photography that he’d stopped looking at you sharply every time he heard it. It was what made it so easy to sneakily take pictures of him.

You remembered what you’d thought the first day. Steve really was handsome. You assumed that he had to know that fact, but you’d shied away from saying it, in case he took it badly. You were usually free with compliments, something you’d learned to get comfortable with after having many clients that were insecure in front of the camera. It would take nothing at all for you to tell him, but you knew that you’d already pushed his boundaries a lot since coming to know him. So instead, you’d just admire his broad frame, his strong hands, and a mouth that seemed allergic to smiling.

You still neglected to check the weather. That was something you only did when you had an outdoor shoot planned with paying clients. You had to ensure that conditions were good for those meetings, but otherwise, you tended to just look out the window upon waking up and then see where the rest of the day took you. You didn’t mind a little rain every now and then. The only person consistently annoyed by your lack of planning ahead was Steve. You’d had to stay twice more in his cabin overnight since the first time. The summer storms were ramping up, but they never seemed to come when all the weather warnings predicted, in your defence. You thought it was fun, actually. You’d mentioned as much to Steve, had told him it felt like camping. You’d asked him if he could build a fire outside for the full experience, but he’d declined with a look of annoyance. It was no bother, because the next time, you bugged him until he set up his fireplace, and then pulled a bag of marshmallows and some skewers out of your bag and had a delightful time playacting what you believed a real camping experience to be.

You still enjoyed the comforts of your apartment, of course. You couldn’t imagine roughing it every single day like Steve did, nor did you want to try it. You liked waking up and making coffee with your fancy coffee maker. You liked flopping back into the white, puffy comforter on your bed and turning on a movie, the projector on your ceiling painting the wall with rom-coms. You liked standing in front of your stove and poking at an omelette with your spatula, music playing from your phone. You wondered if Steve had ever liked those sorts of things too, or if the great outdoors had always held the appeal over how most of the modern world liked to live. You could sort of picture it, if you tried. Him standing in your kitchen, which was small, but looked huge compared to his. He’d be able to sleep on your leather couch with much more space than his own futon. You thought about how a picture would look if he stood in front of the windows in your living room, the floor to ceiling view of the town below. One of your espresso cups would look absolutely ridiculous in his big hands.

You didn’t think he’d agree if you invited him back with you. You’d thought about it a few times, considered asking him in a teasing, lighthearted way to come back to town with you and help you pick out more practical hiking things like he’d wanted you to get. You would sweeten the deal with cannolis from the bakery. But you had a feeling he’d say no. You were friends, despite his protests, but you didn’t want to push in a way that made him shut down. It had already been a bit of a journey to get to the point you were at now. You didn’t want to do anything to ruin it. You knew that your positive attitude could only get you so far. But maybe one day, you’d be able to offer, and you’d feel confident that he would say yes, and lock up his cabin, and fold himself into your little car. And then you’d get that picture of him at your window. Yes, you thought. One day, you would.

So far, your visits, by the grace of some higher force, hadn’t coincided with Steve’s transformations. They’d been close, a couple of days before at most, and Steve knew he was acting much moodier and more combative on those days than usual, but you still took it in stride, visited for a little while, and then left.

The moon’s cycle acted like an hourglass. Steve could see the grains of sand slipping through like blinking stars every single night. He felt the most like his old self on a new moon, the beguiling white eye in the sky hidden from view. But as that eye began to slowly open from a crescent to a half circle, closer to a full, round ball of light, Steve would feel the need to change wanting to burst through his skin. He had a little bit of control over it, just barely, but it was easier to throw himself to the moon’s mercy and get it over with when she demanded it, rather than try to plan ahead.

The primal need to hunt, to rip and tear and shred, to run until he couldn’t anymore, was what he tried to bury the most. Especially when you were around. He knew what it could look like if someone got too close. He knew it disturbingly well. And he’d woken up countless nights since meeting you, his skin dripping with sweat, his lungs feeling like they’d burst, the image of you torn to pieces dissolving in his head like sugar in water, but they’d be there all the same. Peggy had morphed into you some time ago. Instead of a horrible memory, it was a potential future, one he’d been trying to prevent. It was the reason he had been so adamant at keeping you away, at first. He didn’t believe he was able to be rehabilitated. And he didn’t want to risk your life trying to figure it out. But he’d been convincing himself that it was fine to let you get close when the moon was at rest. He’d already thought of an easy lie to tell if you came by when his transformation was near—he’d tell you he was going to go hunting deeper in the forest for a few days, that he wouldn’t be home. He would convince you that you would not enjoy tagging along. But he hadn’t had to spin that lie yet, and he’d let you drift closer and closer as the summer drew to a close.

He was not expecting to see you when the moon next cast its weary gaze on him. Your visits were usually every three or four days, spaced apart between your work and appointments. You’d never visited back-to-back before. Steve had let his guard down, awaiting the change with a patience that felt alien, the relief that you wouldn’t be returning until well after in the back of his mind.

The panic that kickstarted his pulse when he scented you could have sent him into cardiac arrest. He’d only seen you two days ago—he should have been safe for another two, he’d predicted. The comedown wasn’t as bad as it used to be, especially when he offered himself to the moon right when it was full, rather than trying to put it off. He knew without a doubt that his transformation would be that night. He’d been scenting the air all day, tasting rain. He knew the forest would go silent with the first clap of thunder that night, and he’d be free to weave through the trees with no obstacles.

But there was your scent, as clear as if it was a visible thing in the air. And he could smell chocolate, too. With frustration, he felt his body quiver. Of course, being ravenous for the hunt was not the only thing he felt hungry for, most times. And a beautiful human woman being in his proximity would serve no purpose other than to make him hungrier.

His backpack was half-assembled by the door, leaning against the panelling. He usually packed light and stowed the bag somewhere safe for him to circle back to near the transformation’s end. He tried to rein in his panic as you got closer. He had no idea what his face was doing when he opened the door and stared at you from the threshold. He was trying for his usual irritation, but he didn’t think he was quite achieving it. “What are you doing here? I saw you the day before last.”

You smiled, holding up what he’d come to know as one of the bakery’s trademark lilac pastry boxes. “I know, but I passed by their window on the way home from an appointment today and I just couldn’t resist. Chocolate and strawberry filled croissants.”

You were wearing jeans and a t-shirt and surprisingly sensible shoes today. He was silently thankful, because he wasn’t sure if he could have handled you in one of your strappy sundresses today of all days. The forest had already gone quiet with the promise of an impending storm. You were close enough now that your scent was almost overpowering. It made him want to sink his teeth into your skin. What was worse was that he didn’t know if he wanted to inflict pleasure or pain. “Its going to storm.” He said.

It was both a reprimand to you, and a bleak reminder to him. A storm, like all others, meant the paths would flood. And that meant you were staying. Tonight of all nights, that was more or less a death sentence. But you, none the wiser, stopped in front of him and pried the box open, holding the lid up so that he could take a croissant. “That’s okay. The futon and I are becoming pretty good friends.”

With another stab of panic, Steve wished he could send you away. But like mother nature herself could feel his rising anguish, the sky opened up and the downpour hit in the blink of an eye, and you snapped the box closed and scurried past him into the cabin like a mouse going back to its hole in the wall.

“You should be proud of me—I started packing pajamas in my bag for moments like this.” You said, letting your backpack slide to the floor next to his. “Oh, are you going somewhere?”

Through gritted teeth, he bit out, “I was planning to go hunting. And you wouldn’t need to pack pajamas if you would just check the damn weather report.”

But like always, you only shrugged and sat down on the futon, before patting the space beside you. “Do you want a croissant or not, because I didn’t eat lunch and I have no qualms about having yours too.”

Sitting next to you would be too much temptation right now, so instead he just leaned over the back of the couch and snatched his from the box, his forearm brushing the sleeve of your shirt. He shuddered at the contact, as small as it was, and retreated to the kitchen. He ate over the sink, crumbs falling into the basin, staring stormily out the window at the pelting rain.

If you were going to be here tonight, he needed to go out as soon as possible without you catching on.

There was no way around it: Steve was on edge. There was no telling if tonight would be the night that he’d lose what little control he had and add another life to his ledger. He just had to hold on long enough to get far away from you. His plan was to turn in early, to convince you to do the same, and then sneak out when you were asleep. Ridiculous to have to sneak out of his own home, but it was all he could think to do.

He’d been fighting the urge to pace between the kitchen and living space, too aware of your presence, too aware that you might ask questions about why he was more tense than usual. But so far, you’d just been playing around with your camera. “Oh, I brought my laptop with me this time, too. I know you don’t have wi-fi but at least I can edit some of my stuff tonight.” You reached over the back of the couch and dug around in your bag for a moment before pulling out a slim silver laptop, most of its surface covered in stickers. You looked over at him as it booted up. “Do you ever miss it?”

“Miss what?” he sounded brisk, distracted.

“The internet. And cable. That sort of stuff.”

“I have my radio.”

You made a face, one he saw out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, but I’ve heard the one station you tend to pick up around here, and I think I’d rather sit in total silence than listen to that.” You paused then, and he heard the stroke of your fingers on your keyboard as you typed in your password. “Or have you been an outdoorsy type since you were a little kid?”

“I used to be a movie critic, actually,” Steve said absently, frowning at the weather outside. He wanted it to get dark already.

“What, really?”

The surprise in your voice was what made him realize what he’d just revealed about himself. Shit. He’d been pretty good at redirecting conversation to have you focused on mostly talking about yourself. He hadn’t given you that many details on his adult life. Almost all of his memories had been tied to her. “Yes.” He didn’t say anything else, hoping you’d drop the subject.

“What was your favourite?”

“My favourite what?”

“Your favourite movie, silly. I assume that you had to start somewhere, right?”

He paused for a long moment, debating on if he should make you drop it or not. He was already agitated as it was. But he decided on a scrubbed down version of the truth. “Star Wars.”

He saw a look of excitement and disbelief pass over your face. It might have been the wrong thing to say. “A New Hope, specifically. None of the current crap.”

“It’s not crap!” you said, indignant, but he had the sinking feeling that you were more thrilled than upset. “The Force Awakens was awesome.” Then you were babbling on in defence of it.

It was almost enough to settle Steve’s nerves. Almost. But then you waved an arm and it wafted your scent into his orbit again, and he had to hold his breath and close his eyes until the need to overwhelm your space had passed. He tuned back in to you saying, “Next time I’ll download some of them and we can watch together. Bet it’s been a long time since you’ve seen any of them.”

It had been a long time. Not since before he’d become what he now was. He’d seen them enough times growing up that he could recall the story backwards and forwards. He could remember every little detail, could play it on the backs of his eyelids at night when he couldn’t sleep. Could remember the exact cadences of some line deliveries. But they’d always been movies he’d watched alone, never with anyone else, never with Peggy either. As he was feeling right now, it spelled a recipe for disaster. He’d just want to bury his head against your neck and leave marks there instead of pay attention to a plot that had kept his attention for years, upon every rewatch.

He looked outside again. The barest edges of the sky that he could see above the treeline were just beginning to darken. All he had to do was try and wait it out. He really hoped that he could. He didn’t want to know the exact shade of your blood.

If Steve had waited just a little bit longer, he might have managed it. As soon as it had been reasonable, he’d feigned sleepiness and gone straight to his bedroom, even though the urge to transform felt like an itch under his skin. He’d also lied about a headache to keep you from asking him too many questions. Even with the door closed, your scent burned his lungs like you were laying right beside him. He wanted to rip into you so very badly that he’d torn at his comforter with how tightly he’d been gripping it.

Steve had laid there in agony while he’d waited for you to fall asleep. He’d heard you power down your laptop, tiptoe into the bathroom to change, and then softly step back to the futon. He’d heard the rustle of your clothes and the afghan and the creak of the wooden frame as you’d gotten comfortable. He had listened for your breathing, heard it deepen eventually, each puff of air getting slower and more even.

He should have waited longer, made sure. But instead, he’d crossed through the cabin and grabbed the strap of his backpack. He had made sure to be as quiet as he could, but something must have been just loud enough to rouse you.

It would be something he’d wonder about later. But he heard a mumbled, sleep-thickened, “Steve? Where are you going?”

His shoulders went tight under his t-shirt. The room was dark, but he could still see you sitting up, your hair already a mess from snuggling down into the cushion, as you looked at him from over the back of the couch. “Just… out.”

“Out where?” Oh, no. You were waking up too quickly, too aware of him. “Did it stop raining?”

It had, a while ago. So much for this big storm he’d expected. He definitely could have turned you away earlier. But it was too late for that now. He felt the change coming in a ripple under his skin, like a rising tide.

He bit down hard on his lip before saying, “I forgot to check a trap earlier. I’m going now.”

It was another lie, but it was all he could think of.

Usually, you went with whatever he said, but something had alerted to you, made you realize it was different this time. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure? Maybe I should come with you.”

At that, he stood straight up, almost crushing the doorknob in his hand. “No. you don’t need to do that. And you don’t know your way around. You’d only hinder me.”

But you were pushing yourself to stand. He caught the long outline of your bare legs, the afghan huddled around your shoulders. He needed to go, now. “Okay, maybe I don’t know the way perfectly yet, but I don’t know, I just… I don’t think you should go out in the dark, alone. What if you get hurt or something? Shouldn’t I come with you so I can get help if that happens?”

“It’s fine, bunny. I’ve been alone long before you and I’ll be alone again.”

You rounded the side of the futon and stopped in front of him. “But you don’t have to be alone. I’m right here.”

“Drop it.”

You tilted your head, chin up, defiant. He’d never seen you wear that expression before. It was a terrible time for you to trot it out. “No.”

He was just going to have to leave you here, then. He could outrun you. It wouldn’t be hard. It was just a matter of how far he could get before it happened.

Steve turned away from you, swinging his bag onto his shoulders, and wrenched open the door. Your fingers were gentle on his arm when you touched him, but you may as well have stabbed at him with a hot poker, with the way he whirled on you, teeth bared, and roared in your face, “Leave it!”

He could feel it in his spine first—he always did. Opening the door had let in a spill of moonlight, and he was standing right in it. He was bounding off in a dead sprint immediately. He just had to go. He had to go, he had to go, he had to go.

You knew that Steve was in great shape, but you were still caught off guard by how swift he was.

He’d been acting erratic ever since you’d shown up today. He’d always been a little cold towards you, even on the best days, but it was something you liked about him. Despite his coldness, you always felt warm when you were with him. It was why you kept coming back. And when you’d passed by the bakery, you’d thought of him. It was hard not to. He’d never told you if he enjoyed any of the things you brought for him to try, but you knew that he did. The speed at which he scarfed food down was always impressive. And if Steve really didn’t like your company, you were sure he could have made good on his threat and met you at the door with his crossbow, but he never had. Despite what he might think, you and he were friends, and if he thought that screaming in your face would change it, he was wrong. Instead, you’d had the steadily rising feeling that something was wrong. You just didn’t know what. When he’d gone to bed early, talking about a headache, you’d thought that maybe that was all it had been. You’d had a migraine or two before, and it had always sucked immensely, especially without any over the counter medicine, of which he had none. But deep down, you’d had a feeling that it was something more. He hadn’t gotten near you the entire time you’d been there. And sure, Steve was the kind of guy who kept a healthy distance between you, but not so much that he wouldn’t even sit on the same couch as you.

The way he’d just torn out of the cabin confirmed that yes, something was definitely wrong. As much as you annoyed him sometimes, Steve had never gotten in your face like that. There’d been some sort of animalistic fear in his eyes, something you’d never seen from him before, and then he’d twisted from your light touch like he’d been burned.

He was already a blur in the moonlight by the time you’d started to follow. It wasn’t even something you’d consciously decided on, but before you knew it, the slick grass was tickling your bare feet. The air was clean and cold in your lungs as you raced after him. It was pure luck that you didn’t trip over any stray tree roots, though wet leaves caressed you as you blew past. You were lucky that he came to a stop fairly quickly, or you would have lost him. You’d only been chasing after him for a couple of minutes before he flung his backpack against a tree with a solid thwack! and fell to his hands and knees.

With the way his body was heaving, you thought he was going to throw up. You stayed about ten feet away, wanting to comfort him but keeping your distance, just in case. If you’d had the presence of mind to grab your own bag, you would have been able to use your satellite phone to call for help.

What happened next was something you didn’t think you’d ever be able to believe if you hadn’t seen it yourself.

With a great shudder, right under the moon’s spotlight, the back of Steve’s shirt ripped in a jagged line down the back. His muscles rippled with effort. And then right before your very eyes, he stopped being Steve.

He became a wolf, instead.

Dark fur sprouted so quickly, it seemed to happen in a blink. A strangled cry from his throat became a guttural, tortured howl. The sound of it seemed to echo through the entire forest. A flock of birds erupted into the sky in fear. When you looked away from them and back to the forest floor, your eyes met that of a snarling beast’s.

He bared his teeth at you, canines glinting. He was a study in shades of black, as dark as it was. The moon might have provided some light, but he was awash in night. So, this was why you’d never been able to stumble upon the wolf. You’d been sharing pastries with him the whole time, instead.

A growl started low in his throat. You saw his tail—he had a tail!—swish once, agitated. He hadn’t come any closer yet. You got the feeling he was trying to scare you off. He was going to be disappointed.

You sank to the ground, ignoring the wet seeping through your pajamas. You held both hands out. “It’s okay. I’m not afraid. It’s okay.”

He tossed his head, snapped at the air. You stifled a laugh at the absurdity of it. You had a feeling he was displeased. But still, you stared each other down. Slowly, you noticed the fur that had been standing on end around his shoulders had started to go flat. He dug the claws of his front paws into the earth with a whine, tossing his head again, and then he prowled forward. He kept his head bowed, ears flattened against his skull. He stopped in front of you a little ways away, but close enough that you could just about feel his breath, warm compared to the chill in the air.

You weren’t running away. Stupid bunny, stupid girl. He wanted you to be afraid, to finally realize what he’d been telling you all along: that he was dangerous, a wild animal. That he had the capacity to hurt, to maim, to kill. But the insatiable urge to tear you limb from limb, confusingly, wasn’t there. He thought that getting closer to you might make you come to your senses. But when he stopped in front of you, tail tucked, a whimper escaping his jaws, you only lifted a steady hand and touched his fur, right at the side of his neck.

Tonight was the first time someone had touched him in years.

You’d done it before, when you’d tried to stop him from leaving. And you were doing it again now, ignoring the fact that he was no longer a human, only an animal.

He’d touched you, the first time he’d met you. When he’d wrapped your ankle, carried you to bed. But he’d refrained after that. And it had all been above board, had been born out of necessity, not want. But now, you stared at him, unblinking, and softly stroked at his fur like it was the most natural thing in the world. It made him want to weep.

He leaned into the touch, another quiet whine escaping his throat as your fingers moved. But you couldn’t stay out here all night. And he needed to run, to hunt, to satisfy the bloodthirsty urge that had usually surfaced by now. He stood, shaking your hand off, and walked past you, flicking you with his tail, before looking over his shoulder to see if you were coming. But you stayed put. Another flick didn’t do anything to spur you forward. Were you really not getting the memo? He padded back to you and nosed at your ribs, but it only served to make you giggle.

With an exasperated huff, he walked to the edge of the small clearing you were in and looked back again, letting out another whine.

You’d brought your knees up to your chest, your arms encircling them. “I’m not going back to the cabin without you. And I have a feeling you’ll leave me there as soon as I get to the door. I’m staying.”

Of course you’d say that. He shouldn’t have been that surprised, since you hadn’t run screaming bloody murder upon seeing his transformation. He had half a mind to grab your shirt between his teeth and pull, forcing you to move unless you wanted it to rip, but he had a feeling that you’d just let it happen. It seemed you were at an impasse. He could already imagine the headache he’d have tomorrow when he was human again, the number of questions you’d lob his way. He also had a feeling that he’d never get rid of you, now. You were too curious to learn this about him and simply move on.

He could have left you there and gone about his usual routine, but he couldn’t bear the thought of you stumbling through the dark on your own back to the cabin. Worse, you might try to follow him. So instead, he came back to you and sat by your side, and you stroked his fur again, in the shared silence of the woods.

It didn’t take very long for your eyelids to grow heavy. The grass was still damp, but you curled up on it anyway. You fell asleep right there on the forest floor. He curled around you, unable to stand the idea of you shivering and cold, pressing his body against your back.

He hadn’t smelled any fear on you before, not when he’d yelled in your face, not when he’d ran away, and not when he’d become a wolf right in front of you. He couldn’t smell it now. You just settled more, and he let himself breathe in your scent. It hadn’t triggered him to tear you apart, not like he’d been so sure it would. Not like his first night as a wolf. It was a strange thing. He didn’t want to think about it, to imagine that his fears had all been in his head. They couldn’t be, or he would still have a wife. He wouldn’t be here with you. But all he felt at that precise moment was the need to protect you, to keep you in his sight. To keep you warm and safe under the open night sky.

It was only you, him, and the clear white moon. It was foreign to have no anxieties on a night like this, and they hadn’t left him, not completely. But he rested his head on his paws, keeping his eyes open and his ears alert, and let himself believe, just for a little while, that things might work out.

When you woke up, it was to sunlight streaming across your face, and birdsong. Eyes still closed, you frowned, your nose wrinkling. You shifted your arm and felt grass coming away with it. Lifting your head a little, you opened your eyes and took in the hundreds of shades of green surrounding you. You’d slept outside.

You’d slept outside, because…

You remembered at the same time that you became aware of warmth at your back and over your waist. You glanced down your body and saw the corded muscle of Steve’s arm, loose over your hip, his palm spanning your stomach. The warmth you felt was him, pressed to your spine. He stirred when you shifted.

He was human again, already? You looked up at the sky. Well, the moon was gone, so you supposed it made sense. But what did you know about wolves? Or werewolves, for that matter? You started to turn to face him but stopped short at the first glimpse of his legs, never mind his torso. Right. He was completely naked.

He seemed to realize it at the same time as you, his arm disappearing from you. “There’s extra clothes in my backpack, if you go get them,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes.

You crawled away on your hands and knees to the bag, still where it had landed when he’d thrown it, and pulled out pants and a shirt before closing your eyes and blindly shoving them in his direction. You listened to the rustle of fabrics and the zip of his fly before he said, “I’m decent.”

Peeling your eyes open, you gave him a once over. He was still the same Steve that you’d gotten used to. Still tall and broad, hair dishevelled and long—though yours probably didn’t look much better—a familiar worried frown on his face. He held out a hand to you, which you took, and he pulled you up. “I think it’s time we had a conversation.” He stooped to pick up his bag before turning and striding away, not waiting for you.

Who would have thought he’d be more chivalrous as a wolf?

At least you followed this time, picking your way through the grass. He kept an eye on you in case you slipped. It was a wonder that you didn’t have any cuts across the soles of your feet. For once, you were staying quiet. He wondered if you were marvelling at the sequence of events, too, or if you were just thinking up questions to bombard him with. Knowing you, it was probably the latter.

With the cabin in sight, he ushered you in ahead of him. “Why don’t you go take a shower?” he offered, closing the door behind him. “Water takes a bit to heat up, but you slept on the ground all night.”

“Okay. That sounds like a good idea.” You shuffled off after grabbing your bag and disappeared into the bathroom.

Steve let out a long sigh at your departure. He stood in the kitchen, hands resting heavily on the counter, and let his head hang down as he gathered his thoughts. What exactly could he tell you? The basics, he supposed. But then also, maybe to finally scare you straight, he’d tell you what had happened the first time. Explain to you why he lived out here in the first place. Tell you that while you might have survived last night, that didn’t mean there was any guarantee to survive future transformations. He could still rip you to shreds.

He must have been standing there awhile, lost in his own head, because it felt like it had only been a few minutes before he heard the bathroom door creak open, followed by your footsteps on the wood. The aroma you brought with you was a dizzying blend of your own and his. You had used his soap. Your scent would be all over his towel, too. You were dressed now in what you’d worn yesterday, but he just wanted to pull you close and nuzzle against the hollow of your throat, breathe you in, lick your skin. Instead, he cleared his throat and leaned against the counter. You mirrored him, pressing your back against his old fridge. It was only a little bit taller than you were.

“So… you’re the wolf I’ve been hearing so much about,” you finally said, your arms crossed. You tilted your head as you looked him up and down. “And you let me go on a wild goose chase trying to find you.”

You weren’t upset. Rather, your eyes were alight with interest.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I couldn’t exactly just tell you, could I?”

“I guess not,” you shrugged, “but maybe you could have pretended to lay some bait out or something. You didn’t have to tell me it was you.”

“Well, if I had my way, you never would have found out. I was waiting for you to get bored and give up. I didn’t think I’d ever have to tell you.”

“Why is that?”

He waited for you to answer your own question with the obvious: it was dangerous. But instead, you only gazed at him, waiting for his answer.

So, he gave it to you.

Steve didn’t want to go into too much detail, but he thought he still managed to paint a pretty vivid picture. The truth was that yes, he had always been an outdoorsy type. He’d grown up hunting and fishing and hiking. He was familiar with the forests near where he’d used to live. He’d go on weekends alone or with friends. Peggy would never come. It just wasn’t her thing. She was more of a night in type of girl, and Steve had respected that. They both had their own hobbies that they could do alone.

Only one of his solo trips had gone badly. He still didn’t know exactly what had transpired, the events still muddied in his mind. He’d set up a tent like always. Slept for a bit. Been woken up by a noise. He didn’t usually camp in spots that other campers did. He preferred going off the beaten path. That had proven to be a mistake.

An animal attack. He had thought at first it was a bear, smelling the food he’d brought along. But it hadn’t been a bear. He’d never gotten a clear look, but he’d lost a lot of blood and been disoriented as hell when he’d come to. He’d dragged himself to a ranger’s hut and been taken to the hospital. Even the doctors hadn’t been sure. He’d been tested for rabies, amongst other things, and everything had come back clean. He was out in a couple of days.

Steve hadn’t even noticed anything was particularly wrong, at first. But the following month, when he’d decided to brave the outdoors again, Peggy had insisted on coming too. She was afraid of him going alone, after last time.

And so, they’d gone together, and Steve had ignored the itch of agitation in his gut, in his bones. He’d ignored the pull of going even deeper into the forest.

The transformation had taken him by so much surprise, he’d lost sight of what happened until the next morning, when he was human again.

He’d awoken with dried blood crusted on his skin and in his hair. Blood that wasn’t his. Blood that was Peggy’s.

She hadn’t been so lucky to survive such a vicious attack. And Steve had been so in denial, so confused, that he’d held her long after her body had gone cold. It had taken him a very long time to realize that he’d been her attacker.

He didn’t even remember spinning the lie, stammering it out to the rangers, then the officers, then the coroner. That he’d left her there to go hunting, come back to her dead. It was some sort of self-preservation instinct, he thought. And he couldn’t very well say that he had turned into a wild animal and done it himself. He would have been sent to a psychiatric facility. And then what would have happened if he transformed again? And again, and again, and again?

Instead, he’d very quietly packed up his life, moved a few states over, cutting off any friends and family, and built his own prison far away from people, where he couldn’t hurt them. And it had worked.

You listened to his explanation with a hand against your throat, taking it all in. He waited for your eyes to shutter, for you to make your way past him and out the door, to tell him you were going to report him for murder.

But you didn’t seem to grasp that he was giving you a very good reason to run away. When he finished talking, you stayed quiet, like you were mulling it over. Then, slowly, you unfolded your arms from yourself and leaned across the small space between you. Your hands came to rest on his arms. “Thank you for telling me, because I know it wasn’t easy.” He’d never heard you sound so hushed, so serious before.

Here it was, he thought, you’d tell him you understood and that you would stay away. But instead of that, you said, “But you didn’t hurt me. Things might have changed, Steve. You’ve been here by yourself for three years. That’s dozens of transformations. I know your first one was traumatic, but you didn’t know what was happening to you. You do now.”

“That was a fluke,” he said stubbornly. He wished you wouldn’t look at him so empathetically. “I don’t know what happened last night. It’s the first time I haven’t gone hunting as a wolf. I just couldn’t… I couldn’t leave you there on your own.”

“You could have,” you argued, though you were still completely calm. “You could have left me there. But you stayed and you didn’t hurt me. I’ve trusted you from day one, Steve. You’re not going to hurt me. I can stay away from you if you really want me to during full moons, but I think it would be better for you to get used to being around someone when the time comes.”

“Bunny, it’s not that simple. We can’t predict that it’s all gonna be fine from now on. I’m not willing to risk it.”

You sighed, leaning closer. For a horrible moment, he thought you were going to hug him. “I get why you chose to live this way. It’s noble. But I don’t believe that you’re a danger. At least not like you were your first time. I  think you’ve had the time out here alone to learn who you are now, and how to handle it.” You were careful, considering, when you added, “How do you know without a doubt that you were the one that hurt Peggy? What if you’d been defending her? Isn’t that a possibility?”

He didn’t have an answer for you, even though you seemed very sure. It made him ache, your unwavering faith. If he hadn’t scared you off last night, hadn’t scared you off now, he didn’t think that anything would. Not until it was too late.

And even though he wanted you to be safe, he couldn’t control what you did. If you wanted to keep showing up after all he’d said, there wasn’t anything he could do to stop you. He’d just have to hope that eventually, you woke up and realized what you were risking by putting yourself in his path.

You started looking at the weather after that. But probably not in the way Steve had wanted. Rather, you were steering yourself toward him in ways that he couldn’t easily prevent. That meant showing up for every bad storm and staying the night and being there, refusing to leave when the full moon was going to be on display. You’d stuck with him for two more transformations. You’d let him leave when he’d wanted to, curling up in his bed with the curtain open to let the moonlight in, and trusted that he wouldn’t come back and tear you limb from limb. And he’d shuffle home in the morning, surprised to see you untouched under his comforter, editing your photos on your laptop. Because falling in love meant sticking by someone even when the odds were stacked against them, even if it was foolish.

Steve’s cabin really wasn’t meant for two people. Some days, it wasn’t even meant for someone of Steve’s size. But you’d started to add your own touches with each visit. Jars of wildflowers. On the nightstand, one of the windowsills, the side table. A shoddy wreath made of twigs, which you’d put on the door. It hung crookedly. The place had long since started to smell like you, as well. And as much as he hated to admit it to himself, Steve had started to miss you quite desperately when you weren’t there, despite the danger. A bit of his old self had come back, by letting you in. He wasn’t so blunt. Wasn’t irritated when you dropped in. He’d started keeping things there for you at your request, like tea blends and a change of clothes.

You’d also grown very comfortable touching him. It was the only reason, selfish as it was, that he hadn’t pushed harder to make you leave. If he didn’t greet you at the door, if he was instead sitting on the futon carving a figurine, you’d lean over the back of it, resting your chin on his shoulder to watch for a minute before moving on to deposit whatever you’d brought with you. If he was at the stove, your fingers would clutch at the back of his shirt while you peered around him to see what he was making. You’d put your feet in his lap if you sat together, push at his arm when you laughed, trail your fingers over him if you were walking past. It was intoxicating. Little by little, he’d started to rely on you, to expect you to show up. He’d started to make space for you. It had become a vastly slippery slope, and Steve no longer had any footholds to stop himself from plummeting. He had also begun to find that he didn’t want to. Maybe it was time to bask in the free fall, instead.

Fall had arrived by now, but there were still a few days in mid-September that reached high temperatures by the afternoon. One such day had you floating through the door along with a sweet, warm breeze, and a sparkle in your eye that could only mean trouble.

“Steve, how do you feel about swimming?” you asked, but in an air that was much too casual to really be casual.

He glanced at you sidelong. “I could take it or leave it. Why…?”

“Well, it’s just that it’s going to get too cold to swim soon, and that great big lake isn’t too far from here… I know how to get there from the trails now. Do you wanna come with me?” You picked at invisible lint on your dress. Your trail-inappropriate attire made sense now. The red sundress screamed summertime.

“Bunny, I don’t have anything to swim in.” Steve said honestly, spreading his hands in apology. It was true. A swimsuit had been the absolute last thing on his mind when he’d been fleeing his old life. And any times in the past that had had him braving the lake had been when there was no one around to see him in other only other one he had: that of the birthday suit.

“That’s okay. You don’t need one.”

And now the gleam in your eyes made sense. “If you’re suggesting skinny dipping…” he began with a shake of his head. There was no way on god’s green earth that he would be able to handle you naked. Even less so if he was also naked.

You laughed then. “Aw, Steve, you’re so cute. No, you can wear shorts or your underwear or something. C’mon, please? It’ll be just us. I haven’t gone swimming in so long.”

Your pout should have been illegal. He may have been a literal dog once a month, but you put any semblance of puppy eyes he might have been capable of to shame. “Okay, fine.”

You clapped your hands together, bouncing up and down. “I’ll even leave my camera here, if you’re feeling shy. Wouldn’t want to make you blush,” you said with an exaggerated wink.

It was a fifteen minute walk from the cabin to the far side of the lake. The other side was far enough away that the small set of lake houses wouldn’t be able to spot you. It didn’t really matter, anyway. No one seemed to be on the water today.

You wasted no time at all unzipping your knee-high boots and pulling your dress up over your head, revealing a red and white bikini. Maybe Steve should have said no. He’d seen a lot of you on display before, in your other outfits, but he suddenly felt like he was being lecherous when he stared at you too long. He snapped his jaw shut, glad that you hadn’t seen his open mouth. He could have caught flies, the way he’d been gaping at you. You stared at him expectantly until he kicked off his own shoes and tugged at his shirt, before turning your back to him and tiptoeing your way down to the water’s edge.

His hands paused on the waistband of his shorts while he watched you wade in, until you looked back at him cheekily. “Hurry up!”

And hurry up, he did. He tugged his shorts down as quick as he could, then all but ran into the water. He didn’t want you to see he was beginning to sport a hard-on just from looking at you.

As soon as he was waist deep, you grinned and splashed a big wave of water at him with the back of your hand. “Okay, now come and get me,” you laughed, bobbing away through the water. You weren’t quite deep enough to start swimming yet.

“You want me to chase you?”

“Mhm. You might be faster on land but are you really faster on water?” The mischievous twinkle in your eye was back, and all Steve could do was allow himself to be snared in your web.

He let you take the lead for a little while. You seemed to take great satisfaction in letting him get almost close enough, his fingers skimming your arm, before you’d kick away and cut through the water with a shriek of laughter. It was a sound he still wasn’t quite used to hearing. Even less so, his own laugh, booming across the open space.

When he grew tired of chasing though, he surged forward with a strong push. It was very, very easy to scoop you into his arms while you giggled, your hands on his shoulders as you half-heartedly squirmed away, but he held you fast. His arms locked around your waist, holding you to him. You were slippery, but not so much that he couldn’t keep a firm grasp on you. You relented by tangling your fingers together at the nape of his neck. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to get an eyeful of your chest. Not that he minded much.

“Don’t tell me you were going easy on me that whole time,” You were smiling when you complained.

“Okay. I wasn’t going easy on you the whole time.” He repeated it with a grin of his own.

It made you smile impossibly wider. He startled as you ran one of your hands over the back of his head, fingers through his hair. “Oh, I just knew that you were hiding a movie star smile. Very swoon worthy. And you’ve been keeping it a secret under all this facial hair.”

Your other hand came to his face, turning his jaw this way and that, and he let you. “You want me to shave it off?”

“No!” you said too quickly. “Maybe tidy it up a little, but no. don’t get rid of it. I like the rugged look.”

Steve raised his eyebrows at you. You were being honest—he could tell by the look on your face. It was strange to hear such a compliment. Before he’d been changed, he’d always kept to a more clean-cut sort of look. “And your hair, too. Keep it like this. You look very handsome.” Your fingers combed through the strands again.

Steve was suddenly very aware of your body being pressed against his. He shifted his arms, so that one of his hands covered the expanse of your back, your skin hot beneath his fingers. It took no effort for him to hold you like this, your feet nowhere near the sandy bottom of the lake. He’d always been strong, but his transformation had made him even stronger. “Steve?”

“Mmm?” He’d been looking at your mouth already when you’d said his name, saw your tongue move for the st, your teeth graze your lower lip for the v.

He wanted to kiss you. So badly it hurt like a bullet ricocheting between each of his ribs. He didn’t get to do that. He didn’t deserve you. You were too good, too pure, to full of joy to be sullied by his history. He could love you and not do anything about it, he thought. He could love you and continue to see you live. Your fingers brushed the nape of his neck. “Steve?” you said his name again, and his eyes finally flickered up to yours. “Did you hear what I said?”

You’d said something other than his name? Now he was lost in your eyes. You seemed to see right through him. He might have called you stupid in the past, might have been callous and tried and push you away, but he knew you were more emotionally sensitive than you let on. You might not have done a very good job being concerned for your own well being, but you were pretty great about caring about his. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“It’s my turn to try to catch you now.” But the way you said it made him wonder if you’d actually asked him something else.

It was just as well, he thought. He should put distance between you. He needed to, before he did something that both of you might regret.

The next full moon was coming. It was bringing cold weather right alongside it. Steve knew that snow wouldn’t be far behind, and he also knew that it would get to a point where it really would be impossible for you to get out here, no matter how badly you wanted to. He’d have to make his one and only trip to the general store soon to stock up. He kept a running list throughout the year, and he’d learned from previous years up here what he would need more of, and what he could do without. He’d explained a little bit of his system to you already, when you’d sweetly asked if there was anything you could get for him that wasn’t available at the store that might be easier to find in town.

It was going to be hard to lose out on seeing you. He found himself entertaining your idea of getting him a satellite phone, too.

The day before he was due to shift, you came by like you had been. You had a jacket on for once. Hell must have frozen over already for you to be wearing one. But as much as Steve was happy to see you, some internal part of him lighting up like a sparkler, he thought that this was really a moon cycle you should have missed out on.

He’d already felt more agitated this time than he had the last few. He didn’t know if it was residual feelings over the upcoming loss of your regular presence, or something else. But he could feel it making the tendons in his hands and jaw jump. He felt it with the way the hair on his arms stood up at the faintest touch of your skin against his. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stick around for this one, bunny.”

You looked at him, puzzled. You’d just started to untie your shoes after following him in. Wind battered against the door. “Why? Is something different this time?”

“I don’t know.” He was fidgeting in the kitchen’s archway. “Yes, something is.”

“Well, all the more reason to stay. I want to help you figure it out.” You put a hand on his arm.

The contact burned. He stepped back from you instantly. You didn’t miss the reaction, and it made your frown deepen. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Steve touched his fingertips to his temples. “I’m worried I’m gonna hurt you. I feel really… wound up. I can’t explain it. Like anything could set me off. You should go, seriously.” He said the last part more firmly.

“I’m not going.” You said, equally firm.

“Bunny. I’m telling you that it’s not a good idea. You said you’d go if I asked. I’m asking.”

“No. You’re scared because you’re confused. That’s not a good reason. I’m here to help you, Steve.”

“Stop coming so close.” He bit out. You’d been taking very miniscule steps towards him, and he’d been matching them by moving backward. But he was about to run out of space. You weren’t even particularly close at the moment, but your scent was catching in the back of his throat like honey.

The realization came over him like a lightbulb turning on.

Lust. That was what was making him act out of order. He wanted to be all over you, which meant you had to go. Steve wanted to be on you, around you, inside you on a regular basis—he was sure that one of the things he’d gained after being bitten was an insane sex drive—but he’d always made do with his hand and a fantasy. Now, the fantasy was standing in front of him in a flimsy shirt and jeans that detailed every curve.

You held a hand up like you were trying to get close to a cornered, frightened animal, which in a way, you were. “Steve, it’s gonna be fine.”

“No, it’s not. You need to go. Would you just listen to me for once?”

“Can you just think rationally for a second? You’ve been completely fine the last few times.”

“God, you’re not listening.” He raked a hand through his hair, wanting to pace, to move, to go to you, to make you leave, to pull you close. “You’re driving me fuckin’ crazy, bunny.” He growled, exasperated.

You took another step. Your smell was all around him now. In his bones, in his skin. His lungs, his heart, his brain. It was too much. Especially with the way you looked at him, all soft eyes and compassion.

“God damn you.” he muttered, before any semblance of holding back withered away. He could no longer help himself when he closed the distance with one step of his long legs, pulling you into a kiss so fierce, it could have had teeth and claws of it’s own.

A tiny part of him felt guilty when he put his hands on your face, tilting your head up to his. In a perfect world, he would have asked your permission. Steve expected you to try and pull away at any second, to smack him and run away. But he also clung to you more tightly, pushing his tongue between your lips, eager to taste you, eager to claim.

It was the shock of his life to realize that you were eager, not repulsed. You jumped—literally—to meet him, your legs fitting around his waist like you’d been formed with him in mind. His hands slid from your face to the backs of your thighs.

He groaned into your mouth as your fingers scrabbled at the collar of his shirt, pulling so hard that he felt the back of it cutting into his neck. This was what he had wanted since before you knew the truth about him. It was a tiny, self-sacrificing reason as to why he’d wanted to push you away. Because you were a storm cloud he knew he wouldn’t mind chasing, if given the chance, in search of rain. And he didn’t think he was allowed rain.

You were intent on proving him wrong. Between scattered kisses, your mouth a bruise on his, you murmured, “Take me to your room now.”

He obeyed, walking blindly through the kitchen and down the tiny hall, careful not to bump your head on the ceiling. He’d had to pause right before the door, unwilling to let go of your for even a second to open it. It was even more difficult with you trailing kisses down one side of his neck, raking your nails across the other side. he hadn’t taken you for a biter, but he was pretty sure he’d find marks on his skin later.

The only reason he didn’t throw you down on the bed was because he didn’t want to break it, or you. But as soon as your back hit the dark green comforter, his hands were roaming across every inch of you. Your shirt was gone in a flurry of fabric. You actually ripped his collar in your haste to pull it over his head. Steve’s scalp stung from you tugging at his hair. Every time he nipped at your collarbone, laving his tongue over the bite afterwards, you’d pull on the strands and sigh. “More.” you moaned, tipping your head back as much as you could.

You needn’t have asked. For every bite you’d given him, Steve marked you with two. Your throat was already beginning to bloom with darker marks, like a haphazard necklace in the shape of his teeth. Even though Steve had fantasized about you many times, he’d never pictured taking you like this. His fingers pushed your bra strap off one shoulder. “Can I…” his lips brushed the curve of your breast.

“Why are you even asking? The answer is yes.” And before he could even do anything about it, you were reaching back behind you and unclasping it, flinging it away from your body like it was contaminated.

You were suddenly half-bare before him, and Steve couldn’t even stop to admire you. Later, he promised. Later, I’ll take my time. Right now, he couldn’t. Right now, he just had to feel every inch of you until he forget everything in the world except your taste and touch and scent.

Your sharp squeal changed to a whimper when he bit down gently on one of your nipples before smoothing his tongue over it and sucking, massaging your other breast with one of his large hands. “Oh, god,” you breathed. Your fingers had a vicelike grip on his hair, and he didn’t care.

Your other hand patted at his chest before travelling down his abdomen. It made him shiver. He’d never put on a belt, so you went straight to work on the button of his jeans. He did the same for you, peeling yours down by their belt loops. One popped loose from its stitching in his haste, before he was kicking is own off.

Your panties were soaked through at the center. The baby pink fabric did nothing to hide it at all, especially not when you parted your legs, biting your lip as you looked at him.

“Are you—”

You cut him off by pulling at the waistband of his boxers. “Don’t even think about asking me if I’m sure. I’ve been waiting for you to make a move for months.”

You weren’t shy at all about sticking your hand down the front and squeezing the base of his cock. “Do me now. Don’t make me wait anymore.”

“Jesus Christ, bunny.”

He almost saw nirvana just from the feeling of your hand around him. “Steve.”

“Fuck, okay.”

It seemed his shirt wasn’t the only thing that had finished being useful, because your panties met the same fate. He quite literally tore them from your hips. You both heard the soft rip of the fabric. You squeezed your hand around him again and he took a shuddering breath before cupping your pussy. His thumb rolled a lazy circle around your clit, just so he could see you squirm. Your legs jumped when you whined. “Now. Now, now, now. Please.”

His boxers were gone a second later, and he replaced your hand with his own, rubbing some of your slick over his cock. You only watched, your bottom lip red and plump between your teeth. “Are you really sure?” He asked—he couldn’t help it, even as he rubbed the head of his cock over your folds.

You sat up on your elbows then. “Do I need to be on top?” You said it like it was a threat, but really it sounded like a gift.

“Maybe next time.”

You had likely had some sort of retort on the tip of your tongue, but it dissolved into one loud, long groan, your eyes squeezing shut, as he pushed in. He’d only done the tip and already you were pulsing around him in a way that had him white-knuckling the bedspread next to your hip. “Not there yet,” He grunted, pushing deeper.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” You were chanting with your head thrown back, like you really were praying to a higher being.

Bottoming out was bliss like Steve had never felt before in his life. You were squeezing around him like you planned to keep him there for good. He pulled out nice and slow, relishing in the easy slide, before slamming back in so forcefully you jolted up the bed a little.

And then you were off to the races. His hips snapped against yours while his teeth landed on your neck. Your nails were ten tiny brands in his shoulders. He just wanted more of you, all of you. More of your noises, more of your reactions, your legs tight on his waist. He wanted to sear himself into your skin and it seemed like you were trying to do the same. You couldn’t stop touching him. Your hands kept moving from his shoulders to his ribs to his neck, like you couldn’t decide where to hold on, like you’d lost the ability to form an opinion.

But still, Steve wanted more.

He slowed down enough to pry your legs from him. He glanced up only to see confusion overtaking ecstasy. He supposed he was about to see how flexible you were.

He pulled out with a wet pop!, his cock smacking against his stomach. Your wetness was dripping off him and onto the bed. You whined out his name with a petulant look. “Why did you—”

“Trying something.”

He pulled your legs up to your chest before having you put your hands under your knees to keep them up, to keep you open. His dick twitched at the sight of you spread apart for him. He wanted to devour you. But he wanted to be inside you more. “Hold on for me, bunny. Atta girl.” Your eyes filled with tears when he entered you a second time. “Feels good?” He was panting, breath fanning across your mouth.

“S—so good, Steve.”

If he’d thought he was deep before, he’d been wrong. Now his cock was kissing your cervix with every thrust, and you couldn’t contain any of the noises you were making. You were loud, unashamed, and gorgeous. The tears in your eyes spilled, sliding down your temples, but he caught one on his tongue before it went too far. He couldn’t help it. He wanted everything you had to offer. You couldn’t hold onto him, folded in half as you were, and he cradled your face with one hand, the other holding him up. You tilted your cheek into his palm, nuzzling like a kitten.

It was that, and that alone, that had him saying, “I’m gonna come.” He had you in a position that exposed you to him completely, but it was the tenderness of your eyes that really did him in.

“Together?” you breathed.

“Mhm, together.”

It was with reluctance that he stopped touching your face to rub furious circles on your clit. You came a split second before he did, clenching down on him for all he was worth, and then he was spilling into you with a force he’d never known. Each squeeze from you sent another wave from him until you were both breathing so heavily, he thought one of you might pass out. He only stopped thumbing at your clit when you dropped one of your legs to weakly bat at his hand, and he settled it across your stomach, pressing down. You let out a small, choked cry. “Oh, fuck.”

“You’re so full.”

“Yeah…” There was no longer a thought behind those eyes of yours. “So full. So good.”

It made Steve smile, to see you so fucked out. He’d done that. He’d made you feel so good that you couldn’t even think anymore. And to think he’d wanted to turn you away for safety’s sake. He no longer felt any of the agitation that he had before, even as he looked at the uneven chain of hickeys across your throat. He’d definitely left impressions of his teeth in a couple of spots.

He kept his hand on your belly for a moment longer before pulling back and out. His cum spilled out of you in a steady drip. At least he finally had a use for his ripped shirt. He was gentle as he wiped you clean, then dropped it over the side of the bed. He could have gone again, he was sure, but you were clearly done for now. Instead, he settled next to you, pulling you close, curling around you like he’d done when he’d been a wolf. You both stared at the ceiling.

Finally, you’d returned to yourself enough that you murmured, “See? You didn’t hurt me. You need to trust yourself. Because I trust you.” Your speech was slurred.

But it was the first time Steve was convinced that maybe you had a point.

It was still hard for Steve to believe that you weren’t in any danger around him, but it was easier than he’d thought, too.

You talked about it at length the first couple of days after you’d slept together. You hadn’t really wanted to leave, and he hadn’t wanted you to. You were amazed that he’d never sought out any others like him. Neither of you believed that the wolf attack had been a normal wolf. There had to be more people suffering from his same problem. You thought that maybe it was time he tried. “I don’t even know where to look,” he admitted finally.

It was late at night, the window in the bedroom just slightly cracked open. You were both laying facing each other, his hand a gentle graze up and down your spine. Your fingers drummed against his chest. “I’m not suggesting you go right away, but maybe you need to go back to that forest. The one where you were bitten. That’s where it all started. If not there, then one near it. We know for sure that wolves like you were around at one point.” You smoothed your hand over his heart when you looked at him through your lashes. “I know that it might be traumatic for you. And I won’t come if you don’t want me to. But I think that’s the best place to start.”

He settled against his pillow and tucked you closer, your head fitting under his chin. “Maybe in the spring.”

He wasn’t ready to face it yet. And the harsh weather was going to be rolling in to stay soon, anyway. But maybe in the spring, he’d have wrestled with the idea for long enough to feel good about it. Your nose brushed against his throat, and you placed a kiss against his skin a moment later. “Whatever you decide, you know I’m with you every step of the way.”

It took a little persuading from you, but Steve agreed to come to town with you. Not just the edge of it, or the road just off the main one where the general store was. But right into town, where you lived and worked the most frequently. And he wasn’t just going for fun, either. It was a date.

He’d felt nervous like a teenager again. You’d come to get him, but he’d met you at the lot where you usually parked, not wanting you to venture all the way into the forest. You were wearing a dress he’d never seen before, this one an ocean blue slip of silk, peeking out under a wool coat. The bitter temperatures had already fallen into effect. Your hair fell in loose waves around your face, coming free from its clip. He suddenly felt very underdressed in his plaid button up and jeans, but they were the nicest of his clothes. He only got more nervous as you drove. “Should I have cleaned up more?” He asked, watching you.

Your tongue stuck out of the corner of your mouth as you frowned at the rearview mirror—you were trying to execute a somewhat dicey parallel park. But your eyes flicked to him for a brief moment, one of your hands leaving the wheel to touch his leg. “I told you never to shave the beard. I like the rugged look, remember? My wolfman.” That was accompanied with a sweet smile, and he felt a rush of heat not only to his face, but to his groin, too.

Once you were satisfied with your parking job, you turned to him, leaning across the console. Your fingertips danced over his jaw when you kissed him. “You ready to go in?”

The restaurant you had parked in front of was a study of dim lighting. He could see it through the window—the hanging lamps were made of mason jars. It was now or never, he supposed. “Yes. Let’s go.”

Steve was surprised it was going so well. There’d been a bit of fumbling around with the wine menu—he hadn’t had a drink in years—but the rest of it had been fairly simple, no over the top dishes in sight. And it hadn’t been too busy, either. The waiter kept to the shadows, only passing by your table once during the meal. And through the whole thing you’d kept your easy smile, your foot brushing against one of Steve’s ankles. The lighting might have been dim, but it didn’t dull the sparkle in your eyes.

As much as Steve was relieved that this outing hadn’t been a total disaster—a small part of him had been afraid you only worked together because of the seclusion—he didn’t feel ready to venture into town at will, not yet. He said as much to you when you asked. He wasn’t ready to abandon the cabin, either, even though it really was too small for both of you and didn’t have half the amenities he knew you’d prefer.

You looked at him over the table, your plate empty, and rested your knife and fork neatly across its surface. “Why don’t we compromise?”

He didn’t know what you meant, not right away. But after eating, you took him by the hand and got in the car. You drove him all the way through the town’s center before turning off one of the side roads. You drove for twenty minutes. It was the complete opposite side of town that you’d come from, the side he was most familiar with. The road itself was pretty bumpy, unpaved. But you stopped eventually at a circular driveway.

At first, Steve thought you were just taking him to the edge of town because you thought he’d be more comfortable there. But you got out and rounded the car to his side, until he climbed out to join you. You pulled him a little ways away, to a cluster of trees. “I’m not saying that it’s the perfect solution, but…”

You trailed off. That was when he saw, under the shade of some evergreens, a small stone cottage. It was bigger than his cabin all the way around, with rounded windows. Lavender and ivy had begun to creep up one of its sides. The pathway up to it was made of tiny pebbles. The lawn needed work. But the cottage was big enough for two without being overwhelming. It was far away from people, trees surrounding it. No, it wasn’t perfect. But Steve was moved by it all the same.

His stunned silence made you ramble. “I’m not saying this is the one, but I went looking around. There’re a few places like this one around here. Some are newer, some need a lot of TLC. But they have what we’d both want in a place.” You pulled your coat tighter around yourself. “It’s just a thought,” you added quickly. “I’m not trying to move too fast.”

He pulled you closer by your hips and kissed your forehead, then your mouth. “You can move as fast as you like, bunny. I’m with you.”

Winter had not splintered your relationship like Steve had feared, though it had been a real bitch to try and clear enough snow to let you through the forest and to the cabin. It was what made him finally unearth his rusty blue truck from where he’d hidden it under tarps and dead branches on a different trail. He’d been surprised it still worked. But it was easier for him to drive down to yours, to brave the town and stay at your apartment with you, than it was for you to come to him. And he found he didn’t mind staying in town so much when you were wrapped around him like a blanket. It was infinitely better when you’d come home after a shoot, shaking snow from your hair and your clothes and your boots, and he’d have dinner ready. Something simple, but less so than what he’d ever been able to put together at the cabin. And you’d eat on the couch, then tear his clothes off. Sometimes you didn’t even make it to the bed. Once, he was pretty sure the bakery across the street had seen you pressed against the window.

But afterwards, you would cuddle up against him in your bed, and put Star Wars on the projector, and you’d always fall asleep by the time the Millennium Falcon came into play.

By the following fall, you’d said goodbye to that apartment. You were waking up next to him in the countryside in an old farmhouse. It was half an hour from town, with wide open fields on either side, and a forest beyond. It needed a lot of work, but you’d revelled in taking all the before shots of it. The coffee table was blanketed by paint swatches. It was probably going to take a few years to finish. Steve had kept the cabin, though he really only stayed there in the summer months, now. He was still looking for answers about what had happened. But he hadn’t had a single accident. None of his transformations had recreated what had happened with Peggy. He was beginning to wonder if your theory was right.

He was just glad to be able to wake up next to you every morning and not have to feel fear and dread that he was going to hurt you. It was still in the back of his mind—it always would be, he suspected—but each passing day made him feel less and less afraid.

The part of the farmhouse you’d started on first, after getting the roof fixed, was the living room. The stone fireplace had been a joint effort to repair, but it fit in nicely with the burnt orange shade of the walls, the big leather couch, the cozy rug. The mantel was cut from a poplar tree, shaped by Steve and stained by you. One of his wooden figurines claimed the space on top. And right above it, in a simple black frame, was one of your photographs.

You’d gotten the picture you’d gone into the forest for. A wolf, your wolf with watchful eyes and a gleaming coat, standing on an overhang overlooking the lake. You’d decided not to put it in your portfolio.

That one was just for you.

TAGLIST;; @blowingbarnes, @superbassbuck, @flockoff-featherface, @unificsation, @firingstars, @barnesonly, @54nboo, @earthsmightiestbenders, @its-in-the-woods, @iamthatonefangirl, @winterdecember18, @houseofhyde, @heldbybarnes, @herejustforbuckybarnes, @stellacherryfairy, @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes, @buckysbunnny, @miraclediviner, @macbaetwo, @star-yawnznn, @kisskittenn, @dolcesaints, @akiyhara, @yourstrulymariii, @sassandscribbles, @emilyswortwellen, @colettebarnes, @starfire-irl, @pinksplace, @lunaskye999, @spdrveil, @shackoflove, @bbyanarchist, @venigrantrogers, @randomfanpage, @idkbeautiful

bonus note: yes, this was me working on the remaining seven scenes yesterday. yes, the timer went longer than this. yes, this broke me a little.

Nobody wanted to take on a six-hour side mission—three hours there, three hours back—to speak to the ex-wife of this week’s unsub, yourself included. So, naturally, Rossi had raided the local PD of their toothpicks, snapped the ends off of two of them, and presented them to the team with this devilish smile that said I know exactly how this is going to go. You don’t even know why you agreed, if we’re being honest, because you too knew damn well what would happen when you plucked that toothpick from his conniving hands.

You pulled the first short straw, and you got to watch in silent, not at all surprised frustration as Spencer pulled the second one. You had had half a mind to take your stupid toothpick and jam it into Rossi’s eye, but you restrained yourself; after all, you’re supposed to be the better, more mature half of your duo with the world’s most idiotic genius. He had tried to protest, arguing that he was too valuable of an asset to essentially abandon the investigation, but the team were quick to throw the two of you out of the police department and into an SUV that had spent all day boiling in the Louisiana sun.

That leads us into rule number two: never trust an SUV.

After three hours of suffocating in that cursed car, choking on the thick, oppressive air, you had arrived at the home of the mysterious ex-wife. Another hour-and-a-half of questioning later, you were free to embark on your journey back to the team.

Tragedy struck not even an hour even into the drive. The car stuttered, screeched, and stopped dead in the middle of traffic. You’d tried just about everything you could to breathe life back into the overheated corpse of the SUV, but it was no use; you had broken down. 

And just like that, the dam broke and the tense, carefully maintained silence between you and Spencer shattered into pieces.

Standing there, on the side of the road, Spencer had yelled at you—or you had yelled at him; you don’t remember who started it—until you were red-faced and people in their functioning vehicles were craning their necks to watch the scene unfold as they drove on by. 

You called Hotch. Spencer dialled triple-A. Both phone calls crushed whatever remnants of hope you dared cling to.

On your end, Hotch informed you that the unsub had just taken a hostage—surprise! The BAU needed every bit of information you had gathered from the ex-wife, and they needed it now. He barked orders at you over the phone, telling you to check yourselves into a motel and call him back ASAP, and abruptly hung up.

On Spencer’s end, triple-A had kindly told him that the car was fucked—hurray! Something was wrong with the engine, apparently, and you needed to wait for roadside assistance to bring their tow truck. 

But you didn’t have time to wait, not when there were lives at stake. So, you dialled Hotch’s number right there and began relaying everything you had learned over the sound of cars speeding by: details about the unsub’s failed marriage, his childhood, and—

Spencer had snatched the phone from you the moment you dared stumble over a word, damn near tearing your arm off with it. He promptly appointed himself leader of your botched hostage negotiation, and he left you to explain the situation to the very confused—and rightfully a little concerned—roadside assistance workers.

The negotiation continued into the back of some good samaritan’s car, and the two of you were dropped off at what looked to be the shittiest motel in the entire state. It was at that point you stole the phone back and ordered Spencer to speak to the receptionist whilst you walked the team through the safest way to approach the unsub.

In the motel room, you were finally able to put the team on speaker. You set the phone on the desk and, after two hours of anxious pacing, the unsub was finally detained.

And that brings us to the present, and to rule number three: never expect the BAU to come to your aid, no matter how desperately you may need it.

You’re lying face-down on the bed, listening to Hotch’s static-laced voice as he informs you, in essence, that all is well. Spencer is still standing, hands stuffed into his pockets, nodding along with everything being said.

“When can we expect to be picked up?” he asks.

The pause that follows his question is a damning one. A death sentence delivered through thick silence.

“The two of you will be staying at the motel for the night,” Hotch says. You can hear it in his voice, a slight awkwardness; he knowswhat he’s doing, yet he’s doing it anyway.

It’s fine, though. It’s just one night in a shitty motel. Really, it could be worse—

“But I only booked one room.”

Your head shoots up so fast you’re sure you almost break your neck. You scramble up onto your knees, already shaking your head in disbelief—refusal to believe.

“You’re fucking kidding.”

Spencer looks mortified.

“Reid,” you warn, “tell me you’re not serious—”

He huffs, like you’re somehow the idiot in this situation, and crosses his arms. “I didn’t think we’d be staying here!”

“You didn’t— oh my God. How?” You bark out a hollow laugh. “How are you so fucking stupid?”

The phone speaker crackles, picking up the faint sound of Morgan’s laughter.

Spencer’s cheeks are starting to turn red. “I just assumed that—”

“IQ of 187, they said” you mutter, exasperated. “God help us all.”

“I’ll— I’ll go to the front desk.” He’s already heading for the door, raking his fingers through his hair as he walks. “I’ll get us another room—”

“The front desk closed thirty minutes ago.”

“...oh.”

You take a deep breath, turning away from him as you redirect your attention to the phone. Your lifeline. Clearing your throat, you put on the calmest, most amiable voice you can manage and say, “...Hotch?”

“You’re two hours away,” he says plainly.

“Please.”

“By the time we get you back here it’ll be almost three in the morning.”

“I’m begging you.”

“The answer’s no. The two of you will handle this like adults, and we will see you tomorrow.”

Just when you think he’s about to hang up, another voice comes through the speaker. Morgan’s.

“Have fun, lovebirds.”

Spencer scoffs so loud you’d think he was choking on something. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing!”

The call disconnects just as he lurches forward to grab the phone. He holds it in his hand for a moment, staring down at it with frustration that amounts almost to rage, before tossing it to you with a strangled huff.

“I can’t believe this.”

“I can’t believe you only booked one room,” you counter. “Seriously, what did you think was going to—’

“Alright, I get it. I’m an idiot.”

“Mhm.” You flop back onto the bed with a sigh, letting the silence hang in the air for a moment before adding, “Hey, at least we did it.”

“We?”

“Uh…yeah?”

Spencer pulls this face. Disgust mixed with disbelief. It would be comical if it weren’t directed at you. “You barely contributed.”

“Oh, come on—”

“You spent half of that negotiation just…lying around whilst I gave all the information—”

“Information that I got from the guy’s ex-wife.”

“Only because you wouldn’t let me speak to her.”

“Because you don’t know how to talk to women.”

Spencer’s pacing ceases, and he turns to you with a scowl. “Sorry?”

“I was doing you a favour.” You look up at him with a mocking smile. “You would’ve embarrassed yourself if you’d spoken to her.”

His lips curl at the corners, and you’re sure that he’d be shooting lasers from his eyes if he could, zapping you into oblivion. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, then opens it again to say, “You are such a—”

“A what?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

And he closes his mouth once more.

Sitting up, you shuffle to the edge of the bed and cross your arms expectantly. “Go on.”

You can see the tension in his jaw, the way he’s grinding his teeth subtly. He spends a good few moments just staring at you, probably trying to explode you with his mind, before he turns away with a sharp, catty huff. 

“I’m never agreeing to anything like this again,” he mutters.

“Good. Me neither.”

There’s nothing provocative about your words—you’re actually agreeing with him, for once—yet Spencer spins back around to face you all the same. 

“You’ve been nothing but irritating all day,” he spits.

“And all you’ve done is complain.”

“At least I’m not incompetent.”

“Beats being an arrogant little bitch.”

Again, Spencer turns on his heels and begins walking away. “That’s it,” he announces, “I’m taking a shower.”

“Running away. Real mature—”

The bathroom door slams, and you swear it shakes the very foundation of the motel room.

Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath. Try to calm yourself as the reality of this horror movie-worthy situation catches up to you. You’re to share a room with Spencer Reid—share a bed—because of his stupidity, and he had the gall to call you incompetent. 

The shower turns on. You can hear it through the paper-thin wall, and part of you wants to barge into that bathroom, drag him out by his hair and leave him, naked, on the side of the road. It’s the only way you’ll get any semblance of peace tonight, that’s for sure.

But what would that say about you? That you’re just as childish—as petulant—as he is? You’re supposed to be the bigger person here, the better person.

So you resign yourself to lying in wait, dreading whatever bullshit the next twelve hours have in store for you.

—

Thirty minutes later, Spencer emerges from the bathroom muttering about the disgraceful state of the bathroom. He doesn’t seem to notice, or care, that you aren’t listening to him; you’re frankly too distracted by the state of him. His hair is still wet, and his white shirt has been left untucked, held closed by a total of two buttons. Your gaze lingers, rather unapologetically, on the curves of his exposed collarbones.

Whilst he was showering, you rummaged through your go-bag and pulled out whatever pyjama-esque clothes you could find. You are, as Spencer is always so keen to point out, terribly disorganised; your bag hasn’t been restocked in over a month, and there are more “complimentary” hotel toiletries hidden in there than there are clothes.

In the end, you settled on a plain black compression top that you don’t remember owning, and a pair of grey sweatpants that you’re sure can’t be yours on account of the fact that they are far, far too big for you.

You watch as he unzips his own go-bag—no doubt perfectly organised, alphabetised, colour-coded, and packed with enough supplies to last him weeks in case of an emergency—and raise an eyebrow.

“Calmed down yet?”

Spencer spares you a single, fleeting glance out of the corner of his eye before exhaling sharply through his nose; a punctuated, silent no. But then he seems to pause. Seconds pass as he stares at his bag, unmoving, before turning his head slowly to look at you again.

You’re splayed out diagonally on the bed, taking up as much space as possible as you flick listlessly through the same beat-up book you’ve been nursing for over a month now. In your peripheral vision, you can just about make out the way his focus strays to your clothes. To the thin sliver of skin visible between the hem of your top and the waistband of your sweats. And then he clears his throat.

“You’re paying for the repairs,” he mutters stiffly.

You set your book on your chest and turn to him with a frown. “I am not—”

“I paid for eleven of your coffees last month,” he says.

“And I covered the bill for that stupid Doctor Who edible experience bullshit you took me to the month before.”

“You still owe me a dollar for that.”

“Forty-nine cents,” you correct. “We agreed to round down.”

“No, you insisted that we round down. I told you I wanted the change.”

“Are you really that broke that forty-nine cents makes all the difference?”

“No,” he mutters, pulling a folded pair of pyjamas from his bag. “Are you?”

“No.”

“Then you can pay for the repairs.”

You scoff. “There’s a big difference between some pocket change and a busted car, Reid.”

“The Bureau will reimburse you.”

“Then why can’t you just pay?”

“Because,” he unbuttons his shirt and, honest to God, throws it at you, “it’s your turn.”

“You—” You groan as his shirt lands on your face, and you throw it back at him. “You are such a child.”

Spencer catches the shirt with a cold, sarcastic laugh. “Really?” he asks. “Because it seems to me I’m the only adult here.”

You roll your eyes as he continues changing, but you can’t help but let your gaze wander across his body; his bare neck and chest, now free from the usual confines of his shirt and tie. You’d quite happily take a bite out of him if you thought you’d live to tell the tale.

As he pulls on his pyjama shirt, you sigh. “How much is it gonna cost?”

He shrugs, methodically folding his work clothes before tucking them neatly into his go-bag. “Timing belt replacements typically cost between four-hundred and one-thousand dollars.”

Your face contorts in disgust at his words and, for a moment, you think he may be joking.

Unfortunately, he isn’t.

“Fuck off,” you say. “I’m not paying that.”

“Neither am I. I wasn’t the one driving the car.”

Somehow, your expression manages to sour further. You cast your book aside and prop yourself up on your elbows. “So this is my fault?”

“Is that what I said?”

“It’s what you implied.”

“A timing belt doesn’t just break out of nowhere,” he says, perching himself on the side of the bed. He speaks slowly, clearly, like he’s explaining something to a child. “There are signs—”

No sooner has he sat down do you stand up, effectively swapping places with him. “The check engine light never came on.”

“Still, you should have—”

“Sitting in the driver’s seat doesn’t make me omnipotent, Reid,” you snap, crossing your arms as you glare at him from the other side of this much, much too small room. “You had just as much information as I did—”

“It isn’t the passenger’s responsibility to check for faults—”

“So you didn’t notice, either?” you ask. Not my responsibility is just Spencer-speak for I’m a hypocrite refusing to admit my own oversight. “You’re the one with a fucking PhD in Engineering, you know—”

“And? I’m saying it isn’t my job to notice—”

Oh, and he’s doubling down. Amazing. 

“Oh my God.” You’re talking over him now, raising your voice as you rake your fingers through your hair. “Grow up. You’re a federal agent, Reid. Act like one.”

Spencer snorts. “That’s rich coming from you.”

You really wish you were making this up. You wish this were some frustration-induced hallucination, but it isn’t. You’re actually standing here in some run-down, shitty fucking motel, arguing with a genius who was too stupid to book two rooms. You’re sure you’ve seen this be used as a set up to a straight to DVD romcom, for Christ’s sake.

You have half a mind to walk back over there and smack him across the face, but it would only make this worse.

“Maybe,” Spencer continues, entirely unprompted, “if you treated me with the slightest degree of decorum, I would act in kind.”

This is Hell. The car crashed, you died, and this is Hell. It has to be.

“And maybe if you respected me,” you snap back, “I would act—”

“There’s nothing to respect.”

The laugh that escapes you in response to that statement isn’t a pretty one. It’s somewhere between a cackle and a murderous screech. You have to laugh; you’d kill him if you didn’t.

You’re sure that, in the animal kingdom, a laugh like that would be heeded as a warning—and a serious one, at that. A real don’t fuck with me or I’ll kill you noise; a universal language.

But Spencer Reid isn’t of the animal kingdom—at this point you aren’t sure he’s from earth at all—because, in spite of your warning, he keeps talking.

“You’re unprofessional, aggressive, short-tempered, bitter, frustrating—need I go on?”

“You forgot smart and sext—”

“There is nothing about you worth respecting,” he declares, “not when you’re…on my ass all the time.”

It’s the way that he still hesitates before saying ass, even though he has said far worse things to you in the past, that momentarily clears the resentment clouding your mind. Spencer Reid, genius supreme, the man who apparently hates you more than any unsub you’ve come across, can still barely bring himself to curse. 

…and it’s the way he’s implying that you are somehow the perpetrator in all of this that has that resentment rushing back tenfold.

“I’m on your ass?” 

“Yes,” he says. “You are. It’s infuriating.”

“Infuriating, right…”

“You do nothing but antagonise me,” he adds. “You’re pestiferous.”

“Mhm. And you’re a fucking saint.”

He shrugs. “I think most would agree I’m better than you.”

You purse your lips into a tight smile, letting your gaze wander across the room before returning it to him. “And if they knew you were fucking me?” you pose. “Would that tarnish your pristine reputation?”

Just like that, Spencer’s cocky, confident attitude vanishes in an instant. He scoffs, visibly recoiling at the mention of your relationship as his expression morphs into something half-disgusted, half-defensive. “That’s—”

“I mean, the team are already calling us lovebirds, but what if they knew?” you continue, ignoring the way his cheeks are beginning to flush. “What if the BAU knew that their obnoxious golden boy was sleeping with someone so unworthy of respect?”

When he doesn’t respond, you step closer to him.

“You know it’s funny, actually, that you say that,” you say, “because the only person on this team who doesn’t respect me, Spencer, is you.”

“You don’t respect me, either,” he mutters.

“Why the hell would I?”

You sound almost amused as you cross the room. You close the space between you, drawing closer until you’re standing right in front of him.

Spencer raises his head, arms crossed, to look up at you. He’s glaring, or trying to, but his gaze spends only a fraction of a second on your face before it begins to wander. Lingering on the outline of your chest visible through your top, and then on the waistband of your underwear that peeks out over the top of those baggy sweatpants—embroidered, ironically, with the word sweet.

You watch the way his jaw works, chewing on whatever insult he has lined up, as he finds himself painfully distracted by the sight of you before him.

And you straddle him.

“Why would I respect someone like you, Reid?” you ask as you settle into his lap. 

He makes no effort to push you away (why would he?), but he doesn’t exactly welcome you with open arms, either. He tenses up, heat rushing to his face despite his attempts to appear perfectly neutral.

“Tell me,” you purr, placing a finger under his chin so he’s meeting your gaze, “why would I respect someone so— what was what word you used? Pestiferous? Someone who goes out of his way to piss me off, even when I haven’t done anything wrong…and for what purpose, hm?” You rest your other hand on his chest and lean in close, brushing your nose against his with a barely suppressed smirk. “You wanna know what I think?”

“...not really,” he says stiffly.

“I think you like it when I’m pissed off,” you say. “I think that my short temper, and my aggression, and all those other flaws you listed, are all things you like about me. Am I right?”

“No,” he mutters. “Why would I—”

“Because you’re pathetic, and you’re a shit liar.” Smiling, you shift slightly, pressing yourself down against the tent in his pants that has been there far longer than he’ll ever admit. “And your, um, body has ways of giving you away. And I bet you’re real glad the rest of the team aren’t here, right?” you murmur, leaning down to ghost your lips along his jaw. “Because that means we can make as much noise as we like.”

You feel him suppress a shudder as you press a gentle, open-mouthed kiss to his skin. He tenses, but only briefly, as your hand moves into his hair, cradling the back of his head as you trail kisses up his jaw, and it doesn’t take much for him to melt. One hand settles instinctively on your hip, keeping you pressed against his erection, but the other tries, gently, to push you away.

“What’s wrong?” you murmur. “Can’t handle a bit of—”

As you raise your head to mock him, Spencer’s lips collide with yours. He kisses you with a kind of desperate hunger that sends a rush of heat straight to your core and, for a moment, you find yourself wanting to drop the act completely and let him have you—but where’s the fun in that? 

So you pull away, pressing your thumb to his needy lips as you don a sarcastic pout. He releases your hip, and his hands roam your waist and stomach, working their way up to your chest. You can’t help but admire him even as he’s feeling you up; he already has that look in his eyes. Weakness. Soft and pretty in all the ways that drive you crazy.

Your throat tightens. Contracting around something terribly familiar and wholly unwanted. Something you’re bound to choke on if you sit with it for too long.

So you pull him into another, harsher kiss, letting a moan slip into his mouth as his thumbs graze your clothed nipples, and it’s a sound that he mirrors as you slowly start rocking your hips against his. His hands drop down to the hem of your shirt, and you pull back long enough to let him tear it off over your head before your lips are on his again.

You set your hands on the back of his neck, gluing the two of you together as you grind yourself against him. You feel the way his breath hitches with each roll of your hips, and you’re certain you could make him finish just like this, without needing to lift a finger, but that would be far too easy on him. It would be merciful, almost, and that isn’t what you’re here for. 

Before you can start formulating your evil plan, Spencer pulls away. His lips latch onto your neck, peppering the skin with feverish kisses as he works his way down to your collarbones before dipping down, further, to your chest. Your fingers weave into his hair as his teeth graze a nipple, and you pull hard. Hard enough to make him moan as your mouth meets his and you catch him in another bruising kiss. His hips buck up into yours, shamelessly begging for more friction, but all it does is make you withhold it.

So, with impatient hands, he forces your hips down, rubbing your aching cunt against his cock through the layers of fabric separating them. You break the kiss with a sharp gasp as a violent heat twists in your core, and you push him away.

You watch the rise and fall of his chest as you catch your breath—it’s hypnotic, almost—before meeting his gaze with as calm a look as you can muster.

“I’m gonna go grab a towel,” you say, keeping your voice equal parts soft and firm. “When I come back, you better not have any clothes on. Got it?”

Spencer nods eagerly and without question. You lean back, admiring him for a moment longer before you finally dismount him and disappear into the bathroom.

You take more time than you should, deliberating between two identical motel towels as you listen to the faint rustle of clothes as Spencer strips himself of his pyjamas. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, shirtless, red-faced, and you feel that familiar pang of self-awareness in your stomach. The kind strong enough to re-awaken your voice of reason, and that voice tells you that this has got to stop. 

How many more times are you going to fall into bed with him before this blows up in your face? Before you fall further into this grave you've dug for yourselves, and find yourselves utterly unable to climb back out?

Being the bigger person is a myth. It always has been. It's just a lie you tell yourself—the same one that he's probably been tellinghimself—to further stifle the latent realisation that you are, undoubtedly, just as bad as each other. You're no better than Spencer is, and he is no worse than you are.

You can tell yourself that you're the bigger person, that you're more mature, more sensible, but that doesn't erase the reality you're in. You're standing, half-naked, in a grotty motel bathroom waiting for your coworker to strip himself bare. You're terrible.

And you can’t imagine being anywhere else.

You return to the bedroom with all the confidence in the world and find Spencer sitting, naked, on the edge of the bed, caught somewhere in the space between nervous and excited. He’s wringing his hands, trying to avoid tending to his persistent erection as he awaits your return. Hugging the towel to your chest, you watch him for a moment and let your gaze wander shamelessly over his exposed skin, savouring his anticipatory silence. His still-wet hair sticks to his forehead. Dewy collarbones shine like gold in the dim, yellow-toned light.

You feel it again. A slight tightness in your throat. The beginnings of something awful. But it’s overpowered by the palpable rush of need that takes hold of you as you gaze at him. It’s enough to drive you mad.

Tossing the towel onto the bed, you slot yourself between his legs.

"You're awfully quiet," you tease, carefully brushing his hair out of his face as he looks up at you. You could drown in those eyes, if you let yourself. 

His gaze hardens slightly. "Nothing to say." 

"You always have something to say."

"False."

He's running his fingers along the waistband of your sweats, barely grazing your skin as his eyes trail across your body.

"True."

He shoots you a glare. "Do you want to keep arguing?"

"Not particularly," you murmur, smirking. Gently, you reach out a hand to touch his cheek. "I'm just surprised. You're being so good—"

Spencer swats your hand away instantly.

"Don't," he warns before returning his attention to your body.

You cross your arms. "You don't like praise?"

"I don't like being mocked," he corrects.

He presses his thumbs against your waist, watching with great interest the way the soft skin yields to his touch.

"Who said I was mocking you?" you ask, feigning innocence.

He scoffs. You feel it against your skin, hot, before he presses a kiss to your hip. "You're always mocking me."

"Not always."

It takes strength to keep your voice steady when he’s doing this; appreciating your body in silent ways whilst navigating a half-hearted argument, like it’s second nature to him. And it is second nature, you suppose. He could probably fight with you in his sleep.

He looks up at you again with this dull, almost bored kind of scepticism purposefully forged to hide something deeper. Something realer. Something that has a weight to it and is far too heavy for this. For you. He tugs gently at the drawstring of your sweats, and the knot comes apart with ease under his touch. The fabric sags, barely clinging to your hips, and all it takes is a gentle tug for them to slip down your legs, leaving you in just your underwear.

His lips meet your skin again, trailing kisses down from your navel to the embroidered elastic of your waistband. His gaze finds yours, just for a moment, in a fleeting request for permission that sends a fresh pang of heat to your core, right where his lips hover. You nod, wordlessly, and he makes quick work of removing your underwear, peeling the soaked fabric away from your needy cunt as you try not to clench your thighs. 

He drops them at your ankles, and his kisses continue. Following their path down until his mouth is dangerously close to where you need him to be. Before he can get too carried away, you thread your fingers into his hair once more and pull him, gently, away.

The second those eyes are on your face, something violent turns within you. Your fingers still in his hair, caught between moments as you bury the urge to mount him right then and there. It's not like he would complain. 

His thumbs brush over your hip bones, moving in perfect sync as he watches you quietly. Studying your micro expressions, probably, searching for a crack that he can exploit; a way to piss you off, turn the tables, put himself in control. But the more you look at him, the more you realise that this isn't what this is. He's just…waiting. Eagerly, sure, but patiently. 

He's waiting for you to tell him what to do. He's read the situation, read what you want out of this, and he's moulded himself to it without question—without needing to be told. It's perceptive. Considerate, almost. How he's letting you have this; how he knows you well enough to know that you want this. 

And that? That pisses you off.

"Sit back," you say, keeping your voice soft, "against the headboard."

He moves immediately, scooting into position without question. However brief, you feel weirdly cold in the absence of his touch.

Once he's comfortable, you join him on the bed. You settle, on your knees, between his legs, keeping your gaze on his face as hisgaze roams freely across your body. A compliment tries to crawl its way up your throat—an earnest one—because God, he looks perfect. But you clench your jaw, keeping your words at bay; compliments are for couples, and you aren't a couple. 

But the words fight back. Compliments converge on your tongue, crowding your mouth, until you have no choice but to pull him into another kiss. Pouring all the things you daren't say into him, as though he may somehow understand without you needing to say any of it out loud. His hands come to rest on your jaw, not your body, and he cradles your face like it's something precious, pulling you closer and closer until you're practically on top of him, one hand braced against the headboard and the other trailing, slowly, down his body.

His breath hitches as your fingers grasp his cock. You feel it jolt in your hand, and one of Spencer's hands moves to the back of your head, hardly giving you room to breathe as he kisses you. The adrenaline, the sheer need with which he touches you, it's all starting to make you feel dizzy. He's stealing the oxygen from your lungs but, in return, you get to steal a stifled moan from between his lips. That's more or less an equivalent exchange, in your books; to have him at the mercy of your hands. To have that stupid mouth of his occupied with something that isn't just insult after senseless insult. 

He shifts his hips with a soft groan, bucking up into your hand as you continue to tease him. And he groans again—louder, sounding more like a whine than anything else—when you refuse to change your pace.

What you do instead is pull away. You hover there for a moment, breathing into his open mouth as he tilts his head up, wanting more, and you bask in that delicious, desperate look in his eyes before sitting back. You continue working his cock, slowly, as you wipe the saliva from your mouth with the back of your hand. Spencer doesn't bother tending to his moistened lips; he just watches you, eyes wide like he's seeing you for the first time. Awestricken and gorgeous and—

That noxious dizziness lingers even as you catch your breath. It breaks down your thoughts, loosening the fibres until you're sure your brain is naught but mush. Held together by the low crackle of static that grows louder with each second you spend looking at him. 

You realise far too late that you're looking at him the same way he's looking at you. Like a complete fucking idiot.

It's the kind of self-consciousness that hits like a freight train, flattening you before you even see it coming. It throws you off balance in the worst way and you feel vulnerable. exposed. More than you've ever felt in your previous encounters. You've been in far worse, far more vulnerable positions in the past—physically, at least. When you've been under him, or bent over a desk, or at his mercy on your knees.

You're in control here. And yet this is the first time you've felt truly vulnerable. Emotionally vulnerable. 

So you do everything you can to counteract it, before it leaves you seriously compromised.

You release your grip on his cock, ignoring the way he whines in protest as you move to straddle his hips. His hands settle, firm, on your waist, moulding themselves to your curves as you kiss him again. Partly to shut him up before he says anything that'll further tangle the static-laced wires in your brain; mostly to shut yourself up before you say anything you know you'll regret. You'd rather choke on your own tongue—or his tongue—than let a single, adrenaline-driven, foolish word slip out before you have the chance to scour it for cracks, for any chance that it may contain feeling.

You grasp his chin, ensuring he’s looking directly at you as you pull back. Your other hand works its way down until it's grasping his cock, lining it up with your entrance.

"You're so pretty like this," you murmur, hot breath filling the minimal space between you as you lower yourself, just slightly, so his tip kisses your entrance, "you know that?"

You almost can't believe your own words—seriously, you had one job—but the look on Spencer's face kills any trace of regret you’d dare have. His breath stutters, you see it catch in his throat as he stares up at you with this wide-eyed expression. Surprised, yes, but voracious. Like you've flipped a switch he didn't know he had. 

"I mean, you're always pretty. Too pretty. But this—" 

A sharp hiss escapes you as you lower yourself onto his cock. The pain is familiar, not unbearable, but it's there. A stubborn reminder of the importance of foreplay when you're too tight and Spencer's dick is too damn big. 

But you can take this kind of pain. When it's controlled, like this. When you can feel your body yielding to him and the pain steadily blooms into pleasure. 

You feel him tense. He goes deathly still, muscles straining with the effort it takes not to thrust up into you as you sink, slowly, onto him—that would actually hurt and, worse, it would piss you off.

Carefully, you push through the resistance, letting gravity do most of the work as you continue speaking even as your breath comes in uneven gasps and your voice starts to shake. "When you're all quiet like this, when you aren't…being a fucking nuisance, I could just—"

His fingers anchor in the soft skin of your waist. He throws his head back, eyes shut tight as you take him to the hilt. The noise you make is somewhere between a guttural groan and a needy whine as he stretches you out, and you cup his face with both of your hands, keeping him close as you touch your forehead to his.

A weak, breathless "fuck…" is all he can manage as he exhales a shaky, barely held together sigh. You can feel the tension in his jaw under your palms. The electricity that thrums, wild, under his skin.

You give a tentative shift of your hips, testing the waters, and you feel him shudder beneath you. You pull back a little, enough to get a good look at his face; the tiny twitches of his brows, his eyes, as you move against him. 

"That good?" you murmur, letting your hands trail down from his face to his chest, tracing the curves of his collarbones as you settle into a slow rhythm.

Spencer nods, humming in quiet approval as he closes his eyes. You watch the way his lashes flutter, the way the crease between his brows deepens with each rock of your hips, and you bite your lip.

"Say it."

"It—" He flexes his fingers, as though he's just remembered he has them, and his hands drop to your hips, encouraging your movements as he tries to keep his breathing steady. "It feels good," he whispers. "You feel…so good."

His words have you clenching around his cock, hard enough to elicit another soft, pretty little moan from his lips.

"That's it…" you whisper, tone sickly sweet as you lean down to press your lips to his neck.

Instinctively, Spencer leans his head to the side, allowing you access to the sensitive skin as those hands of his grow a little more confident and begin working their way back up to your chest. He cups your tits, and you feel him press his lips to your shoulder before murmuring, "there are condoms in my bag, if—"

You hum against his skin, shaking your head as you nip at his neck. "Don't need them."

"But—"

"I went on the pill," you admit. Quickly, but reluctantly. Like ripping off a band-aid. Like you’re confessing to something that runs far deeper than a simple birth control prescription.

Spencer's hands freeze mid-squeeze, and you know immediately that he's picked up on every implication you were hoping to brush over. "You— what? When?"

"After last time." you raise your head with a sigh and meet his gaze. When he tries to speak up again, you're quick to press your thumb to his lips. "Unless your next words are thank you, I don't wanna hear them."

For a moment, he looks as though he's about to protest. Five weighted words were all it took to pull him from the moment completely, it seems. His eyes are wide, frantically searching your own for something you can't let him find. 

But then, instead of probing you with any more questions, he just nods. You can't be sure if this is him giving up, resigning himself to staying on his side of your emotional walls, or if he doesn't even need to try anymore—not when you've made it all so damn obvious. The optimist in you, wherever she may be, is hoping for the former; there'll be less fallout that way.

“So just keep that pretty mouth of yours shut,” you add, slowly re-introducing that thick, mocking tenderness to your voice as you raise your hips, “okay?”

He nods again. Sharper. Eager.

You know he'll find a way to bring this up later—in the middle of the night, probably, when the air feels too heavy and neither of you can sleep—the way he always manages to bring up the things you don't want to talk about. The touchy things. The things that are bound to spark an argument, because you're uptight and he's intrusive and you both loathe each other, and you can't get along unless your tongue is down his throat or his dick is inside you, and even then you still find yourselves bickering. 

An impatient shift of his hips is all you need to know that, unlike you, a future argument is actually the last thing on his mind right now. His hands have started working again, mapping out your body like he doesn't already have it memorised as his gaze remains fixed on your face—and, really, you'd rather he be looking anywhere else. 

You raise yourself until it's only the head of his cock that remains inside of you and then, after another agonising moment, you drop back down, swallowing his length in one quick, smooth motion. He gasps, you groan, and all thought of that hypothetical argument vanishes as he thrusts up into you, burying himself deeper as your walls pulse around his cock.

Curses tumble, unrestrained, from your lips as you move against him. His hands guide you into a steady rhythm—firm, but not forceful—and you tilt your head back slightly as the tension that has been stringing you together begins to dissipate. 

Spencer takes advantage of the exposed skin immediately. He nips at your neck between messy kisses. His breath against your skin is enough to make you whine as you thread your fingers into his hair, and you raise his head just enough to bring your lips down on his, catching him in a disgustingly heated kiss. His hands stray from your hips to your ass, feeling you up with the kind of desperation that never fails to drive you insane as he moans shamelessly into your mouth.

The break in the kiss is abrupt, leaving Spencer nothing to drown his senseless whines in as you trail your lips along the edge of his jaw. You aren't sure what it is, maybe it's your breath on his skin, or the way your hand rests gently on his neck, pressing ever so slightly against his throat as you rock your hips, but something is bringing him closer to the edge. You can feel it in the way his breath catches, the way his hands begin to tremble, the way his sweet moans start to devolve into unsteady whimpers.

You kiss your way to his ear, nip at the lobe as his shoulders start to shake. "You close?"

He swallows hard. You feel it under your palm. "…mhm."

"Good. Now look at me— Reid, look at me." 

You keep your voice impossibly soft as you work your fingers into his hair, tugging on the chestnut strands to keep his head up as he tries to hide his face.

He's already a mess. face red and glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, lips kiss-swollen and parted like he's waiting for you to dive into him again, but you don't. You make him hold your gaze, keeping one hand in his hair as the other cups his jaw, and you don't stop. Not until his face is contorting in those deliciously familiar ways and he has no choice but to close his eyes because he is so, so close.

And then you stop.

Your hips come to a brusque halt, stopping just as he is about to find release. You watch him blink, confused, before he meets your gaze with this adorably desperate expression. His chest heaves against your own, and you don your most charming smile.

"You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?"

The softness of your voice seems to fool him for a moment. Sugary words fail to register in his sex-clouded mind. You lean in a little closer, brushing your nose against his.

"You're not gonna come until I say you can."

That registers. His eyes widen, and he's shaking his head before he can even find the strength to speak. The words follow shortly after; a string of breathless nos that are about as useless as they are desperate. It's cute, how he thinks he might be able to talk you out of this—as though this hasn't been your plan from the start.

"I think it's only fair, after all the shit you've given me today," you continue, pouting as you brush your thumb against his cheek, "that you learn a little…respect, no?"

"You…" tension seeps into his jaw, and it isn't the pleasurable kind. His expression hardens, just slightly—probably as much as it can given the circumstances. "…are such a—"

"And that starts with being nice." You cut him off, still maintaining that smile as you look down at him. "If you start calling me names, Reid, then this is only gonna get a hell of a lot worse for you, and better for me. Understand?"

Spencer grits his teeth. His gaze flicks between your eyes and your lips, strays briefly to your body, to where his cock is still nestled inside of you, before returning to your face.

"Unless you want me to stop?" you pose, leaning back.

You don't give him enough time to respond before you're easing yourself off of his cock, but his hands find purchase on your hips and push you back down, burying himself inside of you once more with a force that makes both of you gasp.

"No." he says quickly. "N-no, don't…"

"Thought so." Smugness seeps into your voice before you can stop it, and you cock your head to the side. "So be good for me, and I'll let you finish."

Your mocking tone isn't well-received. Spencer huffs, flexing his trembling hands as he tries to act unbothered. "…Y hate you—"

"Ah," you cut him off with a click of your tongue, shaking your head as you cradle his face. "Come on, honey, you're smarter than this."

Those words must be laced with something. A sedative, maybe. Something equal parts sweet and toxic. Because they quell Spencer's protests immediately. His throat runs dry. He tries to blink it away but it's no use; his mouth moves wordlessly, and he stares at you, dumbfounded, like you've cast a spell on him. 

Honey. Who'd have thought that would be his weakness?

You aren't much of a pet names person yourself, but…if Spencer is into it, then you might be open to changing your mind. 

…let's not think too hard about what that says about you. Like the birth control, it's one of those things that you're better off notlooking too deeply into—for your own sake.

"You good to keep going?" 

He doesn't seem to hear you.

"Reid."

"Yes," he says, brain finally kicking back into gear as he gazes up at you.

"Good."

You reward him with another kiss, muffling the angelic noise he makes as you move your hips. Slowly, at first. Easing him back into it so he doesn't unravel immediately.

You fall into a dance, of sorts. A sick, somewhat cruel dance, but a thoroughly enjoyable one—for you, at least. You murmur praises in his ear, fanning hot breath over his skin as you fuck yourself on his cock, bringing him closer and closer to release until he's a babbling mess and you can feel him twitching and pulsing desperately inside of you, and then you stop. You deny him. You mock him. You let him catch his breath. And you continue.

You do this two more times, and with each instance of denial Spencer grows more frustrated. More overstimulated. More pathetic. He ruts into you, or tries to, but it’s sloppy. Too weak to make any difference. Futile, because he stops as soon as you tell him to. 

By the time you even consider letting him finish, he's inconsolable and you're exhausted. But the ache in your legs is nothing; a small price to pay for having him like this. Trembling in your arms. Clinging to you for comfort even though you're the very cause of his suffering. It's terrible, really. You should be ashamed of yourself for getting off on this as much as you do; it's sick, but by God is it cathartic.

Maybe you're power-hungry. Maybe you're desperate for any semblance of control. So frustrated with your own lack of control that you've resorted to taking it out on him. It's nothing he doesn't deserve; it's his fault you feel so out of control. He stirred these stupid emotions within you; it's only right that he be the one to face the consequences—and it's not like he wouldn't benefit from being put in his place for once.

"I-I can't— I can't…"

"Yes, you can."

Spencer's face is buried in your neck, shaking his head desperately as he mumbles nonsense between dulcet whimpers. You keep your voice low as you stroke his hair, babying him in a way he'll probably kill you for later—but it'll be worth it. 

His voice is thick, strained, sounding almost as though he's about to cry. And as you gently coax his head up, that's exactly what you see. Dark eyes glazed with tears. They sit heavy on his waterline. Unshed, but there.

You'd probably feel bad, if it weren't the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen. 

"God." The word escapes you in a breathless sigh. Awe-struck. You cradle his face in your hands, rubbing soothing circles into his burning cheeks as you admire him. "Look at you. So pretty."

What you wouldn't give to snap a photo of him like this. You'd carry it around in your purse; a trump card that you could whip out every time he dared to get on your nerves.

He's still shaking his head. Words reduced to incoherent mumblings as you continue working his poor cock with your cunt. Your legs—thighs, knees, hips—are screaming at you in protest, they have been for a little while now, and your core is impossibly tight; you've been so focused on Spencer, on keeping him on the edge, that you've all but forgotten about chasing your own release. You'll be limping tomorrow, no doubt, and the team will mask their suspicion as concern when they ask if you're okay. You wonder if you'll be able to get away with telling them Spencer hit you with the car; it's not like he'll be able to argue otherwise.

You press your lips to the corner of his eye, kissing away a tear before it can escape down his cheek. 

"You wanna come?"

The string of frantic, broken yesses that fall from his lips is enough to make your fucking head spin.

"Yeah?" You tilt your head, ghosting your lips over his as you continue the steady rock of your hips. "What do you say..?"

All you get in response is a choked whimper. One that sounds dangerously close to a sob. He's gripping your hips so hard you're sure he’ll leave bruises, ten of them, mapping where his fingers were anchored in your skin. 

"Reid." You're beginning to falter yourself. Your voice is starting to shake as you near the end of your rope—and your patience. "Come on, honey, just—"

"I love you."

It takes you a moment—an eternity, it feels—to understand what was just said. Three words, uttered with such an undeniable clarity yet you're sure you've misheard him. You must have. 

But he's burying his face in your neck, hips bucking wildly as he repeats those very words. Whispering them into your skin like a prayer. Over and over. I love you.

Shit. 

Shitshitshit.

He was supposed to say please.

When your hips stutter, uncertain, he moves them for you, bringing you down onto his cock repeatedly as his whispers devolve once more into incoherent whimpers. It's enough to knock the thoughts right out of your head, and you're left with nothing but moans to choke on as you try to reorient yourself.

"That's— fuck, that's it…" you murmur, breathless, in his ear. "You can come…"

Spencer sobs—loud and raw and fucking intoxicating—into your neck, and you feel him break immediately. His self-control shatters and he finishes inside you, emptying himself into your needy cunt as you whine and writhe in his lap. But even when he's spent, he keeps going. His hips move mindlessly, feebly fucking his seed into you as he whimpers incessantly.

"Reid." His name comes out in a shaky whisper, in the space between breaths as your heart pounds and your head spins. You cradle the back of his head, holding him close as he trembles in your arms. "Reid, honey…that's enough…"

You hear him sniffle, and you hold him a little tighter, unsure of whether he's even heard you until his hips finally give up. He slumps forward, leaning his weight on you as he finally lets himself relax—lets himself breathe. You place a hand on his back as you allow yourself to do the same, and you melt into each other. 

your fingers trail, gently, up and down his back, tracing the curve of his spine as you rest your head on his shoulder. it's too tender of a gesture. too kind. too loving. you know that, but you do it anyway. 

He needs this. Comfort. Reassurance. And you're ready to provide for as long as it takes for him to—

"…fuck you."

…come back around. 

He mutters those words, quietly, into your skin. The same place he had whispered I love you just minutes ago. 

Those juxtaposing sentiments react in your stomach, twisting your insides until you’re full of nothing but tense, aching knots. You bark out a weak, exasperated laugh. You have to laugh; God knows what you'd do if you didn't.

Spencer raises his head and meets your gaze, bleary-eyed and exhausted. And soft. Perfectly, painfully soft. and beautiful. He looks like you could love him.

It could be adrenaline. Heightened emotions. Embers of lust that reignite the second you lay eyes on him. Whatever it is, it has you kissing him again. Pulling him in with such urgency you almost miss his lips entirely. Some deranged part of you wants to hear him say it again. And again. And again. Until it's the only thing he knows how to say. The only thing you know how to hear.

Finally relinquishing his grip on your hips, Spencer's hands move to your face without thought, and he kisses you with everything he has. When you try to pull back, he whines. Pulls you in closer. Refuses to let you go even for a moment. You have to reach out blindly in search of the towel. You feel around behind you, leaning back as far as he'll allow you to until, at last, your fingers graze the soft fabric.

And then you feel yourself falling.

You topple over, pulling Spencer down with you as your back hits the mattress. He groans against your lips and pulls away to find you still reaching for that damn towel. He grabs it for you and, before you can get a word in, kisses you again. You raise your hips, hoping he still has enough brains to understand what you're asking of him, and he positions the towel underneath you. 

Pulling out feels like a dam breaking. Punctuated with a wet pop and followed by a gush of something warm. He whines, you shudder, and you don't stop kissing each other until you forget how to breathe. When his lips finally leave yours, his breathing comes ragged. He sits back, kneeling between your burning thighs, and takes in the sight of you with this dazed, almost drunken look that has you throbbing despite your exhaustion. His gaze trails down your body until it settles on the mess between your legs. 

"…Reid—"

By the time you're able to find your words, his face is already level with your cunt. He spreads your folds and watches, transfixed, the way it leaks out of you. He licks up your slit, gathering his own release on his tongue, before diving into you. You're so caught off guard you don't think to try and stifle the outrageous moan that tears through you, and you promptly clamp a hand over your mouth as your head falls back. 

No amount of oh Gods and expletives can account for the expertise with which Spencer Reid uses his tongue. If he isn't fucking you with it, he's circling your clit with it, teasing and sucking on the overstimulated bud until you're writhing so much, he has to pin your hips down with one hand and finger you with the other. 

You're seeing stars before you know it, hurtling towards an orgasm so fast you can barely form a coherent thought before you're there. And you think, for a fleeting moment, that he may keep you there. That is his revenge. And you have never been gladder to have Spencer prove you wrong. Your back arches off the mattress, and you're moaning things that you can't make out through the haze of an aggressive orgasm. It could be his name, a prayer, a curse, or something worse—you don't know.

Your fingers are numb. Your toes, too. They tingle with a static that persists even as your orgasm subsides. You feel Spencer shift. Feel the weight of his head as it rests against your hip. The heat of his breath against your skin.

For a moment, it all goes quiet. Thoughts give way to white noise. Feelings evaporate into a gas that cannot be weighed down by labels.

But peace only lasts as long as it takes for the fog to clear. You return to your sweaty, exhausted body just in time to be swept off your feet by a tsunami of feelings. Anxieties. Emotions that shouldn't exist. You aren't sure when Spencer and you drifted from the shallow end to the deep end. You aren't sure when things changed. When you crossed that line and cast aside your life jacket when you know you don't know how to swim. The only thing you're sure of now is that you're drowning. And the only thing keeping you from sinking entirely is the fact that Spencer hasn't noticed yet. 

You nudge him with your foot, navigating your way around the lump in your throat to grumble "needthebathroom", or something vaguely along those lines. Spencer rolls off of you, mumbling something equally incoherent—or maybe you just don't care to hear it—as he rubs his eyes. 

It hurts to move, but you do it anyway. You sit up, trying not to wince as your entire lower half screams in protest, and drag yourself to the edge of the bed. Spencer asks if you're okay, you think, and you give him a vague hum in response. 

Your trembling legs barely manage to carry you to the bathroom, where you collapse with your back to the door and breathe out a long, shuddering sigh. You'd probably scream if you thought he wouldn't hear you. 

I love you.

Immediately, you're dismissing those words. Waving them away like an unwelcome guest. You tell yourself he doesn't mean it. That he can't have meant it, he just…he just…

He wasn't thinking straight. He wasn't thinking at all. Hell, he probably won't even remember it. It's insignificant. Unimportant. 

That’s what you tell yourself, at least. And you really, really hope you’re right.

And if you aren’t...then this might just kill you.