"It's bulking season, baby!" you and Lois had been deep in conversation when Jimmy sauntered in, a comical headband slapped tight against his freckled forehead. You stared. Lois choked on her coffee. A grin filled his face, gym bag bursting at the seams as he let it fall to the floor next to your desk with a soft thud.

"Jimmy," you blinked, one hand over your mouth, eyes scanning him in bewilderment. "Good morni-"

"Oh, don't act casual," Lois nudged you. She flicked a dismissive hand towards him then, eyebrow raised. "Spill. Why do you look like that?"

"Like what?!" he grinned wider.

"Like an instructor straight out of a workout tape from the 80s," Cat quipped, high-heels clicking to a halt next to you. You fought hard to keep the amusement off of your face, failing drastically as he struck a ridiculous pose.

Jimmy remained unphased, "Oh, I am glad you asked. It's the first week of January, you guys- I'm sticking to my resolution this year."

"To become a workout instructor from the 80s?" you joked.

"To become swole." Jimmy corrected you, tone earnest.

"And how long's that going to last?" Lois snorted.

"As long as I want it to," he puffed his chest out in mock confidence, "I am going to be the epitome of health by the time 2027 comes around."

"I think you're the epitome of health already, bud," you felt Clark before you caught sight of him; his large arm snaking gently around your waist as he pulled you in for a soft kiss in greeting. "But I think it's great, this thing you're doing. Mornin', honey."

"Morning," you smiled back.

You'd both aimed to leave the house at the same time, but Clark was gone before you even had the chance to open your eyes. Superman duties and whatnot; a fallen building on the other side of the city needed straightening and the fire department needed a hand, something like that.

But he'd lovingly left you breakfast on the counter and your coffee in a flask next to your bed to make up for it, so you didn't mind too much.

"So, what's the goal, freckles?" Lois asked him, piping hot cup of 50% sugar and 50% sludge clutched tight between her hands. "You want to get jacked, or what?"

"Maybe not jacked," Jimmy frowned, "I've been reading up on it and my muscle composition- well, my body doesn't work like that,"

"Makes sense," Cat nodded.

"But apparently, with the right training and stuff, I can get a bit..." he gestured with his hands then, the space between them elongating ever so slightly as his entire body turned. Everyone turned with him, pursed lips now quirked in genuine curiosity.

Eventually, he landed on Clark; palms spaced out just enough to perfectly mirror the other man's shoulders.

"Broader."

And Clark, whose arms had been folded in focus, simply raised an eyebrow. "Uh, what now?"

"You want to look like Clark?" you quizzed.

"Are you doubting me? Clark, she's doubting me." Jimmy frowned then, his tone accusatory as he reported unhappily to the man next to you.

"Sorry to tell you, Jim, but you don't really bare much resemblance." with a distracted tapping on her keyboard, Lois had already grown bored of the conversation.

Jimmy ignored the quip; focusing directly on your boyfriend instead. "Hey, Kent. You go to the gym, right?"

"Uh..." Clark gave a slight shrug- doing nothing to quell his best friend's curiosity over his build. You could see the bashfulness begin to take him over already; the crooked smile, the slight nose scrunch. For a man so genetically blessed, you wondered how on earth he remained so humble. "Sure. Yeah."

"Oh, come on. You're built like a Dorito and you're trying to tell me you don't have a work out routine?"

"No, I do," Clark lied, trying to remain inconspicuous. To blame it on being raised on a farm would have made the most sense- if it wasn't for the fact that he wasn't in Smallville nearly enough, and muscles weren't just gained over the holiday period and kept all year around.

You tried not to laugh, instead spinning around in your chair to finally log on for the first time that day. You had a busy morning ahead of you, taken hostage by Jimmy's talks of beefing up and becoming 'swole'.

"Can I ask you a favour, Clark?"

"Sure, Jimmy. Go ahead." you could hear the slight exasperation in his tone, wanting nothing more than to be done with the conversation but not quite knowing how to end it.

"Can I come along to one of your sessions? Just to see what you do?" there was so much hope in his tone, you wondered how on earth Clark was going to find it in him to say no. "Maybe I can learn from you a little bit."

A beat passed. You tuned out of the conversation fully when the first thing to pop up on your screen was an email from Perry; finally putting a start to the very hectic day ahead.

But unsurprisingly, Clark didn't say no.

Couldn't say no.

"He was so hopeful, baby," he'd sighed, handing you your coffee in the kitchenette not too long after, "I couldn't let him down. It'd be like kickin' a puppy."

You simply nodded in understanding, patting him on the back in both comfort and pity.

And that's how you found yourself draped across the couch on a Friday evening, the laughter in your chest bubbly and contagious as your six-foot-four Kryptonian boyfriend sat bent over his laptop screen; brows furrowed, lips pursed, hundreds of male workout tabs open on his screen in the name of research.

Workouts for narrow shouldered men, human

How to build muscle in 10 days easy guide

Dorito body meaning

Food for small men to get big

"I'm glad you're finding this funny, sweetheart," he huffed, though the slight smile that pulled on his lips gave him away instantly. "I hope you know, more time at the gym with Jimmy means less time at home with you."

"Oh, however will I cope," you sighed dramatically, before swiftly slotting yourself between him and the desk.

Clark welcomed you with eager hands, leaning back into the chair as he pulled you right onto his lap.

"Honestly, though. I think it's sweet that you're doing all of this," you gestured towards his open computer, "for him."

"Hm. We'll see in a month. If he looks the same and suddenly catches onto the fact that I don't work out, we're going to have a problem on our hands. We might have to move." he said solemnly.

You giggled, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. "We'll be fine, Superman. Just learn how to build some basic human muscle, and you'll be good to go."

"Hmm."

The conversation ended with that, and Clark continued with his research.

For the first couple of sessions, things seemed to be going quite well. The first day, they both came into the bullpen with flushed faces and sudden talks of a consistent work-out schedule; matching gym bags at the ready, Clark's blue sweatband that Jimmy had so lovingly gotten him wrapped twice around his wrist as opposed to his head.

"You shoulda seen him!" Jimmy told you in excitement, his actions exaggerated as always, "His personal best was like, crazy! I've never known someone to lift that much. I'm tellin' you, Clark, you need to ditch the blazer. You're hiding some grand physique under there, my man."

Clark kissed you on the temple in greeting, sending a slight wink your way as Jimmy told anyone and everyone that would listen about what he'd seen. You kept quiet on purpose, feeling slightly prideful over the fact that you were the only one in the bullpen privy to what Clark could actually do.

You'd seen him lift cars and stack them carefully like Tetris; take planes right out of the sky in the same way he lifted the couch with one hand, you on top of it, to vacuum the carpet underneath. The thought of him pretending to struggle over some flimsy bars made you smile, knowing full well he could probably lift the entire gym building if he wanted to.

It carried on like that for a couple of weeks.

And truth be told, Jimmy was already starting to gain some starter definition- an achievement both him and Clark felt pretty damn good about.

"You know, if the whole superhero thing doesn't work out," you whispered over his shoulder, breath warm against the nape of his neck, "I think you'd do pretty damn well as a personal trainer."

Clark blushed. You laughed, poking him in the dimple before making your way to the kitchenette- knowing that even after three full years of dating and one whole year of living together, he still liked to watch the sway of your hips as you left; fully mesmerised until you disappeared around the corner.

You thought that was the last of it. It had become somewhat of a routine- the constant stories from Jimmy to look forward to every morning, each one a testament to Clark's physical restraint.

"Didn't even break a sweat- that gym bro could hardly believe it!"

"We're doing legs tomorrow, aren't we, Clark?"

"Even Steve's asked if he could come with us."

It was fun. Wholesome, even.

But then came the day that Jimmy insisted they go after work.

And naively, you didn't think anything of it.

How were you supposed to know that the showers had broken that day at the gym, and instead of getting changed there, your gorgeous hunk of a man had to come straight home- dressed only in a tight black compression shirt and grey joggers?

You didn't. You weren't warned. Nobody wrote a playbook on how to survive something like that, and you ended up suffering the consequences.

Slut, you thought viciously, eyes narrowing and thighs clenching the very second Clark walked through the front door.

And when he bent down to peck you on the lips- curls falling forward, filling your vision with nothing but fully-pumped shoulder and bicep- it turned into an inevitable, monotonous chant in your head.

Slut, slut, slut.

"You okay?" Clark asked you carefully, an entertained tug pulling at the corners of his lips.

You nodded, dazed, though your heart was pounding and you were pretty sure he could hear it. Your thoughts ran amok, each one filfthier than the last.

"Oh, come on, sweetheart," he'd chuckled then, pulling away from you to make a bee-line for the bathroom. "I'm disgusting right now. Seriously?"

"What?" you feigned innocence.

He gestured towards your chest, eyes glancing downwards for a split second towards your thighs- probably referring to the beat between them, too. "I can hear you. It's loud. And you don't look very... contained right now,"

"I have no idea what you're talking about,"

"No?" he paused next to the bathroom door then, leaning a thick shoulder against it and crossing his arms.

Visibly, you gulped. He was all flexed muscle and defined deltoids before you and yet, he expected you not to react.

Forget slut, you grumbled inwardly, this man is a total, evil, nasty, mass manipulator.

With very delicious biceps.

"No." you stayed firm. Assertive. Which would have probably worked, had it been the average man- but Clark Kent was no average man.

For a second, he just watched you, brows raised in a way that had you anticipating a move any minute now. You envisioned it clearly; him dragging you into the shower, ignoring any half-hearted protests that you didn't mean, and pressing you up against the counter with a hand wrapped around your neck and his fingers twisting inside.

You waited. And ached. And waited some more.

But the glint in Clark's eye merely sparkled, gaze flickering away from you as he chuckled and headed straight into the bathroom.

Alone.

"God, I love you."

You muttered it back. Miserably.

The next few weeks were torture.

Jimmy decided he preferred going to the gym after work as opposed to 6am every morning. And Clark- ever the good friend he was- happily went along with it.

"Means I get a couple more minutes in bed with you." he'd mumbled into your temple the morning he told you, arms wrapped lovingly around you in a way that was far too PG-13 for what you actually wanted him to do.

And sure, it could have been that. But maybe, he also liked how flustered you got when he came home, too; slightly sweaty for some reason (it wasn't like those petty little human machines did anything to him), flushed, clad in those irresitable grey sweats and smelling so like Clark that it had you barking into a pillow while he showered innocently in the other room.

It wasn't like you were both being celibate. You still had sex a far too frequent amount- it was very rare for Clark to be able to keep his hands off you- but it was starting to frustrate you that his post-workout glow was reserved for the shower and the shower only.

Not only that, but as much as Jimmy was starting to show some progress in his gym routine- Clark was, too.

"I didn't know you could get any bigger." your jaw was practically to the floor the minute he walked back out into the living room, fresh out of the shower, the towel wrapped around his waist practically an invitation for you to let it fall. "How on earth has this happened?! There aren't any hay bales in the city."

"Ha-ha," he quipped, tousling water out of his hair with a broad hand. You heard the droplets scatter all over the floor, too distracted by the way his farm-boy build really filled out.

Five long strides were all it took for Clark to reach you on the couch. Two hands on your waist, four thick fingertips on the waistband of your shorts as you lifted your body upwards to help him get them off; then, one pair of lips, catching yours in a kiss so dizzying you almost forgot to breathe.

"Hard day, today," he mumbled into you.

With your eyes still blissfully closed, you managed a playful murmur, "Superman can't handle a few fifty kilogram dumbbells?"

You felt Clark smirk.

"Not what I meant."

You almost combusted right then and there.

And the sex was good. Obviously. Clark took his time with you like he always did- gentle, slow, fast and hard where it mattered, with a lot of aftercare to make up for the crooked way you'd have to get out of bed in the morning.

But you needed more.

It was funny, really. How a slight change in routine had you pining for a version of him that he didn't deem good enough to even let you near.

"I'm too gross right now, baby."

"Let me freshen up first. It was leg day today."

"You can wait ten minutes, right, hon? Wanna scrub this sweat out of my hair."

You soon realised that Clark Kent wasn't ever going to let up about this. He was stubborn, partially enjoyed your pain, and self-conscious to some degree about body odour that his Kryptonian biology erased completely.

So, you came up with a plan.

No nonsense. Three steps, all beginning with the letter T so you wouldn't forget. A plan so perfect and so poised, he'd have no other option but to fuck you senseless and just apologise later.

Woah, you steadied yourself, shaking your head quickly to rid the shameful thought. Maybe I'm the slut.

A few desks down, Clark paused his tapping, sensing a shift in your bloodstream and focusing on that instead.

You began the execution of your plan on Monday.

Step one was the easiest of all the steps. Tease. It was never going to be hard- though you expected, hoped, that Clark might be.

You woke up late, urging him to start the day without you which he reluctantly agreed to. Then, the second you heard the front door click shut, you sprung into action.

Sheer tights. Red gloss. Fitted skirt one size too small. A pair of heels that made your legs look nothing short of spectacular and finally, a button-up blouse that hugged you in all the right places.

On top of that, a spritz or two of this fancy pheromone perfume Cat had gifted you two birthdays ago from a random sex shop in Gotham. You'd initially stuffed it in the back of your wardrobe to 'macerate', having forgotten about it completely- until now.

And now, it was twice as strong and hopefully twice as effective.

You looked good. You smelled good. Better yet- you felt good.

And you were more than ready for Clark to lose his damn mind.

Tease turned out to be a walk in the park. Just as you expected, your boyfriend short-circuited at the mere sight of you; eyes wide, glasses sliding down his nose that he almost forgot to push back up as you drifted into the Daily Planet bullpen.

"Lois." he'd said, a gulp stuck in his throat as he followed your every move.

The woman housing the workspace next to you raised an eyebrow, somewhat puzzled by Clark's tone, a highlighter paused mid-air in her hand. You bit back a laugh, quickly pretending to focus on something else. "What?"

"Switch desks with me."

"No."

"Lois. Please." he still refused to look anywhere but you, even when Cat sauntered over and locked you in a conversation about pheromones and the interesting thing about this and the crazy thing about that. Truthfully, you weren't paying full attention- but you loved the way Clark was currently looking at you, so you stayed where he could continue. "Just for today."

"No, Clark."

"I'll finish your deadlines for the week."

Lois paused, "I have eight deadlines due Thursday alone, Kansas."

"I'll do 'em. Switch desks with me."

"Are you being serious?"

He nodded, jaw flexed, eyes still on you.

"Deadly."

Of course, Lois agreed. It took less than thirty seconds for her to log off and stand up, and you suddenly found yourself bumping knee caps with the man who'd somehow grown two sizes in the span of a few weeks.

"Hi, baby." you said smoothly, tapping away at your keyboard like nothing was wrong. Clark simply watched you, though from the corner of your eye, you could see his hands twitching.

"Hi."

"Something wrong?" you asked him innocently.

Behind you both, the bullpen roared to life. It became a different place entirely once the very last person logged on and everyone seemed to enter flow state; everyone except for you and Clark.

"You look beautiful," he swallowed. He couldn't help himself; his gaze fell temptingly to your thighs, envisioning the scandalous way the tights clung to every curve on your body. "I've never, um... seen that skirt before,"

"It's new," you said off-handedly, clicking a bunch of random things on your screen for effect. "You like it?"

"I love it."

His mind had been lost now, fully, and you could tell. Whatever strength and resilience Clark Kent had, had been stripped away from him the very second you entered the room.

The day went on. Clark quietly unravelled. Every move you made, every breath you took and every person you spoke to; he was listening, high alert, desperate to catch the sight of you swaying your hips again in that too-tight skirt.

5pm came fast and with it, your decision to fast forward to step two; Torture.

You were supposed to stretch it throughout the week. But seeing as Clark had strategically been using a stack of folders to hide the tent in his slacks all day, you figured you couldn't possibly be cruel enough to do that.

Just today and tomorrow would be fine. That's what you told yourself, when you made your way to the empty archives room in search for some files, and heard the door slam shut behind you.

You didn't move. Didn't even turn around. You felt him again before you could see him; the familiar warmth of Clark's fingers on your waist, pulling your body backwards into his chest.

You opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it.

"What are you doing to me?" he murmured lowly, the prominent outline of his dick hard against your back. Successfully, it erased any confusion on what he could possibly mean.

You hummed a casual response back, willing your heart not to pick up it's pace anytime soon. The only way this whole thing was going to work was if you kept a level head; you absolutely could not let Clark catch on.

"Baby," he hissed, just as your hand reached behind you and cupped the bulge in his trousers.

You gave it a slight squeeze, enough to feel it throb but hardly enough to provide relief.

"Don't you have a few deadlines you need to get started on?" you asked him then, smoothly turning around to wrap your arms around his neck.

Clark gave you a small, crooked smile through the wrecked look on his face, "You heard all that?"

"It was flattering, really."

"If you liked that, wait 'til we get home," he peppered a few slow kisses against your throat then, grinding lightly against you and trying to fill the void your palm left behind. You tried not to make a sound.

"We?" you managed, voice only slightly broken, "You're going to the gym after, no?"

"I'll say something came up," he moved towards your jaw, ready to cross the threshold of your chin when you turned your face away. Internal panic bloomed in your chest.

"What? No! You can't do that... Jimmy loves your little gym dates."

"Can think of something else I'd rather be doing..."

"Clark." you said, your tone harbouring a slightly serious edge now as you dodged his kiss attempt once more. "You can't bail on him. It's his new year's resolution."

You were aware of how pathetic of an excuse it sounded- especially after all the initial teasing and disbelief about his idea of 'bulking season'. But again, if this was going to work, then you needed Clark right where you wanted him- and him not even making it to the gym would defeat the purpose entirely.

He contemplated for a second. Then, he pulled away and looked at you, gesturing to the undone top button of your blouse.

"Fine. But this still better be on when I get home."

"Hm. Maybe."

"Maybe?" his brow raised like you'd just personally launched a missile towards the city he was destined to save. "Sweetheart, come on." a light laugh at the sound of his desperation escaped you, accompanied by a slight sigh of disbelief.

"We'll see."

Needless to say, it was the shortest ever gym session you'd ever known Clark and Jimmy to have.

He was home in record time, practically skipping the steps up to your apartment in threes.

Which brought you straight to step three; Tempt.

You swapped the red gloss for red lipstick. The tights came off, exposing your bare skin and providing absolutely no barrier between Clark and what he'd been pining for all day.

But step three, you soon realised, was a complete cop-out.

Because there was absolutely no way this wouldn't go the way you wanted it to. A small part of you feared Clark coming home and forcing himself to jump straight in the shower- rock hard and pulsing the whole time- before coming back out to ruin you both enough to get straight back in.

But he didn't.

And you couldn't even bring yourself to remember the last T of your plan; the most crucial one, because Clark's lips were already on yours and his hands, deliciously starved, gripped you in the way you'd wanted him to for weeks.

"Clark," you gasped, eyelids fluttering shut as he scooped you up and pressed you against the wall. Your legs wrapped around him in response, pulling him closer.

He smelled good. So good, actually, like he always did after a work out. Memories of your drifting conversation with Cat about pheromones came trickling back, and you suddenly wished you'd paid more attention.

"Gosh," he groaned, mouth eager against yours, his chest tightening at the feeling of your much smaller fingers on the waistband of his sweatpants, "Been thinking about you all day,"

"Had a good session?" you breathed, earning a light chuckle from him.

"Thought of you the whole time."

"That's nice," you bit your lip, another gasp escaping as he sank to his knees, kisses constant down your body.

"Yeah," Clark whispered. With a warm hand, he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, doing the exact same with the other. "Couldn't think straight. Bent a bar in half,"

You stifled a dazed laugh, murmuring a half-hearted reply that probably made no sense. But it wouldn't have mattered, anyway; Clark was far too focused to take note of much else.

The sturdyness of his shoulders underneath your thighs made you shiver- always so present and soft, now the exact same, albeit bulkier. He just felt bigger now.

"God," you whispered, moreso to yourself, "You're huge,"

"Three years and you've only just noticed?"

"Recent development." you said playfully, earning a light laugh in return. It made you melt in all the right ways, your body relaxing at the sound.

Clark took your distraction as an opportunity. His head ducked, the sensation of his curls against your thighs accompanied by a slow, languid lick up your heat.

A low moan shuddered through you, eyes rolling to the back of your head. One of his hands held you up as another found your own, directing it towards his curls; pressing down on your fingers as encouragement to form a grip on his hair.

"Hold onto me, baby."

You did so, eagerly.

Clark's mouth moved like a man starved. And every muscle in your body obeyed him; every lick and suck met with a desperate whimper of his name, every quickened pump of his tongue rewarded with a grind of your hips and stars in your vision.

You watched his shoulders move from beneath you. The way his deltoids flexed, defined and thick; the ridges of both biceps so prominent, it was almost enough to bring you over the edge alone.

The coil in your stomach tightened. Clark's fingers dug even deeper into your thighs and shamefully, you hoped for a bruise; markings of the man you loved so deeply.

"Fuck, Clark!" you cried, when the coil finally snapped and your climax hit you tenfold; white-hot, blinding, filling your body with a temporary fuzz.

Clark wasted no time. He came straight back up; lips and chin covered in your slick, corners turned upwards in a smug, boyish smile you knew all too well.

"Felt good?" he smirked, still holding you up with one hand as another hurried to get his sweats off.

You nodded, dazed, but the slight demand of your tone still pulled through, "Get inside of me. Now."

And he chuckled back, voice a mock solemn.

"Whatever you want, hon."

Clark delivered. Naturally. He was never one to hold off during intimate moments; his methods of teasing often came before, like withholding sweaty post-gym sex from you until the day came that he simply couldn't any more.

Today was that day.

You watched as he lined himself between your thighs, his tip flushed and red and leaking with pre-cum already. Your body braced itself for the sting; a breath catching in your throat at the feeling of him slowly sinking deeper and deeper inside of you.

The sight of Clark was enough to knock you breathless. Slacker jaw, glossy blue eyes, low lids that he still managed to stare so lovingly at you through. You felt your muscles relax by instinct, body shifting to allow him in even further.

"G-Gosh," he hissed through clenched teeth, eyes falling to where he began and you ended. Each slow pump in and out caused his eyes to widen, his breathing to skip. "Look at you, baby..."

His free hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face downwards so that you were both looking at the same thing; his cock, thick and big like the rest of him, almost too much yet the perfect amount for you.

"Takin' me so well."

You moaned at the pure sight of it. Clark's hand formed into a gentle fist in your hair, holding you in place in the softest way possible, as he began to pick up the pace.

"O-Oh, my..." you mewled, eyes rolling back, body giving into the pleasure. Despite the pain you knew you'd be in the next day, your fingers fumbled for Clark's shoulders, desperate and digging, "H-Harder, baby,"

"Don't wanna hurt you," he groaned lowly, the sound rippling through his chest and into yours.

"Please, Clark," you begged, darting forward to press kisses on his sternum, his throat, his jaw- anywhere that might convince him to just let go.

You believed it was the suck between his chest and his throat that did it.

Clark's paced quickened even more, the sound obscene, filling the room with the world's most livid soundtrack. You lost track of how many times you came; how many moments you screamed his name and stilled in his arms, only to be brought back to life again with his mouth on yours and begging whimpers to come again, baby. Please. One more time for me.

It may have been three. Or four. You weren't too sure, but what you did know was that you simply couldn't take it anymore.

"Clark, baby, I-I can't," you gasped. Your thighs burned, vision slightly blurred. He'd lasted this long before, a handful of times- but by now, he'd at least be close.

In this very second however, it seemed like he could go on forever.

"I-I know, baby, I'm just-" his hand found your throat then, thumb stroking the base as the rest of his fingers slowly wrapped around it.

You couldn't help the small smile that played on your lips. You fluttered your eyes back open for the first time in a while; expecting to see the chiselled jawline of your perfect boyfriend- but what you actually laid your eyes on was far, far better.

Clark had pulled back just enough for you to get the perfect, full-frontal view of his shoulders; straining heavily against the black tank he wore to the gym that day, glistening with sweat, highlighted by the dim light of the living room.

Your eyes widened, pussy clenching around him; your body eliciting the most natural of reactions to a man built like a Greek God mercilessly pounding you in his living room.

Clark caught on immediately. His curls, only slightly damp, fell messily in front of his eyes as he leaned closer towards you, tensing every muscle within your line of vision.

"You like that, sweetheart?" all you could do was nod; fucked so incredibly dumb on him, that it was a struggle to keep it all together.

His once steady pace began to falter, quick and sharp and less precise now- a tell that he was close.

"Come on, baby," he grunted against you, fucking you into the wall in a way that didn't hurt, but felt filthy all the same. "One more time, o-okay? Want you to make a mess all over me."

As a last resort, you felt Clark's impossibly large hand press onto your stomach; snapping the band inside if you yet again, every bit of pressure burning hot and raw.

"God fuc- Clark!" you cried, body squirming from the feeling, limbs all but trembling beneath him.

Regardless, he didn't stop, prolonging your orgasm until it fizzled completely. His jumbled pace stayed relentless, ongoing, until finally- finally, Clark's hips snapped forward, your name falling from his lips in the the most delicious, strangled way.

"G-Gonna come, baby, I-I'm-" he moaned, loud and unapologeetic and breathy. He cut himself off by attaching his lips back to your neck, engulfing you whole, claiming you with the entirety of him.

A warmth bloomed in your lower abdomen, Clark holding you up with an arm that stayed steady yet another that shook against the wall. He rutted slowly against you, his juices mixing in with yours, whispering constant praise that you were far too exhausted to fully take in.

"You looked so good like that- so open for me..."

"I love it when you look at me like that."

For a while, Clark just stood there; holding you steady and listening to a heartbeat that had only just begun to slow. He was hot to touch, every inch of him warming every inch of you.

It wasn't until you lifted your head, the back of it gently hitting the wall, that he finally began to move again.

Carefully, Clark lifted you upwards, socked feet padding across the carpet. He carried you to the bedroom and laid you down; movements careful and coordinated as he then pulled the covers up, slotting in right next to you.

"Did so well for me, baby. Get some rest now."

Praise upon praise fell from his lips, each one more genuine than the last.

A kiss pressed carefully to your forehead had you melting back into him; a dreamy sigh filling the silence, one that he answered with a pleased chuckled of his own.

For the first time that evening, a silence settled between you both.

"Jimmy was right." you murmured tiredly, just as Clark thought you'd began to fall asleep.

He raised a tired eyebrow, moving a couple of strands of hair out of your face as he spoke, "Huh?"

"You are built like a Dorito."

And despite the exhaustion that was currently holding you both hostage, Clark laughed. And you giggled along with him; making a silent vow to yourself to never, ever doubt Jimmy Olsen's future new year's resolutions ever again.

Adrian's mind is exploding, you've called him many things during sex but- A toy? He thinks, What like- Im just a tool for them to- Oh. Oh shit.

It dawns on him. Hits him like a pile of bricks straight to his head. The trigger button slowly starts to take shape within his psyche.

"Fuuuuuuuck babe- t-thats sooo ho-" He wails out, unable to finish, head dropping backwards, almost like he's crying about it.

Almost like he's frustrated by how much it turns him on. With how much he wants to you to call him that again.

Adrian's hands grip tightly at your hips, like he's trying to ground himself to reality while you continue to speed up on your movements on top of him.

You smile, obviously noticing how his entire body is seizing up with the thought of him just being a plaything, something to service you.

"You like that Ade? Like how i use it to get myself off?" You probe, your own voice growing needy, exploring the avenue you never even knew was available to venture into with Adrian.

You take note of how the word 'use' makes Adrian's breath wetly punch out of him. It's cute, it's so beyond adorable and hot. So, naturally-

"How I use you?" You try, and that nearly sends him off to another plane.

He shakes, he nods furiously with a choked gasp before his words start coming back to him, "Uh huuuhhhh, yeah- use it- use me! i dont fucking care just d- dont stop, fuck!"

You rose from your couch, reached for your glass of wine, and headed to the balcony. The afternoon air seeped through your loose shirt and kissed your skin through a million pebbles. It’d been too long since a man kissed your skin. You’d forgotten all about it, but you had your fictional perfect man living in your head who helped you scratch the concept of men. Your two best friends—and willingly beta readers—often encouraged you to put yourself out there. Not only to start dating again, but also because it could allegedly help with this creative block you’ve been having since coming up with Wes’s character.   

Even a made-up man was giving you trouble, you told them just to get yourself out of that repetitive pep talk. 

A sudden scream cut through your thoughts. So loud it startled you to the point you forgot how to swallow. You coughed then coughed some more, trying your best to keep your hearing focused on the scream over your self-induced asthma attack. 

“Please! Don’t!” 

Your heart swooped from your chest and your hand flew there in an attempt to catch it. It thrummed hard against your palm.

“What the fuck,” you murmured groggily to yourself. 

That was a woman’s scream, no doubt, and just as you hurried inside, it went from a conscious scream to a wail of despair. Pained, haunting, nearly terrifying, and it was coming right from the other side of your door.

Without a second thought, you closed every window, drew down the blinds, and locked your front door. You froze there. Your heartbeat was loud in your ears, and in the near distance, a second voice grunted repeatedly as if they were fighting a punching bag, except there was a sharp noise at the end of every move. You swallowed thickly. You either just discovered you had spider-senses, or your mind was tricking you into thinking someone was being stabbed. 

You breathed in shakily through your nose and pressed a palm on your door, next to the peephole. You really shouldn’t, but you were tempted to look. 

Something metallic clinked on the floor, and your curiosity won. You held your breath and lined one eye. There was nothing behind the door except for the white, almost greenish flickering hallway lights, and just as you exhaled in anticipated relief, a broad silhouette walked by and stopped at your door. 

You stepped back with a gasp and clasped a hand over your mouth. You feared your breathing was too loud. You really should call 911, but your intuition was telling you to stay put.

Five quiet seconds passed until stealthy footsteps came from the other side of the door then they faded. You forced a steady exhale and breathed in and out a few times to gather your senses. Maybe it was all in your head. Maybe someone just turned their TV volume all the way up and what you heard was just that: fiction. 

You approached your door to look again through the peephole. 

There was nothing.

You let a few more loud heartbeats pass to unlock all of the locks one by one. It was dangerous, but your sweaty hand still reached for the doorknob, and with a creak, you opened.

The cold hallway air slithered in like a haunted dark haze but that didn’t stop you from ducking your head out and looking both ways. 

Nothing.

You clutched the neck of your shirt with relief. Then, from the corner of your eye, you caught movement. Dark red liquid slowly spread under Janet’s apartment door. Your eyes widened, and your heart banging repeatedly in your ears was all you could hear.

Was that blood?

Janet from the apartment across was murdered, and now you were certain those screams you heard were her last moments alive. 

The cops arrived soon after you called 911, and since then, you’ve been at a police station waiting to be interrogated because you were a murder witness.

How the hell did that happen?

You stared at the film-wrapped sandwich a cop kindly gave you and sipped on your second cup of coffee already. It was shitty coffee, but you were grateful. At least they weren’t making you wait on an empty stomach. 

After filling a third cup, and giving a single bite of your also shitty sandwich, the door finally opened. Your heart rate picked up at the sight. 

Wes?

“Hi,” he sweetly greeted.

You had to blink repeatedly to make sure your Wes didn’t leap out of your brain.  

“I’m Dr. Spencer Reid, I’m with the FBI.” 

Was this a joke? The resemblance was absurd. In your universe, Wesley was a lawyer, and he often dressed just like this—in a three-piece suit that was tailored in all the right places. Even his lanky frame and boyish long hair was the same.

“Is it okay if I ask you some questions?”

Your body acted on impulse by standing up too fast, and abruptly enough to spill some coffee all over your shoes.

“Shit.” 

Just like Wes, Doctor Spencer Reid was a gentleman, and he handed you the box of tissues from the table with a soft ‘here’. 

You set the mug aside, sat back down on the couch, and dabbed your shoes, all while he dragged a chair in front of you. He didn’t show any reaction, as if this was a normal response people had to his presence. 

It probably was, like, look at him! 

“Sorry about that,” you said through an embarrassed exhale.

He leaned forward, propping his elbows over his thighs. The chair was higher than the couch, so you had to tilt your chin up ever so slightly to look at him, and you couldn’t help but scan all of his features from this angle. His nose was exactly as you described it in your manuscript—delicate but still masculine. So were his sleep-deprived-chocolate-button eyes, well-defined jaw, long neck… His lips were small yet full. Chapped. Not horribly, just a level above dry. 

Lip balm would look nice on them. 

He licked them. “How are you holding up?”

Your eyes drifted from his lips up to his eyes. His brows flickered up in genuine concern. 

“Why?” 

“Uh, you heard—” His nose twitched. “You witnessed Janet’s murder and were the first one to call the police, I believe. It must be hard knowing what happened.”

Right. The murder.

“Y-yeah…” You began, and with wandering eyes to avoid losing your train of thought by his gorgeous face, told him the same story you told the cops. It wasn’t a long story.

“I see,” he said as soon as you finished. “Did you know Janet?” 

Your gaze flickered down to his hands. Veins poked right below his sleeves and extended like branches down to his knuckles. 

Jesus Christ. 

Clearing your throat, you replied: “She’s my neighbor, but that’s it. I… I don’t know much about her. She moved in a few months ago.”

“Anything helps.” 

He was trying hard to find your eyes every time he spoke, and all you managed to give him were two seconds of eye contact per word. 

“I know she has a son,” you said, and your stomach twisted at the thought of the young boy. You gulped. “He lives with her.”

Was he there when it happened? Was he okay?

“He’s with his dad now,” he said as if he’d read your mind.

So you continued:

“I— I know she works at a facility home. Worked. She’s a nurse, but I wouldn’t know. We just say hi whenever we see each other around but I don’t… I don’t know. Last time I saw her was two days ago? But it was just that. A hello and a smile.”

She had a beautiful smile. The kind that made you feel all warm and special.

“It’s okay,” he reassured you, then paused. He was looking at you. Really looking, like he was trying to crawl inside your mind. Heat rushed to your face. “Would you try doing something for me?” 

God, yes. Anything. 

“Sure.”

“I’m gonna help you remember those moments right before you called 911. Sometimes the brain under stress can block some details, but they’re still there.”

“Okay.”

“Close your eyes.” You indulged. With a gentle tone, he told you to focus on your breathing and gave you a moment, but all you could focus on was his breathing. Steady. Confident. You played with the hair tie around your wrist. “Try to go back to the moment before you heard the screams.” His voice instantly led you there. It was easy for you to picture stuff. Your imagination was your greatest virtue. Or flaw. Daydreaming for hours while pacing around your apartment was no joke. “Tell me. Where are you?”

Breathe in.

“My balcony.”

Hold it.

“What are you doing?”

Breathe out.

“Uh, drinking wine, leaning against the railing.”

Just like that, you were back at the balcony though this time, Spencer appeared next to you like some sort of spirit guide, asking you these same questions. 

After a moment of silence, he asked:

“What do you see?”

Your brows knitted together. “Cars. People passing by.”

“Is it usually a busy street?”

“Yeah. There’s a park a couple of blocks away. People always park outside the building, and it’s a nice day out, so there’s more people than usual.” 

Another pause. You breathed in through your nose and breathed out the same way again. You heard him shift on his seat, and a whiff of his sweet scent reached your senses. In your head, you turned to look up at him, and he was really focused on what was happening on the street.

“Is there anything in particular that gets your attention?” 

Your brain glitched as you tried to picture better. You looked down.

“There’s a motorcycle parked. The engine is on.”

“What color?”

“It’s black, with a red seat.”

“Do you see the owner?”

You scanned your surroundings. “I don’t think so.”

Spencer gave you another moment of silence before continuing:

“What do you do when you hear the screams?”

Please, don’t!

You breathed in through your nose again and gulped as the vivid images came to you. 

“I… choke on my wine, run inside, and lock the door.”

“What do you hear?”

“My own heartbeat. Footsteps outside… agitated breathing. Someone… cursing? Like they’d fucked up, or regretted something. But everything’s a whisper.”

You frowned, and he gave you another moment but nothing new exited you, so he continued:

“Then what?”

“I— peek through the peephole and…” More glitches behind your eyes. You shook your head and frowned. “It’s too fast. I see a shadow crossing. Feels like a male energy. They walk fast through the hall. And I step back… I wait a moment to make sure they're gone before I open the door. When I do, I look to my left, and there’s nothing. Just the empty hall, then to my right, there’s blood spreading under the door—”

Your eyes shot open and met his own right away. He’d inched slightly closer. Close enough to absorb some more of his features. There was a delicate beauty mark between his cheekbone and jaw. A strand of hair fell over it. 

“I’m sorry…” You glanced down at your hands. “That’s all.”

“It’s good.” He reassured you, clearing his throat and you looked up at him again. He tucked that piece of hair behind his ear. “That was good. Helpful.”

“It was?”

It wasn’t much different from what you’d already told him, but there were new details you had no idea had noticed. He nodded assuringly and stood up. 

You mirrored him and yep. This was exactly how you’d pictured your height difference with Wes. You’d even pulled out a measuring tape when you wanted to describe how tall he was compared to Fatima (his love interest). 

“Just one more thing before you leave.” He motioned for you to walk before him back into the police-station chaos. “Your entire floor is a crime scene now. You’ll be moved to a hotel for the next few days. Unless you have someone you can stay with?” 

You shook your head. He gave you an understanding tight-lipped smile. You did have people who’d gladly take you in, but you hated being a guest. Hated not having your own space. Your own mess. Your own place to pace around and daydream. So there was no reason to choose someone else’s home over your own hotel room.

Spencer walked you out to the entrance, and a man who had written ‘boss’ all over him approached you both. God, was being good-looking a requirement to be an FBI agent?

“Everything alright?” He asked through furrowed brows, glancing between you and Spencer.

“Yes, thank you.” Your eyes darted down to his credentials. It read SSA Aaron Hotchner. He was smiling big there, though his real-life self looked like one of those people that, if you ever saw them smile, you had to make a wish. As rare as a shooting star.

“We’ll have a police officer get you home so you can pick up some belongings,” Aaron continued.  

“I can take her,” Dr. Reid chimed in and Aaron just glared at him. It was like they were exchanging so many words without saying anything at all, and whatever Spencer said with those eyes, his boss was understanding about it. You could bet he got whatever he wanted with those eyes. 

“All right,” Aaron said and handed Spencer some car keys. “Make it quick.”

Once outside, Spencer took the lead to a black SUV. The car was spacious, but you were suffocating. And it had nothing to do with today’s murder events and everything to do with the guy sitting next to you. You rolled down your window.

“The hotel is not too far.” Spencer put on his seatbelt. “We’re staying there too, if it makes you feel safer.”

You replied with a quiet thanks while putting on your seatbelt, too. He asked for your address, entered it into the car’s GPS, and drove off. Your hands were sweating now. You turned them, palm up.  

“I’m sorry if asking you to remember what happened made you upset.” He gave you and your hands a quick glance. 

You shifted on your seat. He thought you were sweating because of the murder. You should have some sort of upset reaction to what happened, and you did, until he showed up. Now, you were secretly losing your mind over him and too worried about it being obvious. But you were struggling to hide it. It was as if someone had searched through every fold of your brain like a file cabinet and pulled out Wes from the very depths.

“It’s okay. You were doing your job,” you replied, then sort of laughed, “I guess it never occurred to me I’d ever witness a murder. Now I wonder how many people get murdered in a day.” 

It was a rhetorical question, but he replied as though the information had been sitting at the tip of his tongue:

“18.546 people are murdered annually in the US, so around 51 a day. Mostly by firearms, but knives are next on the list, and other sharp objects.”

Your mouth hung open for a moment, and then said, “I didn’t hear any gunshot.”

This time, he only gave you a look. So your hearing was right. Janet was stabbed to death. 

You looked out your window for the rest of the drive. You hoped he didn’t think of you as rude for not making small talk, but he didn’t initiate it either. Plus, you weren’t too far. 

He walked with you into your building, and flashed his badge at the cop guarding your door, and oh god, that was hot.

“She’s the resident,” he explained, tucking his badge back. “She’ll pick up some of her things.”

The officer stepped aside and ripped the yellow tape from the door. You entered, Spencer right behind you like a bodyguard, and he stayed in your living room while you packed a bag for a week, just in case. 

As you shoved things inside, you thought of this as a blessing in disguise. Selfishly so. It was a fact that changing environments could help with writer's block, and you haven’t had the chance to do it on your own. So yeah, you could make something good out of it.

You packed a tote bag exclusively for your writing, with your planner full of notes, post-it pads, different colored pens, headphones, and your most precious item: your laptop. 

Walking out of your bedroom, you found Spencer standing in front of your bookshelf. He had a book in his hand. Your book.

Shit.

You cleared your throat, and he gave you an amused lopsided smile, gesturing at the book. 

“Your face’s here.” 

“That’s me,” you replied shyly.  

“Not your name, though.”

“Yeah, I don’t use my real name.” You approached him with faltering steps. “It sounds similar, though, if you read it all together?”

Spencer read your pseudonym out loud and smiled. “It does.” 

“You can take it if you want. I have a bunch of them lying around.”

You’d sold only thirty of those since you published it. The digital version had more buyers. Not many, but at least you had a place in Goodreads. 

“Are you sure?” he asked. 

“Yeah! I mean, if you’re up to reading…” You trailed off. It didn’t usually embarrass you to say it out loud. It stopped being a taboo for you a long time ago, but he didn’t look like he read those kinds of books. “Romance with some erotica sprinkled in between.”

With a curious look on his face, he said, “Oh.”

“Or you can give it away. To a friend, if it’s not your cup of tea. I seriously have too many of them.”

He smiled. 

“Thanks.”

On your way out, you thanked the cop and peered one last time in Janet’s apartment direction. It was strange thinking she was dead. Someone you, despite not seeing her every day, knew was there. Having a nurse across from you made you feel safe, and with her gone, you were seriously thinking about moving somewhere else. 

This place was forever stained now.

You settled back into the car and asked him, “Why is my apartment also a crime scene? Nothing happened in there.” 

Spencer tucked your book in the door pocket and replied while backing up, “Technically, it isn’t, but the hallway is. It’s mostly not to disturb the floor residents while the forensics work.”

“Which is just me.”  

“It’s what’s best for you,” he added. Spencer seemed wise, so you believed him. After a moment, he asked, “Do you have anything else published?” 

Whether he was trying to take your mind off what had happened or if he was genuinely curious about you, your answer came out way too chirpy:

“That was my first book! It didn’t do very well, so I got a bit discouraged. But I’m slowly getting back into writing again.”

“Is it also romance with erotica?”

You scoffed to yourself 

“So far it’s only romance, but I’m planning on getting to the erotica part at some point.”

Spencer asked you about your favorite books and your inspirations when writing your own, and by the time you were done rambling, you reached the hotel. He stayed with you as you checked yourself in and followed you to the elevators. 

“You’re okay to be on your own from here?” He asked, both hands in his pockets. 

“Yeah.” You adjusted your unnecessarily heavy bag strap over your shoulder. “Thanks.”

Spencer gave you a tight-lipped smile. The doors opened, and before you stepped in, you asked, “When will I know when I can come back to my apartment?”

“We have your number, so we’ll call you.”

This couldn’t be the last time you saw him. Tiny versions of both of your friends dressed as sexy devils popped up over each shoulder. 

Aren’t you gonna do something?

It’s for the plot!

What would you do if you were one of your characters? 

Do Something! Anything! But do it now!

You flashed him a sheepish smile to compensate your question: 

“Will you call me?” 

His Adam’s apple visibly jumped, and his voice grew slightly high while he replied, “y-yeah I’ll call you.”

You were grateful that your stay at the hotel was going to be indemnified, but right now, while you sat at your desk trying to do some writing, you wished they’d chosen a place with thicker walls.

Even with your headphones on, you could assume your neighbors were sex addicts. One of them was either dying soon, or whatever their relationship was, was a secret, and they had to make the most of it. They’ve been going at it since you settled, over two hours ago, and by the sound of it—bed creaking, headboard slamming, and some very particular dirty talk—it didn’t seem like they were going to stop any time soon. Fucking like they were running out of time.

You should be writing like you were running out of time. Which technically, you were, but that deadline was established by yourself (the perks of being self-published), though it has changed a few times already (the problem of being self-published). All because of this stupid, horrible, thick wall you’ve been hitting over and over lately when trying to write. If it were real, your knuckles would be bleeding by now. 

You checked your watch. It was past ten pm, and the coffee from the in-room coffee maker tasted like shit. Better than the one they gave you at the police station, but shitty enough to make you want a real drink. 

With your laptop and planner in hand, you rode the elevator down to the bar. It wasn’t busy despite being the weekend, and you spotted a lonely booth by a corner at the very back. Perfect to at least do something. You ordered your drink—a Negroni—, put on your headphones, and stared at your almost blank page, with the title Chapter Twelve, and nine bullet points that were supposedly there to help you flesh out the story. 

The text cursor flickered impatiently.  

This was your first draft, you reminded yourself, no need to be perfect. You just needed to word vomit, write everything down. However it came out. Make it exist. You’d already written eleven chapters. Were they hard? Yes, but they were written. The build-up was written, the tension was there, and your characters’ desires were right there. Why couldn’t they just fuck like your neighbors? You felt like chewing on your notes and swallowing them to absorb everything and make it all magically translate into the rest of the book.

You picked up your pen and used your writing planner as a journal. Always with writing-related thoughts. Supposedly, it helped to gather your ideas, and most times it did. Tonight wasn’t one of those nights. 

From the corner of your eye, you caught a tall figure approaching your booth. A waiter, you assumed. You lifted your gaze from your planner, and your heart rate picked up at the view.  

Doctor Spencer Reid stood in front of you. His eyes seemed more tired than earlier. You were sure yours looked the same.  

He smiled, and motioned at the seat in front of you while you read his lips saying something like ‘may I?’ 

One of your friends popped up over your shoulder again. 

Girl, take the damn headphones off, would you?

You let them hang from your neck. 

“Yeah, yeah!” You invited him to join you with a hand gesture. You weren’t doing any book-writing anyway, so you could at least stare at your character look-alike. Maybe some inspiration could strike. “Any news on the guy?”

Now, a waiter approached your table and set a drink that looked like plain water for Spencer.  

“Do you guys need anything else?” the boy asked. “We have charcuterie boards…”

“I’m good,” you and Spencer said at the same time. Gave each other the same polite smile, too.

The waiter excused himself with a nod, and it was just you and Spencer again.

You sipped on your drink. “So?”

“Uh, we’re still working on it.” He slightly frowned. “Got a few leads.”

You raised your brows as though to say I see and sipped on your drink again. You had no idea how to talk about murders. You weren’t even sure he wanted to talk about it. 

“I read your book.” His tone drastically changed to a more casual one.   

You took a mouthful and raised your brows at him. 

“You did, huh? Already?” 

“I had some time.”

“There's no way you read all of it, though.”

Spencer pulled the book out of nowhere and placed it between you two. A few yellow tabs peeked out from some pages.

“You bookmarked it?!” You slapped your palm over the cover and dragged it closer to you like you wanted it away from him forever. 

“Told you I read it.”

You tore your gaze away, and that slight movement shook your brain a bit. Your drink wasn’t that strong.

Your eyes met his own again.

“When did you even have the time?” Your face wrinkled with confusion. 

“I’m a fast reader, so it didn’t take me long to finish it.”

“Well, did you even register anything you read?”

There was no way he read it in less than three hours. He’d have to do it all in one sitting, and you could assume, with the job he had, he didn’t have that much time to sit still and read something for fun. 

“I can recite it back if you want.”

“Oh, god, please don’t.” You covered your face with your palms.

“It was good,” he replied with a bit of humor. “I liked it.”

“I’m sorry.” You revealed your face again. “But I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to.” He propped his elbows on the table, clasped his hands together right under the warm lamp above your heads. Those veins were thicker now.

You exchanged a silent but challenging glare before asking, “What was chapter thirteen about, then?”

“Rules,” he replied without hesitation.

Was it about the rules? You wrote that book a long time ago and haven’t gone back to it since, so from memory, those rules were a couple of chapters later. You picked it up and opened chapter twelve right in front of your face to hide from him. 

As you read through the pages, Spencer continued:

“They agreed to be friends with benefits, so Scarlett stated these rules. Wrote them down with a pink glitter gel pen. Just to break the first one at the end of that same chapter.”

You lowered the book just enough to peek at him and rolled your lips together to hide a smile. He didn’t have to brag and be that specific. Chapter twelve was only the first thirty percent of the book, which he could’ve easily read if he was a fast reader. 

You skipped pages closer to the end. You glanced up from the book and narrowed your eyes at him. 

“Chapter thirty-two.” 

He leaned back.

“Ah, their failed camping trip.”

You slammed the book shut. He actually read the whole thing. 

“Fine.”

“Told you.” He smiled sideways, and a cute and subtle dimple bloomed at the corner of his mouth. 

You wanted to scrub that smug look off his face with a kiss. You tore your eyes away briefly instead and took another sip of your Negroni to cool your thoughts. 

So he was one of those geniuses who could read ten thousand words per minute. You had to ask:

“Is it even enjoyable to read that fast? Do you… immerse yourself in the story?”

“I do, but I guess my brain doesn’t work like that. It’s all—” his thumb met his middle finger and snapped them “—quick.” 

You hummed. You were dying to know how that brain worked. What those hands could do.

What?

“Well, good for you. It can take me a week to finish a book.”

“How long does it take to write one?” He shot right back.

You groaned at the mere thought.

“Too long.”

Seriously, too damn long. 

“You’re suffering.”

You rested your chin over your palm and sighed. “I’m exhausted.”

“Maybe you should take a break from it.”

“I wished it was that easy. I have a deadline.”

“If it means anything”—he dabbed a napkin over the condensation of his drink—“I really liked ‘Closer’.”

You smiled endearingly. “Even the sex scenes?”

“Yeah, I mean, they were balanced. Not too mechanical. I liked being in Angel’s head. She’s very romantic even when she fights herself not to be. It’s clear she has attachment issues.”

“Why are you calling her Angel now?” you asked. 

Technically, they were the same person, but Angel (Scarlett’s stripper name) was a whole different person if she committed to it.

“We’re talking about the sex,” Spencer replied. “She insisted that Alex called her Angel during sex because it aroused her, but I think it mostly helped her distance herself from it. The intimacy.”

You sighed and drank the last sip with evident satisfaction. He understood her so well.

Spencer continued:

“In the end, she had no choice but to let him call her by her real name. She was already in love. There wasn’t anything else to do about it other than just accept it. Let him love her. Allow herself to love, too.”

You stifled a sigh this time. You weren’t sure if you were impressed or annoyed now. 

“You love doing character studies, don’t you?”

“Can’t help it.”

The soft ambient music filled the brief silence as he finally sipped on his water. You took the chance his mouth was busy to know more about him. 

“Have you tried it?” You asked. 

“What? Writing?” He looked at the book. You hummed as a yes. “Poems sometimes, but never… nothing too elaborate. They’re just words, and I’m pretty sure they don’t even make sense.”

“You don’t read them?”

“No? I just write as an outlet.”

“Sounds like therapy homework,” you teased. 

Spencer laughed a little. Met your eyes again. “It… is.”

Of course, he was a man in therapy. 

“Why do you write?” He then asked.

And back to you. He was really curious about it, and as much as you hated talking about yourself, meeting someone genuinely interested in your writing boosted your writer ego. And you really needed that these days. 

“I have a very vivid imagination,” you started. “Since I was a little kid, I've always made up characters in my mind. I’ve been writing since I learned how to read. It’s always been a natural occurrence, but only a few years ago I decided to take it seriously and pursue it as a career.”

It wasn’t going very well, so it wasn’t full-time yet.

You also should’ve said that your only (and traumatic) experience with a man and your constant need to escape the real world were a main reason as to why you started to write romance and erotica, but that would be too much information. 

“Do you have people who help you with it? Who read over your stuff?”

“I do, but they’re all women.”

“Why do you say it like it’s a problem?”

“It’s not. Believe me. They’re my best friends. But in this particular case, I guess it’s a bit limiting.” He didn’t reply, so you continued, “This new book is from my male character’s point of view, and I have no problem writing about his feelings. They’re just… feelings, but the physical aspect,” you sighed. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I can help you with that.”

“You want to be my beta reader?”

“If you’re comfortable.”

You held the thought for a moment. It could be very helpful. He already proved he read your previous book, and he was a fast reader. He could give you feedback on what you have so far right now if you asked him to.

Just as you asked him, “Do you have time now?” his phone buzzed against the table. 

He frowned as he checked it. 

“Sorry, I gotta go.” He stood up quickly. 

You stumbled over the table legs, mirroring him, and your glass tipped over the book. You picked it up like nothing had happened because it was almost empty, though a few drops stained the cover. You smudged them dry with your fingers.

He couldn’t just disappear like that? 

“I can email it,” you blurted out.

“I don’t have an email.” 

“You’re kidding.”

Who was this guy?

“No.” He smiled apologetically.

You wanted to assume he meant he didn’t have a personal email and not that he was rejecting you. 

“I- I can stop by your room later,” he then said. 

Oh?

“To pick you up, so we can discuss your new book… somewhere. Here. We can come back here.”

Oh.

“That sounds perfect.” You relaxed your shoulders. “Just don’t make me wait all night.”

Spencer picked up your book and tucked it under his arm. “I’ll try.”

Your neighbors were fucking again. 

What were the chances that they lived here?

It was your third night staying at the hotel, and it felt like three weeks. 

Spencer didn’t show up that night, and you felt sorry for yourself for even believing a word a man said. Because at the end of the day, that’s what he was. If it were any other man who showed some interest in your writing, you wouldn’t have cared if he just disappeared. You only needed your beta readers’ approval during this stage of your writing. But knowing now that Wes actually existed in real life made Spencer hard to forget or let go. He was like finding a gemstone in a river full of boring pebbles. You needed him. For research. As your muse. And to read over what you had so far.

That night at two am—after you updated your friends all about the horrors of your day, told them about your real-life Wes, and ultimately admitted he’d stood you up which only proved you right about your stance on men—you googled him to at least see his face again, and you were impressed when you found a blog that seemed like an attempt at a fan page. Attempt because there wasn’t much information. All you found out was what he’d already proved, that he had an insanely big brain. He went to Caltech, had three PhDs and was a special agent at the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Virginia. Not too far from you, but definitely too far to casually bump into him somewhere and ask him out for coffee.

You found comfort in knowing for a fact he was a busy man (he saved lives!), and you were just a writer with a work-from-home job who had too much time on her hands, so you didn’t think of it as him standing you up. He said he’d let you know when you could go back to your place, so there still was a chance you’d see him again, or at least get his number. 

Still, you’d been sitting on the uncertainty. You even asked the front desk if he was still here, but they weren’t allowed to give you that information. You had to distract yourself from it (him) by writing. Not your current book, unfortunately, but a brand new story that probably didn’t have any future but was fun to think about. About an FBI agent and the murderer he’s been chasing for years. Was it wrong to romanticize a murderer? Yes, but she had her reasons to kill. 

Room service knocked on your door in the middle of a writing sprint, but you didn’t lose your focus. Typing and typing endless run-on sentences hoping whoever was outside could just leave the food and go. You could tip them when you ordered something again. 

Another three knocks.

“I’m coming! Jesus.”

You finished the thought and crossed the room to open.

Not room service. Though so much better.

Your stomach fluttered, but nothing you couldn’t disguise with a smile.

“I thought you’d stood me up,” was the first thing you said. 

Had he gotten cuter or was it the burgundy tie over his black button-down? 

“I’m sorry,” Spencer softly replied. “We arrived late that night then had to get up early next morning and–”

You got lost in his adorable rambling as you let him in. He said he had some time now and that he needed a break, so today, you didn’t bother asking him about work. A regular person would’ve probably smoked a cigarette to release some of the stress or grab a strong drink or get lost in a good book, but he chose to knock on your door. Your chest swelled at the idea of being worthy of his free time. 

You didn’t know what else to ask or do so you went straight to the point and guided him to the long desk by the window that had become your work station. You scooted your chair closer to his to show him your manuscript on your laptop. 

The very first page read: 

THE END OF ALL THE ENDINGS

“I like the title,” he mentioned. 

“It’s temporary.” You set the document on full screen and leaned back. You crossed your arms and legs and let out a sigh. “All yours.”

He slouched forward and read through the pages in silence. His eyes moved fast but other than that, there was no change in his expressions. His lips, that appeared more hydrated and kissable today, remained closed. No sign that he was enjoying it or hating it. 

After two and a half minutes of you bouncing your leg anxiously, he reached the end of the document and leaned back just like you, hands clasped over his lap. 

“So?” You asked.

“I don’t know what you’re struggling with. It flows well.”

You shut down the laptop.

“The sex scenes, Spencer.” 

“There aren’t any.”

“Exactly.”

His lips set into a thin line. 

“Are they really necessary?” His tone was more curious than judgy, but he still explained himself, “Not that having them is bad. I’m sure the scenes you have planned move the story forward as well as giving your readers what they want, but it’s clearly stopping you from writing.”

“Sex is very important for my characters, so yeah. I just… It’s not the sex scenes that are blocking me, it’s the point of view I chose.”

“Then change it.”

“And rewrite all 51 thousand words you just read?”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. Besides, it has to be from Wes’s point of view. The story is about him. It would become a whole different story if told from Fatima’s point of view.”

“Have you tried writing them?”

You breathed out a small laugh through your nose. 

“Like a million times.”

“Show me one. Maybe I can help you make them sound more accurate if that’s your concern.”

That was your biggest concern. You’d tried writing the feeling of a male’s orgasm and it sounded more like a near-death experience rather than something blissful. Were they that intense? 

“I deleted them.” You scratched your head.  

“All of them?”

Of course not. They could be useful at some point.

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that like a main rule for a writer? Don’t delete things because they can be useful later.”

“Don’t judge me. I’m suffering here.”

He laughed a little and gave you a moment. “Try writing one again.”

“Why? Because you’ll guide me through it?” You asked as a joke, but he shrugged. “I’m not… gonna write sex scenes in front of you, or anyone. I need to be in the right headspace. Alone.”

In case you got horny. Because it happened. 

He looked away for a moment, but his faint smile remained on his lips.

“What is it about them, exactly, that stops you from writing them?”

“I don’t have a penis. I have no idea how to describe sex from a guy's point of view. Like…” You closed your eyes briefly. “I can’t imagine it. It’s one of those things you have to experience to describe well.”

“Then ask me.” He crossed his legs, ankle over his knee. 

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s what you need, right? Ask me any question you have regarding the male anatomy and sex, and I’ll try my best to help you.”

He was being so open about it. Why couldn’t you? 

“You’ll be willing to answer sex-related questions?”

“If it’s going to be helpful, absolutely.”

Three days ago, you were dreaming of this exact situation. Having Wes in front of you to ask him all about the male anatomy. 

You cleared your throat. 

“Fine,” you gave in and almost humorously blurted out the first thing that came to your mind, “What does an erection feel like?”

He stared, and then, “You should probably take some notes.”

Oh shit, he was being serious. You reached for your notebook and a pen. And your phone. 

“Is it okay if I voice record this too? I’d like to come back to it.”

He gestured at your phone as if to say be my guest. You pressed play and asked him again, though with a much steadier, professional voice.

“What does an erection feel like?”

Spencer sighed in deep thought, then everything rolled from his tongue so naturally: 

“Depends a lot on the context, but since we’re talking about sex, I would describe it as a—”

Wild instinct being switched on or lit on fire. 

That sentence alone was enough for you to know you were about to get some very good details so you locked in, bright-eyed and pen firmly over the page.

He said things went out of control internally, and the way he explained how and where the feelings were located—used words like blood, pressure, rush—made it sound not awkward and genuinely educational. His answers came fast yet you could tell he was being careful when crafting his words. So well mannered. And you, as the good student you were, took your notes. You finally had a first-hand reference, and when you thought he was done, he bombarded you with textbook facts about the male anatomy. 

You jumped from question to question and asked him even more questions between his answers so he could elaborate as much as possible. 

This was pleasantly fun. The male anatomy was fascinating. At least, he made it sound that way, and even though this was strictly educational, you had to open a window to let some air in at some point because it got insanely hot (or maybe it was him). 

When the fourth question came, Spencer proved it was, in fact, hot inside by rolling up his sleeves. Your eyes inevitably darted down to his forearms from time to time, which inspired you to delve into a few more details when describing Wes for later.

By the seventh question, your voice recording marked fifty-seven minutes, and you had almost all the right words to describe sex from the male point of you.

You clenched your thighs together and bit the cap of your pen before asking the real question: 

“What does the vagina feel like?”

The corner of his mouth twitched tentatively, as if the question gave him immediate flashbacks, and an unreasonable heat twisted your insides. He hadn’t answered yet, and you felt jealous because whatever he was going to say, was going to be about his experience with other women. 

His lips parted, then his phone rang. 

He frowned as he tucked his phone out of his pocket. 

“I gotta take this.”

He answered the call, which lasted five seconds and ended with him saying I’ll be downstairs in two minutes.

Just when he was about to answer what you were most curious about.

“Duty calls?” 

“I’m sorry.” He rose from his chair. You looked up at him. “But, I can come back if you still need me to.”

“I still have a few more questions.” 

His lips flickered into a smirk. “I wasn’t detailed enough?”

“You were.” You walked him to your door with your hands clasped behind you and leaned on the frame, looking up at him through fluttering lashes. “I’m just a very curious person.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

You stayed there at the door looking up at him in a way that was making him bite back a smile. 

He offered little to none eye contact when saying: “I’ll see you soon,” and waving you goodbye. He tore his gaze away before you could reply and disappeared down the hall with long, hurried strides. 

You waited for him to be fully gone out of your sight to shut the door and finally let out a growly sigh. You fanned yourself with your notebook and sat back down on your desk.

It was good that he left because now, with all this new information, your brain was overflowing with scenes that you needed to write down. You opened a blank document and started to write with the voice recording in your ears to guide you. To set the mood, too. 

The whole time, you pictured Spencer as if it was him who was narrating every filthy thing you were writing. And the clearer you saw him, the more turned on you got. You’d been aroused from the third question you asked—What does an orgasm feel like? You’d fought the thoughts by keeping a straight face as he answered. He said he’d experienced different intensity of orgasms and that some have had him thinking he might die. A first surge of jealousy hit you when he said that, but then he mentioned it happened while being high. He said when the orgasm was close, the abdomen tightened, the whole body stiffened until something exploded. Then the release was warm and moist. 

Just like your panties, all by hearing him talk. 

Right now as you wrote, Wes morphed into Spencer, and he was the one towering over Fatima, kissing and dotting love-bites across her neck while he fucked her roughly after an argument. Wes was vocal; he praised her between kisses and didn’t hold back any noise because he knew that’s what she liked. And because he didn’t feel the need to hide from her. 

“She’s still mad at me, but the way she’s desperately bouncing on top of me is telling me we are closer to reconciliation, and I couldn’t wait to make her laugh again after this. She’s exquisite. All mine. Squeezing my cock, digging her nails on my chest, and pulling sounds out of me like no one else. I fist her hair and bring her down to me into a kiss.  

‘You make me crazy,’ I whisper shakily.

‘I’m still mad at you.’

She keeps her ass up so I thrust under her and she gasps with each one. She clenches her cunt around me and—” 

You clenched your thighs together to ease the throb and kept typing, all while Spencer kept saying the words erection and sex and wet in your ear through the voice recording while the words cock, and tight, and cum got translated into the pages. 

You’d easily fall asleep to his voice, though right now, all you wanted was to touch yourself. 

What you ended up writing after Spencer left was filthy, and at some point, you forgot who your main character was. All you saw was him, and when you typed Spencer instead of Wesley, you gave yourself a time-out and went for a late-night swim at the pool.  

To cool your thoughts. 

It’s what Wes did whenever he needed to turn off his mind, to stop thinking about Fatima, so you followed his discipline, because you really needed to shut up your horny demons. 

Breathe in.

Hold it.

Dive in.

Spencer.

Come up for air.

Repeat.

Whatever you were feeling towards Spencer was not normal or healthy and made you feel like a psychopath. Which didn’t mean you stopped being generous with your writing because, well, you still needed him. 

You bumped into him at breakfast the next morning and though it was a quick grab-and-go, you still managed to offer him a delivery of the new pages of your manuscript. There was a computer room on the first floor, dusty and old, but the printer worked, so after making sure his name didn’t sneak somewhere in between sentences, you slid around thirty pages under his door. 

Then you continued writing some more until the sun went down and you felt the need to go for a swim again.

To cool those thoughts.

You stripped out of your clothes and dove in. 

You’d been boiling with anticipation and insecurity. What if what you wrote was horrible? What if the way Wes talked during sex sounded just like Spencer? No. Wes looked like him, but didn’t talk like him. Not during sex, at least. You had no idea how Spencer talked during sex. 

Did he talk during sex? He absolutely seemed like the kind of guy that talked you through it. 

You glided through the water until your limbs were heavy and until your brain was somewhat lighter. 

Breathe in.

Hold it.

Dive in.

Spencer.

Come up for air.

Repeat.

Until his face and name and voice were out of your system.

The moon was dangling bright above you when you went for a last lap, and when you reached the end–

“I thought I might find you here.”

Spencer’s voice echoed around and your brain puzzled back every single thought you had about him.

You scooped the water out from your eyes and asked, “How’d you know I’d be here?” before you even registered where his voice was coming from.

The trail of lights on the edge of the pool illuminated his walk towards you.

“Wes goes swimming when he feels a bit lost.” He crouched in front of you but his eyes wandered somewhere in the pool. He was only wearing a light button-up and darker tie, no jacket or vest, with his sleeves rolled up, exposing his forearms and watch in a very erotic way. Not really, but after the interview, everything about him was erotic. “I figured you wanted to… connect with him.”

How the hell could you not be obsessed with him if he pulled facts from your own book from the top of his head? 

“It’s late,” you shot back as if his mere presence hadn’t brought you that sense of inspiration back. You folded your arms over the edge of the pool and granted him all of your attention.

“I thought you said you had more questions.” 

He finally looked down at you, and even though he had a timid smile, his gaze was not. Or maybe it was your paranoia and delusion that were convincing you the attraction might be mutual, because why else would he look at you like that? He was undoing every knot that kept your bikini in place with his eyes. You felt completely naked all of a sudden.

You cleared your throat. “Uh, did you read it?”

“I did, yeah.” 

“And?”

“I left some annotations. Slid them down your door.”

“You can’t give me some feedback now?”

“You don’t have anywhere to write down said feedback.” 

“So you want to discuss it.”

“I mean, yeah, you also said you had more… questions.”

You smirked up at him and pushed yourself away into the middle of the pool and floated there. Replied: “You’re oddly interested in answering sex-related questions.”

 Spencer stood up and rounded the pool slowly to follow you, both hands in his pockets as he replied, “It’s not odd. I’m interested in your writing, which just happens to have explicit sexual content.” 

”I’ll met you at the bar,” you said nonchalant. “Same booth.”

“When?”

“Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll be all yours.” 

And just like that, his confidence was gone. You didn’t mean it like that, but you didn’t regret it one bit as he half turned and turned and faced you again, all flustered:

“O-okay, yeah I’ll… We’ll meet there. I’ll, um, I’ll be waiting.”

This time, Spencer sat next to you.

“Couldn’t you choose another color?” You flipped through your manuscript to give it a quick look first. His annotations were all written with a red marker. “Feels like I’m being corrected by a teacher.”

“You kind of are,” he said, and you shot him a threatening but playful glare. A sliver of a smile appeared as he immediately added, “Don’t worry. There’s nothing bad. It was the only color I had.” 

The waiter came with your food and drinks, and while Spencer enjoyed his fried lobster burger, you snacked on some fries and read through his annotations in the margins. There truly wasn’t anything bad. A few word suggestions, some thoughts on your metaphors, what he liked, and that was it. 

After you read them all twice, you slammed the manuscript shut and sighed unsatisfied. 

Laughter came from the table in diagonal from your booth, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. You recognized that laugh. Giggly and high pitched and moany. 

“What?” Spencer wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“You seriously don’t have any more feedback?” You replied to drift your attention away from them. He didn’t have to know about your sex-addict neighbors. 

“What else do you want?” He asked. 

“I don’t know. I guess… I expected more criticism.”

“Are your other beta readers critical of your writing?”

“No?”

“Then why should I?” You rolled your eyes at him. “It was amazing. It felt natural, as if I was actually reading from a man’s point of view.”

“Wow.” You turned on your seat to face him. Your knee bumped his thigh, and you let your touch linger. “I never thought I’d take it as a compliment being compared to a man, but thank you.” 

“You’re welcome?” The corners of his lips twisted downward. As you didn’t say anything else, he asked: “How long do you think it’ll take you to finish it now?” 

You chewed on another fry. “If I keep the pace I have now? Which is not a healthy one, by the way, I’d say two weeks? After that, comes the editing and I’m sure I’ll end up doing a few changes, so it can delay it a bit, but I edit as I write, which is a no-no for most writers because it can keep you from finishing it sooner, but I think it’s a good thing. Helps me avoid hating everything I wrote for future me who edits it.”

“You don’t have an editor?”

Your eyes flickered down to his lips then back up to his eyes. He broke eye contact briefly.

“Wasn’t it obvious with Closer?”

“No?” He frowned, licking his lips. “I wasn’t just being polite when I said it was good.”

You tore your eyes away. “Maybe I should aspire to be an editor instead of a writer.”

“You’re a good writer.”

“Just a very slow one.”

“That’s not a bad thing. It means… You take your time with your art.”

”I don’t know, there’s still something about this that I don’t like.”

Spencer took your manuscript away and dragged your plate closer to you. “Eat. We can discuss more later.”

“It’s already late.” You finally took a bite of your burger. “And I’m not in the mood anymore. Could we continue tomorrow?”

Spencer took his time to chew and swallow, then said, “Um, I leave tomorrow, actually.”

You almost choke as you replied with your mouth full: “You’re kidding.”

“I wanted to wait to be done with this to tell you that you can go back to your place. The investigation is over.”

You chewed and chewed as the past five days replayed in your head like a fast-forward film. This couldn’t be the last time you saw him. There was no way that whatever you and he created during these past few days was just this. 

Unless it was, of course, all in your head. 

Longing dragged its claws across your chest just by thinking about him being gone from your life forever. 

“I think I’ll enjoy my last night here.” You reached for your drink, and it was like the stem turned into rubber as soon as you grabbed it. The glass tipped towards you and spilled half of it all over your lap. “Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

Spencer was quick to take your glass from you and set it back before you spilled some more.

“Are you always this clumsy?” He asked through a soft laugh. 

“What do you mean ‘always’?” You took all the napkins within reach and dabbed them on your lap. Your whole face was burning. Out of embarrassment and from this strange feeling you were experiencing at the thought of him being just this. Just a guy you stumbled upon and who was nice enough to help you through your writer's block. “We met five days ago. You don’t know my ‘always’.”

You lifted your gaze and found him studying you endearingly, like he wouldn’t mind knowing one day what your ‘always’ looked like. 

Your cheeks grew even hotter. 

“You’ve spilled three of your drinks already since we’ve met!”

“Whatever.” 

You smudged the napkins harshly on your shirt, and Spencer was generous to help, drying the few drops that landed on your sleeve. His knuckles brushed the heel of your palm and the insides of your wrist as that was all he focused on, the stupid drops on your sleeve. It was a casual act of kindness, and it was making you all flustered and pissed off, for some reason. 

He hadn’t left yet, and you missed him already.

How stupid and delusional of you. 

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom.” You cleared your throat. You needed to be away from him and crush all those fantasies you’d built around him. “This won’t be enough.”

Just as you stood up, Spencer grabbed you by your hips and with measured force managed to perfectly fit you between his legs. You had to hold onto his shoulders. Your hands fit perfectly there, too. 

“Don’t move,” he ordered. 

Your skin flamed under his touch and at his demanding tone and at his sudden nearness; his chin at the level of your chest and the insides of his thighs touching the outside of yours.

“What? What’s happening?” 

Spencer peeked over your shoulder, then looked up at you with those puppy-dog eyes, “My team’s here.” 

You craned your head to your side, getting a glimpse of some fed-looking people searching for a table that could fit all five of them. 

“And?” You returned your attention back to him. 

“And I was already scolded for this.” He stressed the last word by squeezing the right side of your hip. He must’ve realized his hands were still on you—that they didn’t belong there—because he snapped them away. 

“Why?” 

His jaw ticked. “My boss caught me reading your book when I shouldn’t have, then again this morning, at breakfast… he thinks I’m crossing a line.”

The thought of him being scolded for having a conversation with you was ridiculous, but you couldn’t help but get lost in the idea, that if he was being scolded for it, there must’ve been some sign that this was inappropriate. In a book-worthy way.

This wasn’t as nearly as inappropriate as you’d liked it to be, though. 

“But we just talked.” You shrugged with one shoulder. 

“I guess he saw more than that,” he admitted. 

To you, it was more than that, and you were dying to know if it was mutual, that this wasn’t all in your head.  

“Are you crossing a line?” 

Spencer straightened on his seat and hesitated for a moment, then, through that same timid and subtle smile you saw at the pool, that surely hid something, said, “There’s definitely a line.”

The corner of his mouth flickered up for good, and you bit back a smile of your own. “Tell your boss he’s being too harsh.” 

“That would definitely get me in trouble.” He peeked over your other shoulder then, and his eyes darted to the other side of the bar. Held his gaze, then nodded to himself. “Okay, you can move now.”

But you didn’t.

“Are you really that embarrassed to be seen with me?”

“What? No! That’s not why I’m hiding.” 

“I’m… going to the bathroom.”

You fled from his hold and hurried to the toilets.

“Hey,” he shout-whispered. He was coming after you. “Hold on!”

You walked out of the bar and stomped your way down the hall.

“You just missed the toilets!” He said loudly.  

Before you turned left to the elevators, you took a few more steps and lured him with your silence into the computer room. A confused look took over his features and you dragged him inside by his hand, shutting the door behind him.

It was dangerously quiet here. Just you, him, and your loud ass mind.

If this was your last night together, you needed to clear things up. 

“I need to know that this isn’t all in my head.” You looked up at him. Just saying it out loud made you feel so dumb, but fuck, he was giving you mixed signals. And you weren’t in one of your stories where miscommunication unfolded into some other plot that led to a happily ever after. This was real life, and you needed to know. “That I’m not crazy for… feeling like this.”

He averted his gaze as he said your name in a whisper, followed by a quiet, “Of course not.” 

You would’ve kissed him if he didn’t seem like he was truly struggling. 

“I- If we’d met in any other circumstance—” he sighed. “This would’ve been much different.” 

“What’s so terrible about this?” You murmured, taking a step closer. 

“Nothing is terrible,” he said just as quietly. “It’s just… My integrity can be compromised. The investigation’s integrity can be compromised. There are professional conduct policies I can’t violate, and… it can generate conflicts of interest and–”

“You’re so guilty about us.” You cut him off. “We haven’t done anything.”

“Doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it,” he replied without wavering. “Your writing,” he continued, rubbing a palm over his chin. “It did something to me and now I-“

He was full of shame, insanely adorable, and he didn’t need to say anything else for you to understand. Your face caught on fire from the inside. 

“Something?” You pressed. 

Had he only gotten aroused by your writing, or did he do something about it in the solitude of his room, too?

“You know exactly what I mean,” he replied, almost annoyed, yet there still was a tinge of sassiness in his tone. “It’s the whole reason you write, right? To evoke feelings in your writers. To leave… a permanent mark with your stories.”

“That’s a good thing, and you’re acting all defensive. You should be proud of me.”

“I am proud of you. I’m not proud of… what I felt.”

God, he truly was something else.

You would’ve told him this was exactly the kind of feedback that fed your soul, but you turned away from him and closed your eyes for a moment instead. 

“You’re acting so much like Fatima right now,” he softened his voice.

You loved Fatima, but you had to admit, being compared to her wasn’t really a compliment. 

 You faced him again, frowning, and with every new word that came out sharp as darts, you got closer to him. “How am I acting like her?”

“You made an argument out of thin air! Then you walked away just so I would run behind you and now you won’t look at me.” 

“We’re not arguing, and I’m not acting like her and I am looking at you.”

“You kind of look like her, too,” he pressed, and a smug smile flickered across his gorgeous face. 

“Oh, did you picture me when reading those scenes?” You raised your brows.

His face dropped, and a visible exhale slipped past those tempting lips.  

You crossed your arms over your chest, and walked until they bumped his torso. You couldn’t be any closer. 

“Busted,” you said. 

 “I told you your writing did something to me.”

“That’s what erotica does to people. You should read it more often.”

“No, I only felt that way because I knew your brain was behind all those scenes.”

“Okay, you can stop with the compliments now.”

“Satisfied?”

Tilting your chin up, you replied, “Yes.”

Something flashed through his eyes, something determined, and just when you decided to let this whole thing go, he cradled your face with both hands and threw himself at you. 

He kissed you, your recently praised brain went flatline, and the rest of your body would’ve gone with it if it wasn’t because he moved you to the desk for more leverage. 

“Sorry—” he pressed your noses together “—I’m so sorry. I know I said-”

“This is so unfair,” you complained through another kiss. “You can’t kiss me like this and expect me to go on with my life.”

“I know.” He kissed you back, scooping you by your thighs and perched you over the desk. You slung your arms around his neck. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’ve been very helpful,” you said. Kissed him once more. “Thank you.”

“I’m glad I could help,” he replied to every kiss. “And I can’t wait to read it once it’s published.” 

“Thank you.” 

You wrapped your legs around his thighs and brought him closer to you. 

“I can’t have sex with you,” he said through another breathy kiss full of sex.

“But-”

“I just can’t.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re married.” You pulled back.

“I’m not, I’m not.” 

His hands roamed all over the sides of your body. He had no right touching you like this if he wasn’t going to fuck you right here over this desk.

“I can’t have sex with you,” he repeated. “But let me kiss you, please.”

“So kisses are okay?” You kissed him. 

“No.” He kissed you back, sucking your bottom lip. “They’re not.”

“What are you doing, then?”

This tiny room encapsulated every noise you and him made. Every kiss, every breath, wrapped around you, which only made this no-fucking situation much more difficult to follow. 

“I don’t know.” He shook his head and pressed your foreheads together. His hands found a more appropriate place on your upper back. He was in so much struggle. You stole a quick peck hoping it’d calm down some of it. “I’d rather not think about the consequences.”

“There won’t be consequences if we’re not seen.” You kissed him again. “Let me take you to my bedroom.”

“God, no. That’d definitely get me in trouble.” 

Then he kept on kissing you like these kisses would be enough. As much as you hated it, you understood why he couldn’t sleep with you. So these kisses had to be enough.

One hand kept your face firm so you’d receive all of his almost violent kisses—his tongue tracing the seam of your lips with so much hunger, groaning through them—while the other dared to travel down and clutch your hip once.

It quickly turned into an endless stream of desperate kisses but shy touches. His hands remained above your hips, and yours stayed tangled in his hair. 

If this was all you and him were meant to be, then be it. You were happy here, kissing your Wes, and getting glimpses of his bright mind just how you’d dreamed of. 

“God, I can’t believe you’re real,” you murmured. “Are you real?”

The kisses stopped, but your cheeks and noses and lips kept dragging together. 

“What? Why?”

“You look just like Wesley,” you confessed. “It’s like you came right out of my brain.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“Did you picture me while writing?” 

His tone changed then. It wasn’t his usual matter-of-fact way of speaking. It was all warm and curious because for once, he was the one waiting to be enlightened. 

“Mhm,” was all you managed to give him on your way to another kiss. 

And it was like that quiet sound shifted something in him. He opened his mouth even more and clutched one hand to the base of your skull to bring you closer and practically glue your mouths and tongues together. His hands were no longer shy; the other one cupped your cunt from the front over your jeans and pushed up with the heel of his hand. It was weak, barely anything, but it was enough to pull a moan out of you. 

“We’re definitely crossing a line now.” He moved his lips to your jaw.  

“I’m not crossing anything,” you teased, tilting your head to the side. “This is absolutely right for me.”

When your hand reached his neck again, his own pressed your cunt with the heel, and even though you were getting the friction you much needed, you were clenching around nothing. Your cunt ached.

“Please touch me,” you breathed out. Spencer pushed his hand up harder. “It’s just touching.”

“I can’t.”

“Would you watch me, then?” You asked, undoing the first button of your jeans. “Talk me through it while I do it? It’s just watching,” you said. “No sex. No touching.”

“Just watching,” he echoed you in a whisper. 

Yeah, you encouraged him. You unzipped your jeans and with his help, dragged them down completely until you were only in your panties over the desk. 

This was so unlike you. You’d never even been close to a heated make-out in a public space and now you were about to touch yourself. 

“Just watching,” he said again, while still settled between your legs but not too close, just to watch. 

You leaned your back on the wall and touched yourself over your panties first, and you watched him. His mouth parted and his chest heaved with excitement. The rest of his excitement was thick inside his pants. 

“I’m gonna come so fast,” you confessed, rubbing your clit over the damp fabric.  

“That’s okay.” Spencer lifted his gaze and caressed both of your knees at the same time. “You know exactly how to do it.”

”Do you wanna see me?” You slid your fingers inside from the side but didn’t quite pull your panties, so your cunt was still unknown for him. He dragged his burning palms up and down your thighs and nodded eagerly, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. “Help me take them out.”

Nodding again, Spencer obeyed, hooking his fingers over the thin hems of your panties and dragged them down to your mid thighs.

“Oh, f-” he shut his eyes and threw his head back, taking a deep breath. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Your fingers got to work right away, and only replied by letting him hear how wet you were. You gathered your arousal, slapped your cunt for him, and rubbed repeatedly until the wet sounds was all he could hear. 

This was evil, you were well aware, but you believed in him. That he could stay true to his words and not fuck you. Not that you didn’t want him to. 

“Spencer,” you murmured, plunging two fingers inside up to your knuckles. “Fuck.”

 He brought his attention back to you, between your legs, and finished taking off your panties. He tucked them in his pocket. 

“You must feel so good,” he said.

“Mhm.” You nodded, mirroring his frown. “It’s so soft, just how you’d describe it. My fingers are dripping.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” He ducked his head lower to get a better look. You plunged your fingers in and out, deeper, and purposely made the wet sounds louder just for his delight. “Does it feel good?”

“I’d rather have your cock inside me.”

“I can’t.” He pleaded you with his eyes. “You know I can’t.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t want to, right?” You plunged faster and deeper. Your palm bumped your clit. “You’d fuck me if you could?”

“Of course.” He took your free hand and guided it to his erection. “Here. Feel me. Doesn’t that tell you how much I want you right now?”

Your cunt clenched around your fingers at that mere touch. 

“Shit, Spencer.” The pleasure spread from your clit to your cunt around your fingers. You stopped fully and edged yourself. “I don’t see how this is any different from sex.” 

“I’m not doing anything.” He leaned forward and captured your mouth into a wet kiss. His agitated breathing got trapped in your throat. “I’m just watching. Listening your pretty moans. This is totally fine.”

Spencer, you whined, and went back to finger yourself, in and out, so wet, so loud. He grabbed your jaw and kept your face tilted up so you’d stare at him while the pleasure built up and grew and spread all over you. 

Your whole body jolted once. Your breathing hitched.  

“That’s it”, he said. “Not so loud, okay?”

You nodded, and muffled your sounds by biting your bottom lip. When there was no chance to edge yourself again, you only focused on your clit and rubbed it until that exquisite, so familiar flutter spread through you.

That’s it, he said again. 

Then, every bit of you jerked along with your harsh breathing, and you tried your best to keep your eyes glued to him and not moan. 

“I wish I could feel you,” he encouraged you through a whisper, and you reached the peak of your pleasure with his voice deep in you. Your back arched, the heel of your feet dug against the back of his thighs, your toes tensed, and your moans—

He kissed the sounds right out of your mouth. 

Even when he wasn’t touching you, this orgasm—shit, Spencer, you whispered—belonged to him. It was all him. Your cunt spasmed; your heart fluttered at the same rhythm, while you rubbed yourself a few more times until you twitched away from your own touch agitatedly. 

Your sight was blurry and your brain fogged up for a moment.

“Give me your hand,” he said, and your eyes fluttered open. 

Spencer reached for your wrist as you were still coming out of the bliss, and brought your fingers up to his mouth, sucking them clean with his eyes closed and a delighted hum.

What an obscene sight. 

You couldn’t wait to write it down. 

A small venue at a hotel. For a hundred people at most, and you didn’t expect to have every seat taken.

But they all were, and even more people stood in the back.

The spot light had been on you for the past twenty minutes, and despite this—an official book signing event—was entirely new to you, you liked to think you were thriving well under the attention.

You had your best friends sitting on the first row, and they were all you needed to be confident. 

You hadn’t stuttered your answers, until: 

“Will we ever know who the dedication was about?”

 Instant giggling came from some and whistling and other teasing sounds from others. 

Heat rushed to your face. You had to lower the mic.

“Should we read the dedication?” The host encouraged the audience. 

You pressed your lips together as she read:

To my special boy who helped me bring Wes to life, you know who you are. I’m forever grateful. 

More whistling and teasing blared around.

Every time you remembered the dedication, your stomach twisted with regret. It felt right when you wrote it, because you genuinely wouldn’t have done it without him, but after months of not hearing a thing from him, your dedication sounded desperate for his attention. 

That whole week with him changed the trajectory of your life, and you genuinely were forever grateful. You wouldn’t be here at a book signing event promoting your book and meeting the people who made this possible if he hadn’t shown up.

 ’The end of all the endings’ came out traditionally published a month ago, after almost a year of blood, sweat, and tears. It all happened too fast, but you still managed to invite Spencer through a text to the private book launch party your friends organized (because yes, after that heated… moment in the computer room, he kissed you some more, walked you to your bedroom like a gentleman, and kissed your cheek goodbye as if he hadn’t just sucked your arousal from your fingers), to which he replied: 

I’m so honored, but I won’t be able to make it. 

You longed to see him again, so his reply was a punch to your gut. He did send you a bouquet, though, with the note: I’m crazy proud. 

Then you didn’t hear anything new from him. But you dreamed of him, even after all this time. 

“Our girl is having some flashbacks,” the host voice cut through your thoughts.

Laughter came from the audience. 

“Nonono! I… I haven’t heard from him in a long time,” you answered in full honesty. “So I don’t think I should give him more credit than the dedication.”

“Do you think he knows about it?”

“I know he does. I’m not sure if he took it well, though.”

“Of course he did,” the host said. “I’m sure a lot of us here would die to have our own Wes in our lives…”

They jumped to the next question, then the next, and by the last one, you were so ready for an ibuprofen and an iced coffee. 

The mic was passed on to the very back of the venue, and you adjusted your vision but the bright lights facing you were nearly blinding. 

“Hello, oh—” the mic made a high-pitched sound. “Sorry, hi.”

That voice… it sounded familiar. 

Your writing, it did something to me.

I am proud of you, I’m not proud of what I felt.

I can’t have sex with you, but let me kiss you, please.

You shifted on your seat and held your composure when the lights turned to him.

“Hi,” you replied.

What the hell was he doing here?

“Hello,” Spencer repeated. Even from here you could see his adorable nose twitch. “First of all, thank you for doing this. I know a lot of us really wanted to see you—again—, um, my question is, two questions, actually. How much research went into creating Wesley and Fatima, we know both are lawyers and their professional interactions feel pretty legitimate, and two, do you have anything new in the works? If so, any interesting researches?” There was a five second pause, then he added, “Those were three questions, sorry.”

“No worries,” you replied nonchalantly, as if you weren’t choking to ask him some questions of your own, like, ‘what the hell are you doing here?’, and ‘how hard is it to answer a text?’. 

You cleared your throat and put all those feelings aside, then went on about how one of your best friends was a lawyer—while you gestured at her in the crowd—and how she helped you through all of the scenes that took place at the law firm in the book. 

“And about the second and third question… I do have something in the works already, and without spoiling anything, my most interesting research so far has been, how to beat someone at chess in three moves? I guess?”

You shielded the bright lights lowering your brows and locked eyes with Spencer in the crowd. You couldn’t hold back your what-the-fuck face. He just mouthed a Sorry. 

The host’s voice echoed around the venue again, and with Spencer’s questions, she wrapped up the Q&A section. 

You handed your phone to your friends so there wouldn’t be any distractions during the book signing at the book store. You wouldn’t have done that, though, if you knew Spencer would text you: 

Is it okay if I wait for you until your event ends?

“Why is a Dr. Spencer Reid texting you and why does he want to meet you after?” Marina (the lawyer) subtly asked you as you settled on your chair, ready to start the signing. She placed an iced coffee next to your sharpies. She knew all about Dr. Spencer Reid. Let’s say she wasn’t a huge fan of him. “I thought you had him blocked.”

“What? No, why would I block him?”

“Because he ghosted you?”

You rolled your eyes at her. “It wasn’t like that. We just lost contact, is all. Now, whoosh! And text him back a ‘yes’, please.”

“‘Yes, please?’ Excuse me?”

“Just ‘Yes’! The please was me asking yo— never mind.”

The last part of the event began, and it went by so very slow. 

You loved meeting everyone, getting to know their names, and sign their books, but seeing Spencer after almost a year of not hearing anything about him at all messed with your head and yet, you couldn’t hate him for it.

Because you still believed he could be the love of your life.

Stupidly so. 

By the time you signed the last copy and all of your readers were gone, your body started to feel the exhaustion. 

“We have a dinner reservation at ten.” Marina handed your phone back, and gestured with her eyes behind you. “Don’t take too long.”

You turned around, and there he was, handsome as ever, waiting for you. Your heart fluttered. 

You motioned for him to follow you to the shelves at the very back for more privacy. Once it was the two of you between the cooking and history books, you finally spoke:

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he replied. 

“Thank you for the questions.” You crossed your arms and leaned on the book shelf, looking up at him. 

He took a step closer. “You okay?”

“It’s been a long day. Fun, but exhausting.”

“I can imagine. You’re so official now.” He took a copy of your book from his messenger bag and handed it to you along with a pen. 

“You want me to sign it?”

“Of course.”

You bit back a smile, shaking your head, but signed it anyway, right below the dedication and without the heart you’d given everyone. 

“I’m sorry for disappearing on you,” he softened his voice. You closed the book and handed it back. You replied with a mouth twitch. What were you supposed to say? “I… I should’ve explained.”

Your tongue clicked. “Nah, not really.”

“But I should’ve.” He tugged his wallet out from his pocket and showed you a picture of a little girl. A classic school picture, with a light blue background, which accentuated her colorful outfit—a brown overall with a yellow cardigan over it. She was an exact copy of him. Warm, kind eyes and the cutest little button nose. She couldn’t be more than five years old. “Her name is Sadie.”

You swallowed thickly. “You have a kid?”

Spencer nodded. “It’s been just her and I for the past six years.”

You pressed your lips together and tore your eyes way. There was a whole story behind him confessing he was a single father, and by his tone, you could only guess it was something so sacred to him. 

“I understand. It’s complicated.”

“It is, and I… forgot how to do this, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.” 

“Do what?”

“Um, get to know someone?” His brows flickered up. “Or, letting someone in.”

“We’re not strangers.”

“My point is, I’m not just me. If something goes wrong, my heart is not the only one I’ll have to mend, so I have to be careful. I’ve been careful, ever since she came into my life. And I’m here now, and I am being careful.” He scanned your face, waiting for an answer, but as it didn’t come, he added, “What I’m saying is, I want to be there for your next book, and every book that comes after, if you let me.”

Your eyes fluttered closed. You took a deep breath. This was… a lot to process. But he was here. He came all the way from Virginia to your book launching event to explain himself because he hadn’t stopped thinking about you either, then practically confessed he wanted to be around every day for the rest of your life.

“I’d love to tell you all about my new book.” You reached for his hand and laced your fingers together. “And every book that comes after.”

Spencer brought your hands up to his lips and kissed your knuckles as if to say thank you. 

You knew it wasn’t this simple, but for now, it was enough. 

The ending with the book event felt so silly to write but also was so fun assfjskal. My girl deserved to be an appreciated published author 🙂‍↔️

Fic anthem is King Of My Heart by Taylor Swift. Please listen to it

Anyway, please let me know what you think! I'd love to read your comments or feedback, through a reblog or an ask or anything. It helps me a lot 💋

“So…the Chris from this dimension is–”

“A piece of shit,” the other Adrian completes the sentence for you, sounding more like a factual statement rather than a simple opinion on the guy. “He might be the worst of all in his family too, which is saying a lot.”

“Holy shit,” your Adrian mutters under his breath after hearing the insane amount of information you were able to gather in this one single conversation. “It’s a good thing our Chris killed him then.”

“Wait, Christopher Smith is dead?”

“Oh, well, yeah. Maybe we should’ve mentioned it sooner. That’s why the Chris from our universe is here in the first place,” he continues, leaning forward on the table as if he’s about to tell the most entertaining story ever. “He killed him and basically took his place here. And I helped dismember and burn his corpse!”

The little laugh he lets out at the end is as concerning as it is amusing. The other Adrian joins in on the excitement, both of them having the exact same body language as they talk about the disposal of a body. It’s as if they're exchanging Pokemon cards or something equally as mundane and non-criminal.

“Dude, that’s so awesome! I wish I could’ve been there to see that.”

“I know, right? I would’ve taken a picture or something to show you, but I didn’t know you then, and Chris had this weird expression on his face that made me feel like taking my phone out would be a little inappropriate."

“It really is a good thing that he’s gone,” your alternate self agrees shortly after, seemingly unbothered by the conversation that was just taking place about the dead body. “But what I really struggle to understand is why would your Chris want to come here out of all places. I mean, I would much rather be in a place that isn’t ruled by fascists.”

You and Adrian inevitably exchange a knowing look at that last statement. “I’m afraid our reality is going in that direction, unfortunately,” you mutter with a tired sigh. “And about Chris, he doesn’t exactly have the most functional of families. His brother died when they were kids and his dad was an abusive piece of shit– whom he also killed, and I guess seeing his family so united made him want to live here rather than in our world.”

“So this guy killed his dad and then himself?” the other Adrian asks to make sure he’s getting the information right and you nod right after. “Sounds like he’s a little fucked in the head too.”

“Oh, we never said he wasn’t.”

Adrian agrees with you almost immediately. “Yeah, he has a fair share of issues, but he’s our friend and we want him to come back with us. Besides, I don’t think he even knows he’s stuck in Nazi-Land. I mean, if you guys hadn’t told us, we probably would’ve never figured it out.”

“Seriously?” your alternate version asks him in complete disbelief, arms crossed as she stares back at him. “Haven’t you noticed that everything outside looks incredibly bland and insufferably white?”

You’d be lying if you said the thought hasn’t crossed your mind at least once. The implications of being in a world where you have to act a certain way and especially look a certain way in order to be accepted in society. Of course you’ve thought about it, but it’s almost as if your brain has this need to protect you from that realization. It can’t be that awful. But yet again, it’s a fascist regime– there’s no way it’s not going to be awful.

The situation just gets a lot worse when you consider the fact that you guys left Adebayo back at the house where Nazi superheroes live. It’s just her and John in there, completely defenseless.

That very same realization is apparently starting to sink in for Adrian as well, concern increasing by the second. “Yeah, so, uh…funny story.”

“It’s not funny at all, actually” you add shortly after, also starting to grow increasingly concerned.

“That’s why I said it’s a funny story– people always say that when the thing they’re about to say it’s the complete opposite to funny.”

“Okay, whatever. We have to go back, like, right now.”

The other two sitting at the kitchen table look incredibly confused, noticing the concern written all over your features as both of you stand up from your seats. “What happened?”

“Well, we sort of left behind a friend of ours who’s technically black.”

Your other self stands up from the table almost immediately. “What do you mean 'technically'?"

The other Adrian is also standing up. “Like, you can’t tell they’re black, or–”

“No, you can fully tell.”

The two of them exchange a panicked look. “Yeah, we have to go now.”

All three of them are putting their masks on and now you’re officially surrounded by three Vigilantes all suited up, which is still something you’re not quite used to– especially when one of them is yourself. But weird or not, it’s a very nice gesture that they’re immediately willing to help you out on this, considering you just met.

“What would happen if they–”

“Don’t worry about that,” your other self cuts you off almost immediately, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “We won’t let it come to it.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

By the time you reach the Smith’s residence, the sun has already gone down, which helps a lot to stay hidden in the shadows. The four of you had to climb over the fence to avoid being anywhere near the insane amount of policemen that are currently wandering around the house. 

“That’s not a good sign,” you mutter, just as one of the Vigilantes (you can’t really tell which one because of the identical suits, but you guess it’s probably your Adrian) is helping you climb off the fence. You really didn’t need the extra help, but before you can even attempt to do it yourself, those pairs of hands are at your waist trying to make sure you land safely on the ground.

“I don’t think they’ve gotten to your friend yet.” Your alternate self is a little further ahead, having a clearer vision of what’s happening inside the property, being able to look over the trees and bushes you’re currently hiding at. “There aren’t as many cops as I originally thought. We can handle them just fine.”

All four of you walk further away from the fence until you start getting a clearer vision of the house. There’s way too many police cars outside the house and an even more ridiculous amount of policemen, looking like they don’t want to approach the house but are also refusing to leave just yet.

Continuing walking across the trees and brushes, you unexpectedly see two people standing before you, also hiding and examining the house’s surroundings. Relief flows over you when you realize it’s Adebayo, safe and sound, but you weren’t expecting her companion to be Judomaster. 

“Hey, Ads!” Adrian calls out, all of you finally stepping out of your hiding spot.

The two of them turn around at the sound of his voice. “What the actual fuck is going on?” Adebayo asks, clearly shocked at the sight of so many people standing before here. Her eyes travel from you to each of the other masked individuals. “Why are there three of you?”

“Oh, no. I’m actually her.”

“What the fuck?” Adebayo repeats, eyes glued to the other version of yourself, as if she really can’t believe this is happening right now.

She lets out a soft chuckle before removing her mask and revealing her identity, confirming she is in fact you. “Here, maybe this is less weird for you?” She offers kindly, but Adebayo is soon shaking her head.

“I don’t think anything can make this experience any less weird.”

“As if two annoying fuckers weren’t enough, now we have to deal with four,” Judomaster mutters in his usual annoyed voice, arms crossed as he examines all of you with an unamused expression.

“What is he doing here?” Adrian asks almost immediately, finally focusing on him as he takes one threatening step closer. Judomaster, completely unfazed, takes a step forward too until they’re face to face, Adrian towering over him. “I hate this fucking guy. This little fucking guy.” His tone is venomous, making it very clear that he does not like him. 

“Uh…yeah, what are you doing here with him?”

“And why weren’t you here?” he snaps back almost as soon as you ask that, barely turning to look at you. “Too busy with your fucked up foursome?”

“Hey, drop the attitude, Karate Kid, I’m just asking a fucking question.”

“Your boyfriend started it.”

“Yeah, and I’ll continue it if you don’t drop it,” you insist warningly, also deciding to take a step forward to make extra emphasis on your threat.

“Try me, bitch. I can keep going.”

Almost as soon as he said that, both masked Viligantes stepped in between the two of you, their body language letting all of you know they’re incredibly pissed off now. The other Adrian doesn’t really know how much of an annoying piece of shit Judomaster can be, but seeing how much both of you dislike him (and the fact that he just called you a bitch) seems to be enough for him to join whatever kind of argument this is.

“What the fuck did you just called her?” they ask in unison, one of them already reaching for one of his guns.

“Hey, that’s enough!” Adebayo intervenes in a hushed whisper, scared that this situation keeps escalating and turns into some kind of fight that would get all of you busted. “He’s alright, so calm down!”

The two of them don't seem to be convinced in the slightest, but decide to back down after Adebayo’s intervention, choosing to stop the little altercation for now. “Fine.”

You decide to let him be as well, walking to stand next to Adebayo. Still, you can’t help yourself as you point a threatening finger in Judomaster’s direction as you're walking towards her. “I’ll remember you called me a bitch.”

Judomaster rolls his eyes, turning back around to focus on the group of cops that are standing on the driveway. “Whatever, bitch.”

“Don’t push it,” Adebayo warns him this time, knowing she can only do so much to get all of you to back off. 

The other you follows your lead, and you notice the way Adebayo gives both of you a clearly freaked out look when you’re both standing at each side of her. You two look identical, after all, except for the Vigilante suit. 

“So, we should wait until the police is gone for good before we decide to enter the house,” you suggest in a whispered voice, going full stealth mode now as you try to come up with a plan.

“If the Trio– or Duo, should I say, is inside the house with your friends, I think we need to act right now,” the other you suggests shortly after, using that very same whispered voice. 

“But the cops might hear us if we try to get any closer.”

“Yeah, but we–”

“Hey, Ads,” Adrian interrupts your little chat. “Guess which one of us is me and which one is alternate-world me.”

“The one that is talking is you.”

“Well, she had a fifty-fifty chance,” the other him offers not too long after her answer.

“Can you believe his favorite Pokemon is also Infernape?”

Adebayo sighs, clearly over this conversation already. “I don’t really care.”

“How does Nazi World have Pokemon?” Judomaster asks, sounding as annoyed as ever.

“Japan was on Germany’s side,” you point out.

“Yeah, but these people hate everyone who isn’t white.”

“Actually, the US government gets along with Japanese officials just fine, as long as…you know, they stay on their side of the world and we stay in ours.”

“So the racists are fine with the people they hate so much as long as they’re on the same page and no one dares to interfere with each other’s business,” he mutters with obvious irony in his voice. “Sounds a lot like our world.”

“History lesson and politics aside for a sec,” Adebayo interrupts, getting everyone’s attention once again. “You were about to come up with a plan to get inside the house?” she asks, focusing on your alternate self.

“Oh, I was just going to say we can kill the cops and be done with it,” she replies bluntly, much to Adebayo’s surprise.

Both Adrians seem to be on board with the idea, immediately nodding in agreement. “Yeah, let’s kill the cops.”

Judomaster shrugs. “I’m cool with killing the cops.”

Horrified, Adebayo turns to look at you now, almost wishing you’d be the voice of reason in this situation, but she quickly realizes you might not be able to help her out on this one when you offer her a simple shrug. “I mean…”

“Oh my fucking God, we are not killing the cops! Can’t we just try to sneak in?”

No one dares to say anything, seemingly deciding to agree with that plan for now. Putting her mask back on, your other self decides to take the lead, guiding everyone across the bushes until a much secluded area where no cop could be able to see any of you.

All of you quickly make your way in the shadows until you’ve reached the exterior wall of the house, making sure to stay as close to it as possible as you approach the balcony that is located nearby.

Once all six of you are standing just below the balcony, Adebayo decides to ask, “Okay, so how are we–?”

“I got it!” Adrian says before she can finish, immediately jumping and disappearing out of sight. Trying to get him to stay right where he is it’s pointless. He’s gone before any of you can tell him not to do that. 

You don’t see exactly what happens, but you are able to hear the sound of glass breaking, a series of alarmed screams and a loud thud of some kind that immediately lets you know backup is needed.

The other two Vigilantes make it to the scene just a few seconds before you do, Adebayo and Judomaster following closely behind. Getting up to the balcony, you immediately rush into the house through the window, stopping dead in your tracks almost immediately when you’re met with a gruesome scene– Chris’ dad, completely unresponsive, blood pouring profusely out of his neck.

Keith is rushing towards his dad, holding him in his arms as he tries to stop the bleeding, but it’s obvious at this point that there’s absolutely nothing he can do. Nearby, a very traumatized-looking Chris is staring at his dad’s body like he’s relieving that fateful day where he had to witness that very same image.

“Chris, we gotta go!” Emilia frantically shouts, urging him to get up and follow her.

“He wasn’t a Nazi…” he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else in particular.

In all the frantic movement around you, you barely register the moment where your other self is handing you one of her weapons, placing it in your hand before she moves further inside the house.

You watch her approach a very freaked out Economos, immediately pulling out a knife to cut the rope that’s currently keeping him in a chair. “Hey, buddy. It’s fine. We’re here to help!”

“This is a very fucked up way of helping, but I’ll take it!” he exclaims, just then registering the masked stranger’s voice sounds awfully familiar, staring back at her with obvious curiosity. “Wait. Are you–”

“An alternate version of your friend?” she asks with a disturbingly cheerful and nonchalant voice, like there isn’t a dying man just a few feet from her. “That’s right. It’s very nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, likewise. I take it you’re a little bit of a psycho in this reality?”

“I take it you think you’re a clever little shit in yours?” she snaps back comically, already halfway done with the restraints. 

“Yeah, you guys sound exactly the same,” he offers bitterly, clearly not amused by her comeback.

Free from his restraints, Economos is immediately standing up from his seat, bringing his injured hand up to his chest as he mutters a quick curse under his breath at the pain. 

“Everybody back to the trophy room, now!” Emilia shouts yet again, insisting you need to get the hell out of this world as soon as possible.

The group is barely able to make it to the next room before the cops that were outside in the driveway burst through the front door. Almost immediately, the defenseless hide behind the large leather couch that’s inside the room to shield themselves from the gunshots being fired, while the ones currently armed fight back.

It’s the two yous and the two Adrians shooting at the cops, creating a good enough defense so the others could make a run for it. Between all of you, it’s pretty easy to take down every policeman that gets inside the house, and the rest of the group manages to make it inside the trophy room completely unharmed.

With the last few cops down, you finally start making your way towards that room, before you hear an unexpected gunshot and a piercing scream coming from Adebayo. “Adrian!” she shouts, watching the exact same moment her friend gets shot in the arm.

It’s almost instinctive. You don’t really think about what you’re doing until you’re already firing multiple shots at the guy who just hurt him, and by the time you realize it’s probably a little too much, you don’t really care because he hurt him. The other Adrian and the other you don't seem to care either, firing repeated shots at this cop as well.

Adebayo helps Adrian while the three of you finally decide to leave that cop alone, starting to head towards the trophy room too. Your other self lets you get in first, both her and the other Adrian guarding the entrance to be extra sure that all the officers are dead.

“Get back you fucking pigs!” you hear him yell. “Sons of Liberty forever!” he adds shortly after, and the alternate version or yourself can’t help but let out a cheerful scream in response.

Inside the trophy room, you immediately rush over to where Adrian is standing. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it barely grazed my arm…I think,” he replies, but you barely register his words as you frantically examine him, as if you fear there’s any other injuries on him that you’re not aware of. “Hey,” he adds shortly after, noticing your growing concern. “I’ll live. It’s okay.”

You offer him a not-so-conviced look, but the fact that he’s not collapsing to the ground or showing any visible signs of an alarmingly bleed out wound is a good enough sign to get you to calm down for now.

Emilia is already waiting for everyone at the door, urging you to get inside. Judomaster, Adebayo and John walk right inside the portal without thinking twice about it, but Chris seems to be somewhere else entirely, perhaps still too affected by the image of his dead dad and everything that has taken place in the last couple of hours to function properly.

“Chris, come on!” she shouts desperately, finally getting him to snap out of it.

He tries to walk over to the door, but before he can get there, Keith is unexpectedly bursting through one of the walls to catch him, preventing him from getting anywhere. Soon enough, a fight between them starts. It’s not a surprise that Keith is being incredibly aggressive and violent, and it’s only after Eagly’s intervention that the rest of you find a way to intervene in the altercation.

When Chris’ brother is stumbling backwards after Eagly manages to destabilize him, Emilia is the first one to rush over him, wrapping both arms around his neck. It doesn’t take too long before everyone else is above him– Adebayo and Judomaster help to hold him back on one side while John holds his other arm back, Adrian is taking the chance to stab him a few times, and you aim the gun at one of his legs, shooting him in a particular spot that probably won’t be lethal, but it’ll ensure that he stays on the ground for good.

“STOP!” Chris’ piercing scream could be heard almost as soon as you fired that shot, the sound of his voice so broken and distressed it makes all of you immediately freeze in your spot as you turn to look at him. “Get off him!”

You all do as told, taking several steps back from his brother as he falls limb to the floor, Chris immediately crawling towards him to check if he’s okay. Evidently, he’s in a terrible condition, and it’s only when you realize the sheer panic in your friend’s eyes at the sight of Keith that you finally realize the depth of the horrors that you’re experiencing– horrors that you all keep contributing to.

“What the fuck is wrong with all of us?” he shouts, a mixture of anger, disappointment and disgust as he looks around the room. No one dares to answer him, and he doesn’t seem to be waiting for any sort of reply as he immediately focuses back on his brother. “I’m so sorry. I’m– everything I touch– it’s not your world that’s wrong, or mine. It’s me.”

He breaks down, sobbing in a way that’s heartbreaking and nerve wracking, leaning down to hug his barely-conscious brother as he keeps muttering a series of apologies. The group allows him a few seconds to have that moment with him, knowing how much he probably needs it at the moment, but it doesn’t take Adebayo too long before she’s approaching Chris again, gently resting a hand on his shoulder.

“Chris…” she starts softly, “we have to go.”

Hesitating just for a moment, he finally stands up from the ground, leaving his brother behind and accepting to step back into the portal with Adebayo’s help. One by one, everyone starts to walk past that very same doorway too, hurriedly trying to leave before more police arrives at the scene.

“I think this goodbye calls for a group hug,” the alternate Adrian suggests cheerfully, and you really can’t bring yourself to argue about it because why the fuck not. This is the last time you’ll ever see each other anyway so, soon enough, the four of you are engaging in a group hug that lasts just a few seconds, but it feels like a core memory you’ll have forever– incredibly fucked up experience, but memorable to say the least.

“I hope you guys make it back safely,” your other self offers, right after the hug ends.

“I hope you guys stay safe here,” is what you offer back, immediately earning you a very confident nod from her.

“Oh, we’ll be just fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Waving one last time at the two of them, you and Adrian finally decide to follow after the others too, Emilia being the only one left to close the door behind her and disappear from this reality for good.

It’s only been a few seconds before you hear a series of gunshots, barely able to register what is happening as you turn around to see Emilia on the ground and the other Adrian kicking the door shut.

Despite the unexpected turn of events and the uncertainty of what might be going on right now inside that house, you know better than to stand there trying to figure it out. Instead, you both help Emilia up, starting to run as fast as you can to catch up with the others.

Relief washes over you when you're all finally back in Adrian's basement, Chris closing the portal for good. Still, that initial sense of tranquility and accomplishment doesn't last too long when you walk upstairs to encounter a very freaked out Mrs. Chase rushing towards all of you.

She's trying to get an explanation as to why there's so many cars with red and blue lights outside her house (and why do all of you look like you've been in some sort of altercation), but none of you offer the answers she's seeking as you simply head for the front door.

As soon as you step outside the house, you realize the street is filled with an insane amount of armed people aiming at the group, but none of you seem too fazed by it as you stand your ground confidently.

To no one’s surprise, Judomaster is quickly switching sides, going to stand with the A.R.G.U.S. agents. What is surprising and unexpected is watching Chris throw the portal right by Flag’s feet, giving it up without him having to demand it.

You offer your friends a questioning look, but his eyes are glued to the man standing before him, who’s quite frankly looking a bit surprised by this turn of events as well. “That’s what you’re looking for,” he says, voice deprived of every sort of emotion. “The rest of them came and got me and convinced me to give it to you.”

The entire group is looking at him in complete disbelief, not understanding what the hell is he doing right now. The only thing that’s clear is that he looks awfully set on the decision he just made, completely at peace with the idea of taking full responsibility for everything that happened.

“Is that right, Rip?”

You can see the slight hesitation in Judomaster’s expression after Rick asks him that, but any trace of doubt disappears soon enough from his face. “Yeah.”

That’s all it takes for the General to put down his gun, stepping forward to roughly grab Chris’ wrist, bringing it up to his back before he does the same with the other one, dragging him back to one of the many cars parked outside the house, giving a silent instruction to one of the agents with a short tilt of his head before letting the other guy take over.

Helplessly, you watch as Chris is being arrested right in front of you, having absolutely no idea how to get out of this particular situation.

For once, you feel absolutely hopeless.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It took a few couple of minutes to get Adrian's mom to calm down after everything she witnessed, and a few extra minutes to explain exactly what the hell was all of that. All it took was “it's all classified” and “government stuff” to get her constant questions to stop. The poor woman was freaked out enough, knowing the best choice would be to stay out of it, not really wanting to get herself involved in anything dangerous. You and Adrian reassured her that the less she knows the better.

She drank one of her tea infusions and some medication that would surely knock her out for the night before going to bed. Once you’ve made sure she did manage to fall asleep, the two of you decided to head back to your apartment.

The others had already left at that point, the disappointment in every single member of the group evident after watching the way they took Chris away. Aside from that, it was clear by the look on everyone’s faces that they were all in dying need of immediate rest.

Of course you'll try everything you can to get your friend out of the current predicament he is in, but for now, perhaps it's better to go home. It's the only way to clear your heads and start planning something that's actually going to work to get Chris out of trouble.

You're forcing Adrian to take off his suit as soon as you're inside your apartment, wanting to make sure the wound on his arm is really nothing to worry about. “Sit,” you order him, pointing at the couch in the living room as you make your way over to it, first-aid kit in hand.

He's still in his Vigilante suit from the waist down. The chest plate and everything else from his gear is on the floor, leaving him in just a white tee with no sleeves. 

Fuck him and his fucking shirt. You're supposed to be focusing on the blood on his arm, not on how good his arms look right now. Or how much you want to bite his biceps.

Fuck.

“Told you it wasn't that bad,” he points out, completely unaware of the fact that you're about to drool at the sight of him wearing this shirt.

Eventually, you force yourself to focus on the wound. It really isn't as bad as you initially feared it would be. From the looks of it, the bullet grazed his skin, leaving behind a wound worth taking care of but luckily nothing that requires stitches or anything more complicated.

You start cleaning around the wound, trying to be extra careful with the alcohol-soaked cotton ball whenever it reaches a spot that would probably hurt him most if you were to press hard enough. Thankfully, he barely even squirms or complains about any potential discomfort, making the task a lot easier than you anticipated.

Inevitably, your mind wanders back to what happened earlier, wanting to address it out loud. “I wasn't expecting Chris to do that,” you mutter, still in disbelief of what happened. “Taking all the blame, I mean.”

“Yeah, that sucked. I wish he could've given us a heads-up before he did it. That way we would've been able to tell him it was a very stupid idea.”

You can't help but laugh dryly at that. “Yeah, it was a terrible idea.”

“But we're getting him out of there, right?”

“Of course,” you reply almost too quickly, wanting to leave that completely clear. There's not a single scenario where you don't try at least something. “I don't know what, but…we'll figure it out. We always do.”

“Oh, we can totally just do a prison break.” His voice sounds as if that idea should've already crossed your mind by now. As if it's the obvious choice. “It's easy.”

“Maybe we can try something that won't be getting us in any more trouble.”

“Right. Well, if nothing works, we have my plan.”

“Babe, we are not doing a prison break.”

“Why not?”

His whiny voice and the little pout he offers you makes you laugh, playfully rolling your eyes as you start to put a bandage over his wound. It doesn't look like it's going to bleed profusely if you leave it unattended, but it's better to be extra careful. It’ll help to avoid any uncomfortable friction without that barrier.

Almost done with your work, it's a little bit difficult to ignore the goofy smile on Adrian's face, his entire attention fully focused on you. “What?”

He shrugs, smiles never once fading. If anything, it grows bigger when your eyes meet his. “Nothing. You're just really pretty and I like when you take care of me. Also, you're sitting very close so that's, like, great.”

“Great,” you repeat, finding it hilarious and somehow incredibly sweet that the word ‘great’ defines what it feels to have you so close to him. It's just a very Adrian thing to say. “You're adorable.”

“Does that make me a good enough candidate to get a kiss?”

“Absolutely,” you reply, leaning in just a little closer to give him the kiss he just asked for. “You can get as many kisses as you want.”

“Really? Cool, cause I kinda want like a thousand of those tonight. And tomorrow. And every single day.”

That comment makes you giggle, giving him yet another kiss that lasts just a little longer than the previous one. “Lucky you,” you mutter against his lips. “I kinda want the same thing.”

Adrian places a hand on the side of your neck, thumb softly caressing your cheek. “We’re so perfect for each other,” he offers back, right before crashing his lips against yours again.

This time is anything but short or gentle. His hand moves to the back of your head now, fingers tangling in your hair and pulling just enough to make you forget about everything stressful that has happened today. There's a particularly hard pull that makes you gasp and Adrian takes that to his advantage to slide his tongue past your lips, exploring your mouth with a concerning hunger– as if he's been deprived of the privilege of kissing you for years and years.

It's only when he pulls you onto his lap that you finally seem to snap out a little out of it, moving back from the kiss and immediately focusing on his wound. “Wait, I’m not done–”

“Mmmh, I think you are,” he cuts you off, immediately capturing your mouth in another seething kiss that lasts just a few seconds, impatient lips traveling down to your neck now. “I mean, don't get me wrong, I appreciate how attentive you've been,” he continues, the soft breath that hits your skin making you shiver, “but right now I need you to take care of me in other ways.”

It's not fair that he does and says all of this, because it's obvious you won't be able to argue back. Not when his hands grip your hips so firmly and his teeth lightly graze your pulse point to make any sort of resistance crumble almost instantly.

“I thought we were going to bed as soon as I was done patching you up?”

He practically hums against your neck, urging your body as close as possible. “You want me to take you to bed?”

The comment makes you sigh, feeling your body temperature rising to a concerning level. “You're a menace.”

When Adrian moves back just enough to look at you, it's impossible to resist the urge to give him a short kiss on his lips. “It's your fault,” he argues in a soft voice, sounding so incredibly content with you sitting on his lap. “You make me a menace.”

“Hey. I was just trying to take care of your injury,” you point out, trying to act offended at the fact that he's accusing you of making things escalate. Of course, that couldn't be further from the truth. He can't keep his hands to himself. That's what happened.

“Thank you, by the way.”

You give him another kiss right after. “You're welcome. Can I finish now?”

The way he rolls your eyes in playful annoyance makes you smirk, but you decide not to say anything, choosing to focus on covering up the wound as you initially intended. When you're done, you're finally standing up from his lap, much to his obvious disappointment.

“Thank you,” he says yet again, watching as you put everything back in the first-aid kit.

“No need to thank me.” Pausing briefly, you take an extra second to check him out before offering him an innocent smile, “that shirt is enough ‘thank you’ for me.”

“Perv.” The accusation is playful, but his little smile lets you know he liked receiving that subtle compliment. “You were totally staring right now.”

“I know I was. I think I'm allowed to stare.”

“Okay, now I'm starting to feel like an object.”

You can't help but laugh at that, the conversation seemingly ending there when you go back to the bathroom to put the kit back in its place. Returning to the living room shortly after, you watch Adrian leaning back on the couch, seemingly waiting for you to join him.

He turns around to fully look at you when you do take a seat next to him. “You know, as shitty as the outcome was tonight, I think it was very cool that we got to meet ourselves today, don’t you think?” he comments casually.

You’ve been thinking about that meeting a lot more than you would like to admit. Of course it was a once-in-a-lifetime sort of experience and it was weirdly fun, but it also…brought some things into perspective. As much as you don’t want to feel insecure, you can’t help it. The need to compare both relationships is inevitable, especially when you’re the exact same couple from different universes.

The fact that the other you took the initiative (and got rejected in the process, and didn’t give up) is a strange thing to hear, but it shouldn’t be surprising– is there a universe in which you wouldn’t fall for Adrian? Of course there isn’t. It just wouldn't make any sense. It’s a bit difficult not to feel a bit frustrated that this version of you wasted so much time trying to ignore something that feels very much like destiny. Why was it so easy for her, but not for you? 

Still with that heavy, sinking feeling haunting you, you offer him a light shrug. “Yeah, it was very cool.”

Adrian leans further back, eyes narrowing with a soft smile on his face as he studies you. “There's something bothering you.”

“Maybe the fact that Chris is going to jail?” 

“Yeah, maybe…but there's something more, isn't it?”

You scoff, trying to avoid making eye contact a little too much because you don’t like feeling like you’re under scrutiny. “Jeez, you're like a mind reader now or something?”

The comment makes him chuckle softly, noticing you’re starting to get defensive about it, which only helps to solidify his initial suspicion. “I mean, it would be awesome to have that superpower. I’m always between that and flying. But I think I know you well enough.”

Sighing, you finally look up into his eyes again, and he's immediately offering you another soft smile to reassure you that it's okay to tell him whatever is on your mind.

“It’s just– after meeting us, I've been thinking…”

“Okay…”

You notice his voice is laced with slight concern, maybe thinking of your reluctance to talk about it as a bad sign. Wanting to put an end to that worry, you reach out to grab his hand. “That version of me looked so…certain, you know? And it's not like I’m not certain about us– of course I am, but…it seems like she always knew she’d end up with you.”

He chuckles softly, still a bit confused but wanting to keep the conversation as light as possible. “Yeah, I guess. I can't believe I rejected you not once but twice.”

“Yeah, and meanwhile it took this version of me like a year of friendship and a few extra months apart to figure it out,” you insist, visibly frustrated. “So…I don’t know. It got me thinking that perhaps you deserve someone a little more like the other me– someone who’s always been sure about you.”

Adrian’s smile widens just enough, his eyes fixated on your concerned features. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“Not one bit. It never even crossed my mind, to be honest. I don’t really care if you’ve always been sure about me or not, I just care that you’re sure now.”

You look down, focusing on your hand holding his own in your lap. “I’m very sure.”

“I know, and that’s really all I need. Who cares if it took us way longer than the other us to get together? It doesn’t mean that what we have is less awesome. Being with you it’s, like, one of the top three best things that has ever happened to me for sure! I wouldn’t change a thing, you know? I wouldn’t change anything about the way things happened or about you. I love you exactly the way you– uh, I mean– not like– wait.”

It feels like the Earth has stopped spinning the second you hear that word slipping out of his mouth before he can fully process he’s actually saying it out loud. Eyes snap up to meet his own, heart starts to beat just a little faster, and your entire existence feels like it’s about to change forever just because of that tiny little word. How can four letters hold such an immense amount of power when they come from the right person?

You’re static, shocked, excited. Taking a few seconds, you wonder if he really just said that or if you somehow imagined it. The expression on his face, a mixture of surprise and embarrassment, lets you know that it's very much true– that word really came out of his mouth.

“What did you just say?” you ask is a quiet whisper, desperate to decipher if this is really happening or not.

“What? Oh– yeah, just…top three best things that has ever happened?”

“After that.”

“Uh…that I wouldn’t change a thing?”

“Adrian.”

“What?”

“Did you just say that you–?”

“Honestly, I don’t really remember what we were talking about. It happens sometimes. Like an unexpected and weird sort of memory loss and I just can’t recall the last few minutes of any conversation. Maybe it’s genetic, I don’t know, but it’s– okay, that’s a dumb excuse.” Now he’s the one who doesn’t dare to look at you, feeling like he just said something he absolutely shouldn’t have said out loud. “Did I make it weird?”

“I don’t think you did, but…I feel like we need to address it.”

He looks almost defeated at this point, like whatever he says it’s only going to make the situation even worse. For a split moment, you have the vague impression that he’s going to try to make up another excuse, but it seems like he’s changing his mind at the last minute, choosing to come clean instead.

“I mean, of course I’m in love with you,” he mutters, finally daring to look up. Even when mortified to admit it, the truth comes out as if it’s something he can’t hide any longer. Like trying to keep it to himself is going to be an impossible mission that he’ll end up failing anyway. “I think I’ve loved you for a while now, but ever since that night, it sort of…multiplied exponentially or something, and it just keeps growing and growing. I didn’t want to say anything because I know it’s too soon and that's a thing only intense guys do– and I know intense guys are probably a big turn off, so…I don’t know. If you don’t want to see me ever again, I completely understand.”

The drastic conclusion of that statement inevitably makes you chuckle a little, shaking your head almost immediately. “I don’t think there’s many things that you could say or do to get me to feel like I don’t want you around anymore. And this is definitely not one of them.”

What happens next comes almost naturally to you, leaning in closer until your mouth finds his own in a kiss that should prove to him you want him around forever. His hands reach out to touch your body, one holding your waist and the other resting on your thigh, eagerly responding to your kiss. 

As you allow yourself to explore your own feelings, you’re quickly realizing that you can’t run from the truth either. You don’t want to. Not when he’s created such a comfortable space for you to be vulnerable and rely on someone else unconditionally. Not when you’ve found someone with whom you can just feel, without worrying if you’re being too much or not enough because the way you are is completely okay. What you are and what you give is enough for him.

At first, you couldn’t really understand why Chris would be friends with someone like Adrian. Then, you got to know him better, until he not only became your friend, but a part of your family. Just like Adebayo, John, Chris and Emilia (and Eagly). You love every single one of them. 

But perhaps with him it was always different, or maybe those feelings grew and shifted into a completely new type of love over time. You have no idea, but you know enough at this point. You know you enjoy his company and loyalty. You know you find his jokes funny and his oddness incredibly endearing, because it all comes from him. You know you can picture your life perfectly with him by your side and it feels incredibly weird when you try to imagine what it would be like if you never dared to take that extra step that brought you two to where you are now.

And yes, perhaps you’re way too intense as well and all of these realizations should happen months or years into it, but who can dictate the amount of time you need to be sure? You already wasted a whole entire year being just friends, you don’t want to waste any more time.

What you know is enough. What you feel is enough. You can almost bet your life on it– if what you feel for him isn’t love (the kind that you wouldn’t feel towards someone who’s just your friend), you really don’t know what it is.

So when you pull away from the kiss, there’s absolutely no doubt in your mind when you speak. “I love you too.”

He’s stunned for a few seconds, a nervous smile appearing on his face shortly after as he gently shakes his head. “You don’t have to say it just because I said it.”

“I’m saying it because I want to– I do love you, Adrian.”

Another brief pause, he looks back at you with obvious surprise. A good kind of surprise, that mixes with excitement and anticipation. Before you know it, he's urging you back onto his lap, arms wrapping around your waist to keep you there until he decides when to let you go.

The way he looks at you makes you feel an indescribable mix of emotions. No one has ever looked at you like this– like you're the most valuable and important being in the entire world. “Wait. Can you say it one more time?”

The excited comment makes you laugh, playfully rolling your eyes before you comply with his request. “I love you.”

“God, I love hearing that,” he mutters, pulling you in for another kiss. “I love you.” Another kiss. “So fucking much.” He gives you one last kiss before he’s moving back to properly look at you. “Does this mean– are we, like…boyfriend and girlfriend now?”

“I guess we already were, but sure, we can make it extra official.”

“We can totally make it extra official! Holy shit, can you believe how freaking hot and amazing my girlfriend is?” he continues, looking like he just won the lottery or something equally as rare and life-changing. 

“Oh, well, wait until you hear how hot and amazing my boyfriend is.”

“Yeah, I bet he’s a pretty awesome dude.” 

“He's the best,” you offer back at him, leaning in to kiss him, clearly not getting enough of him just yet.

You let out the softest of sounds when you feel his hands pressing to your lower back, urging you forward and completely molding your form against his own, lips parting just enough to allow his tongue to explore your mouth again. His grip on you is strong yet gentle, giving you a sense of comfort you only feel when he’s the one holding you.

Almost without realizing it, your hips are moving above him just enough. It really shouldn’t have made that big of an impact on him, but apparently it does. A simple roll of your hips has him moaning into your mouth, immediately thrusting up to meet you halfway.

Moving back just enough, his eyes meet yours again. “Can we–”

You interrupt his urgent question with another passionate kiss, leaving no room for any sort of doubt on what your answer is. Only then, his hands are moving down to your ass, humming in appreciation as he urges you to grind against him once more.

Not wanting to keep him waiting, you start to move on top of him again, and he completely loses it. He's already moaning into your mouth and holding you in a way that almost makes you think he's going to burst inside his pants any second now– even when you've barely done anything.

Every single touch and kiss is desperate, like you've been deprived of each other for way too long. Or maybe it has to do with the recently exchanged I love you’s for the very first time that contributes to the urgency. Maybe it's a little bit of both. Whatever it is, it's making things move fast and hot, but it's not something you'd necessarily complain about.

Before you know it, clothes are being thrown to the floor and temperature is rising to extreme levels, the need in your body aching to find any sort of release right now. 

He lets out a sound that’s very close to a soft whimper when you begin to move even faster on top of him, the only thing separating your bodies at this point is each other's underwear. “I don't– I genuinely think I might cum right now if we keep this up.”

“Would that be such a bad thing? I think it'd be really hot.”

Another whimper erupts from him, this time louder and ten times more devastating, hands gripping your hips tight as if that would get him to find enough self control to prolong this as much as possible. “I guess it wouldn't be bad, but…I kinda want to be inside you– I mean, no. I really want to. Like, I might cry if I don’t have the chance to.”

“Oh, so you’re trying to manipulate me into saying yes now?” you tease him, earning an evidently frustrated groan from him.

“No, I’m trying to find compassion which is something entirely different.” Still not fully complying to his request, you continue to move on top of him, and you can feel his hips almost trembling underneath you. He hisses softly, head leaned back against the couch, eyes closed shut. “Please, babe, I’m dying over here!”

Finally, you decide to give in to his constant pleas, giving him a short kiss on his lips before standing up from his lap. He eyes you curiously for a second, but as soon as he sees you sliding your panties down your legs, his entire face lights up, rushing to remove his own underwear too.

You get on top of him again, showered with constant thank you’s. His eyes ere glued to you in awe like you’re worthy of being worshipped. Like he still can’t quite believe he’s this lucky yet. 

One of your hands rests on his shoulder, the other sneaks between your bodies. The softest little sound escapes him when you wrap your hand around his length, and you take immediate note of that. “It’s okay. I’ll give you exactly what you want.”

Before he even replies, the tip of his cock is pressing against your entrance, finding barely any resistance before you sink your hips lower, giving him barely any time to process what is happening before you’re entirely full of him.

“Oh, my– fuck. That feels so…you’re so…” he mumbles, completely far gone at this point. When you start to move, he immediately grips your hips, eyes closed shut and his entire body practically trembling underneath you. “W-wait, let me just…give me a minute,” he pleads softly, breathing heavily. “Holy shit, you feel so good, I don’t think I can–”

“You can.” Cutting him off, you offer him yet another roll of his hips that leaves him almost at the brim of tears. You don’t really know what has him so incredibly needy tonight, but you’re not exactly complaining.

He looks up at you, eyes still uncertain but deciding to nod his head either way. “Yeah, sure…I can handle it. I can…but just– uh, go slow, please…”

You do as told, starting to move slowly and carefully on top of him. His hands stay at your hips, eyes inevitably rolling back at the feeling of your movements. When you lean in for a kiss, he immediately accepts it, moaning against your lips.

Keeping that pace for a little while, you inevitably start becoming impatient, your entire being urging you to ride him faster. You increase the speed just enough, moving back to examine his reaction to it and, thankfully, he seems to welcome it just fine. 

Adrian’s hands grip your hips even harder now, helping you out on the task. “That’s it, babe…that’s it,” he mutters with nothing but absolute appreciation, almost in a trance, eyes glued to where your bodies connect. “You feel so good, I could stay like this forever.” His words definitely have an effect on you, the speed of your movements only increasing as you desperately try to seek more of this moment. It makes his eyes flutter, a shattering moan ripping out of him. “Oh, fuck, don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Struggling to keep your own sounds to yourself, your mouth finds his again, tongues tangling in a messy and hot encounter, almost eager to taste as much from the other as possible. Your movements falter just a little, feeling the familiar knot at the pit of your stomach, and Adrian replies to it by digging his fingers into your flesh even harder, quite literally moving you on top of him.

Gasping for air, you move back from his lips just enough, the tension in your body building up as you try to brace yourself for the inevitable snap that will provide an overwhelming amount of pleasure. “I love you,” you whisper to him– breathy, desperate and sincere. It’s the only few words that come to mind at the moment, your entire being deprived of every other thought or feeling. All you can really focus on right now is just how beautifully in love you are with him.

Hearing that certainly has an effect on Adrian, earning a painful whimper from him that only contributes to your growing tension. Detecting this apparent weakness, you find comfort against his neck, lips brushing against his sweaty skin. “I love you, Adrian. I love you so much.”

It happens almost instantly. As soon as those words are coming out of your mouth, he’s spilling inside you with a force that has you gasping against his neck. His body trembles, overcome with the intensity of his orgasm, wrapping both of his arms around you to keep you as close as possible. The series of devastatingly hot sounds that escape him when he cums seem to be all the fuel you needed to reach that delicious high, the unbearable tension snapping into pure bliss of infinite satisfaction. 

You hold each other throughout it, having enough time to catch your breath and trying to regain control of your senses before daring to do anything else. Eventually, you feel Adrian’s lips on your shoulder, leaving a trail of soft kisses there.

“I love you,” he mutters, a lazy smile appearing on your lips as soon as you hear it. You can’t really picture a scenario in which you’ll ever get tired of hearing him say that to you.

Moving back enough to look at him, you can’t help but tease him a little bit. “Now I know what really gets you going,” you comment playfully. If there was any doubt before, it wholly dissipated. Now you know exactly what got him so riled up tonight. 

He looks a bit flustered after your comment, offering you a shy smile. “You’re more than welcome to use it against me any time.”

“Oh, trust me. I will.”

previous part | next part

“How fucked up is Gideon for expecting all this done tonight?” you mutter, your pen scraping across the page as the faint scent of freedom finally drifts near. Just a few lines left, and your handwriting’s starting to fall apart.

Ironically enough, the witness report’s the only thing looking sloppy these days. Six weekends in a row of the same joyless grind, while the only kind of sloppy you’d actually kill for involves drunk sex, a warm body, and someone who moans more and weighs less than a tower of case files.

“I think he’s being considerate,” Hotch says, without looking up. “He’s giving us the opportunity to overstay and finish everything so we can take tomorrow off.”

“Wow,” you scoff. “How much of a suck-up are you to abandon basic human logic and call overworking on a Friday night an opportunity? You want his job that bad?”

“I’m not a suck-up.”

“Oh, please. I’ve seen you nod along to every bit of bullshit that comes out of his mouth when you’d rather be quoting Bureau protocol back at him.”

If there’s one thing that really gets under Hotch’s skin, it’s swearing - or worse, being called out on the truths he pretends aren’t there. Which is exactly why you always make sure to do both.

It works like a charm every time: his pen stalls mid-lawyerly sentence, his jaw tightens, and a few rebellious strands of hair (the same ones he probably spent an hour taming with gel this morning) slip loose over his forehead.

He looks like a wounded puppy.

“Haley’s been wanting to expand the family, I wouldn’t be opposed to a promotion if it were… presented. But that doesn’t mean I’m a suck-up.”

His earnest willingness to open up at this hour couldn’t make it more obvious to you that he has no friends. Probably not even his wife, judging by how unenthusiastic he sounds about the whole ‘expanding the family’ thing.

“So you’ve got plans tonight, suck-up?” you ask, smiling, while aggressively trying to scrub the image of Aaron Hotchner breeding out of your head.

He stutters. He’s chronically allergic to anything sexual in the workplace. Hell, to anything not about the workplace in the workplace. Which is the annoying part - because outside of it, he’s actually… decent. Too decent. You hate that he’s decent.

You don’t quite know how to define whatever it is between you two.

Because somehow, somewhere between his “Haley’s at her sister’s, my big plan is trying not to burn a frozen pizza, what about you?” and your ongoing existential rant about wasting your twenties in a government building, you ended up bribing him to come to the club with you.

“It’s a bad idea,” he announces - unoriginally - for the seventh time. But now that you’ve both handed over your jackets and the bass from upstairs is practically vibrating through the floor, he actually sounds like he means it. Not just for moral superiority this time.

“When was the last time you’ve been to a place like this, huh? Were we still a British colony?” you tease, swatting his shoulder. It’s strange - you’re used to the soft padding of his suit jacket, not the actual warmth of him. Solid muscle. It kind of catches you off guard.

“You’re very funny,” he deadpans, clearly irritated, though the corner of his mouth betrays him with the smallest twitch.

Truth is, Hotch hasn’t been to ‘a place like this’ often enough to be fooled by the rhythm of a song he vaguely recognizes, or by the flash of color as he looks down and you climb the stairs ahead of him.

He doesn’t look too high. Tries not to.

And then he’s thrown off again - this time by the chopped-up remix of a commercial he doesn’t recognize at all. Back in his day, music didn’t need borrowed parts. (And America was independent.)

He gestures toward the bar, and you follow him through the clouds of sugary perfume and aquatic cologne, brushing against his shoulder so you don’t lose track of your 6’2” colleague whose thick head of hair is already standing out above everyone else.

You tap him there.

The music’s too loud, so you have to lean in, your mouth brushing the air beside his ear just to be heard. You find yourself suddenly surrounded by a comforting, nutty vanilla scent. You’ve never noticed it before, probably because you’ve never been this close to him. Your lips are hovering barely an inch from the spot where he must’ve sprayed it.

He smells good. Overly sophisticated.

You cup a hand beside your mouth to aim your voice toward his old-man ear, your pinkie accidentally skimming the edge of his stubble.

“You look like a fed.”

He rolls his eyes, then gets his revenge by showing off exactly why he’s been sucking up to Gideon for the Unit Chief job, ordering your drink before you can even open your mouth (obnoxious flex of profiling prowess.)

He knows what you drink. And he pays for it, too.

One drink turns into two tequila shots, then a third, because neither of you really feels it.

Yet.

Every time he downs another, he makes this ridiculous stupid-ass face. Scrunches his nose. Raises his brows. It’s his desperate attempt at looking unaffected, but it only makes him look more affected.

It’s kind of cute. God forbid he lets tequila defeat him. He’d rather die of internal combustion than admit it.

But as the night warms and the liquor starts to dilate your blood vessels, his perfect posture starts to go, too. He slouches, legs spreading wider on the seat, and your eyes dip down before you can stop them.

The strobe light keeps catching him in flashes. One second it freezes his reluctant smile, the one that tugs his mouth into dimples he clearly didn’t authorize, and the next it drifts down the sharp edge of his jaw to the tendons in his hand resting on the counter.

The light hits, ricochets back toward you, golden, before sliding lower - along his arm, over his thigh - and looping back up to his face. Still smiling. At you.

He's just being very, very nice. 

You start talking more - half because it’s easier to hear each other here, half because silence feels… dangerous. Office gossip, mostly. You’re surprised how much he knows, actually.

Apparently Aaron Hotchner, professional wall of quiet, is also an unrepentant gossip. And he’s good at it, too - leaning closer when he lowers his voice, lips barely curving when he drops something scandalous.

It’s a little addictive.

The way he speaks, there’s this warmth in his voice you’ve never really heard before, and that dry humor that used to slide right past you suddenly hits like a slow burn.

You start noticing things you shouldn’t.

The small scar on his chin.

That single white eyelash you keep staring at. Also - his lashes are so fucking long.

The way his tongue flicks out to wet his lips when he talks, and how your eyes keep following the movement like you’re under some kind of spell.

The fabric of his shirt pulls tight across his chest when he moves his arm behind you. You feel his sleeve brush across your back, his thumb resting temptingly on your shoulder.

From there, the talking starts to fall apart. Words stretch out, sentences trail off, and what’s left hanging between you feels a lot less like small talk and a lot more like…

“Do you wanna dance?”

He says it like it’s nothing. Like he’s asking for the time. But his head tilts, eyes catching yours, that unreadable half-smile still playing at his mouth.

Polite.

And so, you let him lead you deeper into the crowd, the music swallowing your inhibitions whole while he’s right there in front of you, mouthing the lyrics to some pop song that dropped, what, a week ago? Shakes his head to the beat like he’s pretending he doesn’t know every single word.

Is this the same man who once thought April Fools’ Day meant swapping your pen holder to the other side of your desk? Really? That guy?

Because you hadn’t expected him to move like this. Or to move at all. Truly. His hips roll with an effortless, fluid rhythm that shouldn’t belong to someone that tightly wound. Maybe it’s the alcohol loosening him up, making him look less like a man with a broomstick lodged up his ass, but he looks – damn - devastating.

The dark turns him into something you can’t stop looking at.

You feel it hit low in your stomach, an aching pull that has your hand finding his shoulder before you can think better of it. You want him (plain and simple) and he doesn’t even flinch. If anything, the second he catches someone glancing your way, he moves closer, hand finding your waist, claiming space that wasn’t his a moment ago.

He doesn’t want you distracted by anyone that isn’t him. And you’re not. To the point where you’re standing too close, far too close.

But the dancing makes it forgivable, almost necessary.

Just like the slow drag of your hand as it slips down to feel the damp fabric stretched over his broad chest, coming to rest above the rush of his heartbeat hammering beneath it.

His face grows slick with heat, cheeks flushed a deep pink, dark hair sticking stubbornly to his forehead no matter how many times he tries to brush it away. He drags a hand over his face, then shakes it out with a quick flick, sending a few drops of sweat flying.

You’re transfixed. You’d lick them straight off his fingers if you could.

But instead, that same hand drifts to his collar, loosening the top button of his shirt. Then another. The fabric parts just enough for the light to catch on his collarbones, the sheen of sweat along his skin.

His gaze never leaves you - not even as he tugs at his tie, loosening it and baring the strong line of his throat. A ghost of a smile lingers, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Like this little striptease is for your eyes only.

You’re honestly not sure you could afford this whore.

Not when he pulls you closer, his hands sliding down your back, fingertips grazing the curve of your ass before slipping lower to cup it, guiding you to move with him. To match his rhythm.

There’s no mistaking it anymore. But you don’t say a word. Neither does he. He just keeps moving with you - and the longer you dance, the looser his tie gets, the knot slipping lower, lower, until it’s hanging on by a thread.

You catch it between your fingers and give it a tug, pulling him closer, drawn to the heat rolling off his body. The silk slides under your grip, and you twist it twice around your hand like a leash.

A whimper, swallowed by the music, tells you he’s really into this - but then you see it. The thick outline straining against his slacks. Your mouth goes dry. The alcohol humming through your blood and the sight of him together make a lethal combination.

You want to feel that. Desperately.

So you start moving your hips, drawing circles that drag right against the hardness pressing against you. You grip his tie with one hand, his shoulder with the other, using him as leverage. 

Then he takes over.

He grabs you by the hips and spins you, pressing your back flush against his chest, manhandling you into place. His head dips into the curve of your neck, breath hot against your skin as his strong arms lock tight around your waist.

Then he starts to move you, the thick line of his cock grinding against your ass through the fabric. You can feel everything. Every inch. Every pulse. And again, you are very. Very. Horny.

Your body reacts before your mind catches up. Your hips roll back into him, syncing with his rhythm until it stops being rhythm at all. It’s messy. Craving. Addictive. His grip tightens on your hips, almost possessive, and for a fleeting second you hope he leaves marks.

You’re still dancing, technically.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself when one of his hands drifts up, spreading wide over your breast, fingers greedy even through the fabric. The other slides lower, gripping the flesh of your stomach, holding you right where he wants you.

You tip your head back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut, breath unsteady. Your hand finds its way into his damp hair, tracing down the side of his face until it catches on his tie. You wrap the silk around your fingers and pull, tugging him closer - not that he needs much convincing.

You feel him twitch against you, his breath coming fast and shaky as his fingers toy with the buttons of your shirt. He slips just beneath the fabric, enough to brush bare skin. He has the decency to stop there, not daring to slide beneath your bra, but the restraint doesn’t last long.

His hand drifts lower, over your waistband, between your thighs, until his fingers find your clit through the thin layers of fabric. He strokes your nub carefully, almost invisible to anyone watching. But you feel it.

The pressure exactly where you need it, the friction so good it turns your legs to water. You bite your lip hard to keep quiet, swallowing the sound that would’ve absolutely counted as an ad-lib this song didn’t need.

But that only seems to do something to him. You feel his hands slide up your sides, his face pressing into your back as he bends down, fingers gripping your hips while you keep rolling them, side to side, right against him.

Suddenly, you feel his teeth on your ass. He bites you.

The song gets its ad-lib this time.

He stays there for a moment, mouth hot against your cheek like he’s savoring it, before shifting to the other side - symmetry, maybe. Or greed. Then he drags himself back up, burying his face in the crook of your neck, the hard press of his cock still wedged between your cheeks, pulsing.

It might be the hottest thing that’s ever happened to you.

It’s still dancing. Technically.

Even if you’re soaked through your panties, and his fingers keep working over your clothed cunt, the fabric now slick and clinging, each drag leaving more of you on his hand.

Even if, when your trembling hand finds his hip for balance, he bends lower, mouth brushing the side of your neck.

He pulls you tighter against him, his breath warm against your ear, carrying the faint tang of the shots you’d downed together not long ago. Then, in a voice so low and buttery you could fuck it, he murmurs, “Can we get out of here?”

How convenient it is that you’re both horny drunks with no self-control.

Hotch still insists on driving you home (because God forbid he stop being a suck-up model citizen for one night), even though he’s clearly just as drunk as you are. He’s too far gone to realize your apartment is literally a few blocks away and there is no need.

Not that he’s supposed to know that, of course.

You play innocent, insisting you’d never burden him with the task of driving you home, gracefully omitting the fact that you picked this club specifically so you wouldn’t have to drive at all.

“Really?” he says, giving you that look - the one that usually makes you want to slap him, but right now, with the booze in your system, you’re thinking it’d be much more effective if you just sat on it instead.

Anyways-

One raised brow. That’s all it takes. It says I know you’re full of shit, and somehow, even worse, I know exactly why.

He’s right, obviously.

You’d love for him to drive you home, just not for the usual reasons. Normally, you’re just glad to be in his SUV instead of Gideon’s (the old man drives like shit), but tonight it’s the thought of those leather seats, that squeaky-clean interior, and how they’d feel against your skin if you ever stopped pretending to be professional.

Still, once you’re outside, the cold air hits him - sobers him up just enough for both of you to slip back into that safe, polite colleague silence.

Just dancing, right? Nothing to talk about. Totally normal.

So normal that his voice is still rough when he insists on walking you home (now that he’s finally realized the car was unnecessary). The moment you fold your arms against the cold, he’s already shrugging off his jacket. He doesn’t even ask - just drapes it over your shoulders and says, “Make sure to slide your arms inside the sleeves.”

Condescending piece of shit.

You would. You really would. If the jacket didn’t smell exactly like him (like an expensive whore). It hits you harder than the tequila. And you’re not the only one feeling it.

He keeps glancing over, subtle but not subtle enough. Maybe he’s checking if you’re cold. Maybe he’s just making sure you’re still there. Or maybe it’s the fact that you’re walking close enough for your arms to brush.

Either way, he’s not exactly trying to fix it.

“Do you want to come upstairs? Get some water?” you ask, pretending it’s casual. Hydration, right? For his safety. For public safety. Nothing else.

He agrees far too easily. Just like that. No “Don’t worry about me,” no polite Disney-princess routine about how he’s fine. Just a quiet, “I’d be glad to.” (Still phrased like a Disney princess, at least.)

You’re not sure how to feel about seeing him in your space. 

At this hour. This late. Alone. With you. 

He either hasn’t noticed the time or doesn’t care, already poking around your kitchen like it’s a crime scene. Within seconds he’s reorganizing your spice rack (alphabetically, obviously, the same way he arranges case files) while you grab a glass and fill it with the good water from the fridge.

You hand him one of your favorite cups. Even if he doesn’t deserve it. He looks at it. Then at you. Then back again, processing in horror why anyone with a fully developed prefrontal cortex would willingly drink from something so… phallic. (Probably a subliminal message. You hope he gets it.)

“You shouldn’t store water in the fridge,” he says, completely deadpan. “Drinking cold water isn’t good for you.”

Okay, mom. You were hoping the alcohol might’ve dulled the asshole tendencies a little.

“I’ve got tap water too, if you prefer,” you shoot back. But he’s already heading toward your fridge - your fridge - murmuring a quick “It’s alright” before opening it like he pays rent here.

“Would you like something to eat?” he asks, domestic. Again - this is your kitchen. You should be asking him.

“I could make apple fritters,” he continues, half to himself, already rummaging through your shelves. “Are there even any eggs in here?”

He tsks under his breath, shaking his head at what he finds - clearly unimpressed, like your pantry has somehow offended his stupid-ass refined palate. Then he pulls something out. (Sadly, not the beautiful dick you almost regret grinding on, if this is the attitude you’re stuck with.)

“White chocolate? Really?” He glances over his shoulder, smirking. “What are you, twelve?”

He’s taunting you - shaking the bar in one hand before snapping off a piece and slipping it between his teeth.

Then, with the chocolate still wedged between his lips, he picks up the pen from your counter and scribbles something onto your grocery list - the one pinned to the fridge with that tacky Paris magnet he brought you back as a souvenir.

(You have two, actually. Morgan gave you his because he said it looked too kitsch. He wasn’t wrong-)

He scrawls, “Buy real chocolate.” The handwriting’s a little wobbly - clearly not his usual neat penmanship. Then he turns back to you and grins boyishly.

You hate to admit it, but he looks so handsome.

The chocolate’s still there, clamped between his teeth, and his eyes don’t leave yours as he finally bites down and eats it. It’s ridiculous how sexy that looks. Is this foreplay? It has to be.

“It’s way too sweet,” he says, still taunting, crossing his arms as he leans sideways against your fridge - just a few inches from you.

His tie’s still crooked, his shirt half undone, his hair a mess. His eyes look so lively and golden under the lights. What a beautiful slut of a man.

“Don’t blame the chocolate because you’ve got bad taste,” you shoot back, taking a step closer without really meaning to.

“I believe my taste is just fine.”

You roll your eyes. You’re done with him. “Are you sure?”

He hums softly, and steps forward. So do you.

You’re both too drunk to tell who actually moves first, but suddenly his big big big big huge humongous, rough hands are on your face, and yours find the back of his neck as you crash into a kiss.

It’s softer than you expect - oddly tame, almost sweet. Tastes like tequila, gin, and… white chocolate. Of course. Because he’s a suck-up. He probably ate it on purpose just so you’d taste it now.

Like this.

The man’s commitment to people-pleasing really knows no limits.

You pull back for air, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch. They’re darker now, the control gone, his pupils blown wide and – most importantly - fixed on your mouth.

It feels like the floodgates burst open.

He surges against your lips again, hungry, tracing your lower lip with his tongue until you yield to him - parting, melting into the kiss as your hands roam across his chest, over his shoulders, tangling in his tie.

You back him up against the fridge, magnets rattling, one of them clattering to the floor and shattering. He’ll probably pick it up later, but right now he’s too busy helplessly groaning into your mouth as you bite his lip, tug, and suck it between your teeth.

His stupid, naturally pink lips are going to be ruined by the time you’re done.

He slaps your ass once, then grabs a handful, pulling you tight against him and grinding his half-hard cock between your thighs. You moan into his mouth, hips chasing the friction, your clit throbbing where you meet.

You don’t even break the kiss when you start to guide him backward, one hand fisted in his tie. He follows easily, way too easily.

“God,” he groans, smiling against your lips.

Amen.

Your calves bump against the back of the sofa, and he sinks down without hesitation, spreading his legs wide, no pretense left in him. His hands find your waist, guiding you to straddle him on your knees. One slides up your back, pulling you in until your chest meets his mouth.

He bites at the fabric covering your breast, hot breath seeping through, mouth full of you. His other hand grips the opposite side, squeezing possessively. His mouth then moves, open and hungry, latching onto the other, teeth scraping, tongue tracing circles that make you whimper.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pushing him closer, urging him deeper. He hurriedly moves between your breasts, kissing, sucking, biting softly, before pausing to look up at you.

Your fingers are still threading through his coarse strands, and he’s already breathless.

“Can you take this off already?” you mutter, impatiently working through his buttons, tugging the fabric open to expose his chest. Endowed, yes, but it’s what’s lower that really gets you. The soft strip of stomach, the trail of dark curls disappearing beneath his waistband.

It’s so fucking hot you can’t stop staring. You want to touch it. Bite it. Leave marks just to see how he’d react. You need him to return the favor before you give in and lean down to taste the skin you’ve just exposed.

“Ask nicely,” he teases, though his hands are already toying with the flesh of your ass anyway.

“Hotch, for fuck’s sake-” You hate him. Can’t believe he’s the one you ended up tangled up with. Of all people. The fact that it’s him and not Morgan honestly makes you a little sick.

“Aaron,” he corrects you, his wet mouth against your neck. Impatient, too keyed up to play his own dumb power games anymore.

And so, his fingers go to your shirt, working through the buttons. The liquor makes him rush - fast, a little clumsy in places, but stubbornly determined, like he’s trying to prove he still has control over something.

You can’t relate.

You shrug out of it in a hurry, desperate to be rid of anything that isn’t skin. The shirt hits the floor somewhere - you’ll deal with that later (future you’s problem). You’re half out of your mind, while he, of course, takes the time to unclasp your bra in record speed - then neatly folds it and sets it on the side table like a psychopath.

The time he saves with that efficiency, he wastes by looking. Just looking.

“God,” he is so wrecked. “You’re beautiful.”

And then he’s on you. No hesitation - just his mouth latching onto a swollen nipple.

His tongue circles around your peak, perfectly in sync with his fingers rolling the other between them. Then he sucks, and the sound that leaves your mouth only seems to push him further.

“Do you like it?” muffled against your breast, but before you can even form a thought, he pinches your nipple and tugs, pulling another helpless sound from your throat.

Yeah, he’s not asking for feedback. He just likes watching what you turn into when he does that. How you arch, how your voice falters. He’s giddy about it.

Actually giggly, which should infuriate you, especially after he has the nerve to murmur, “You’re so sensitive.”

But he’s too good at this.

Too good at you. The irritation melts right out of you the moment his mouth starts moving again, trailing across your chest. His tongue drags sloppily over your skin, until he finds your other nipple.

“God,” he breathes. You can feel him smiling against your skin when he flicks his tongue - teasing kitten licks (meow?) that start playful and immediately stop pretending to be.

One hand comes up to press your breast harder into his mouth, while the other slips under your waistband, fingers finding your clit, slick and aching, the glide so smooth it’s honestly kind of obscene.

You can practically count down to it - you’re so wet incoming in 3, 2, 1-

“God, you’re so wet.”

Fuck. You’ve missed the God. Also breathing, if you’re being fair.

He circles your nipple and clit at the same time, every touch winding you tighter until you’re practically shaking, right on the edge-

- then he stops.

Leaves you dry, whining. You barely have time to register the loss before he brings his hand to his mouth.

Holy fuck.

He sucks his fingers clean. Purposefully. His gaze stays locked on you while his lips part, tongue dragging between his fingers, tasting you like it’s the first decent thing he’s ever had in his life.

Then he moves.

Guiding you down onto the sofa, he sinks to the floor without a word, his arms braced on the outside of your thighs. His fingers hook under your waistband and in one swift motion, he tugs. Pants and panties gone in a single move.

A shiver runs up your spine. You feel the drag of the fabric as it slips away, a slick string stretching between you and the cotton before it breaks.

You see him bite down on the inside of his cheek.

Oh, he noticed.

He still folds your stuff - because apparently, even like this, he can’t stop being him - but it’s rushed now, like he’s pretending it matters. His hands are shaking a little. His focus is shot. He’s already back where he wants to be.

His pupils go wide, dark swallowing gold, there’s nothing collected left in him. He’s looking at you like a man starving, but then he giggles. Again.

It’s ridiculous. He’s ridiculous. Like he can’t believe what he’s seeing (omg is that a cunt!?!?!?!?! Wooooooah! Okay… it’s probably just the tequila).

You can’t help it - you giggle too. It’s contagious, almost… sweet, until your hand slides back into his hair, guiding him forward. He follows easily, his breath warm against your inner thigh. But he detours (come on, now), pressing open-mouthed kisses up your skin and nipping at the soft flesh.

“Aaron-“ It feels wrong to call him that. Who is Aaron?

He whines, but finally gives in. One long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit. He tastes you, savors it, moans into you like he’s the one being touched.

His lips wrap around your clit, and he sucks (literally, figuratively, and metaphorically.)

You can’t hold back the sound that tears out of your throat; it feels too good. You yank him closer by his hair, and he starts devouring you, loses himself completely. His mouth moves frantically, flicking, shaking, devouring you with an eagerness that borders on worship.

Through the haze, you catch flashes - the veins standing out in his hands as he grips your thighs, keeping them spread when they try to clamp around his head. The tension in his forearms, the tremor in his wrists.

He’s so into it. Such a munch it’s almost... illegal?!

He’s so gone, mouth everywhere, tongue sliding up and down your folds, messy and uncoordinated, pausing to kiss you, to suck, to drag his tongue through you again and again. When he slips the tip of it inside, you arch so hard into him your vision whites out.

He moans again, a deep, guttural noise that you feel more than hear, and it hits your clit perfectly.

He’s so overwhelmed he can’t seem to decide what to do with himself, alternating between making out with your cunt like it’s something precious, the next (barely) remembering this is supposed to be for you.

So, he fucks into you with his tongue, the bridge of his nose nudging your clit perfectly with every movement, and it’s so good you can’t help but arch, the tips of your toes curling as molten heat starts pooling low in your stomach.

He pulls back just enough to find your clit again, mouth wet and greedy, and you feel it - two of his thick fingers sliding through your slick, gathering it at the tips before pushing inside. The stretch knocks the air out of you. He fills you so easily, and when he curls them - just right, just there-

It’s-

“Cold-” you gasp, the word barely forming.

He looks up, eyes glassy and unfocused, still lazily flicking your clit with his tongue. It takes a second for your words to sink in. Then it hits him.

He freezes. Pulls his fingers out, leaving you feeling completely empty. The light catches instantly on the gold band around his finger, glistening wet, smeared with your slick.

The ring.

You see it hit him like a punch. His face changes completely. He stares at his hand, transfixed, still trying to catch up with his own breathing.

He’d completely forgotten it was there.

It’s second nature by now - the way it just stays on through everything. When he drives. When he works. When he washes dishes and grumbles that it makes his hand feel weird. It’s always there. Always been.

He doesn’t really notice it anymore. It’s just part of him.

So why the hell could he forget now?

The band is obnoxiously thick, he’d picked it that way on purpose. When he first bought it, the jeweler told him the size would “balance out his sausage fingers,” laughing as he said it’d be impossible to miss.

And yet - he did.

Because why would he think about it? Why would he ever need to take it off? Everyone knows he’s married.

You know.

Everything suddenly feels colder. He finally drags his gaze away from his hand and looks up at you, and it’s devastating.

You don’t know what to say.

He exhales through his nose.

Shit.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, calm. Way too calm.

He doesn’t clarify, doesn’t gesture, doesn’t even look at the ring. He doesn’t need to. You know exactly what he’s talking about. Still, for a second, you’re not sure if you heard him right - if he really just asked that.

Does it bother you.

Like he’s already accepted what he’s doing, already stepped over the line, and now he’s just politely checking if you’re okay being the accomplice. If you’re fine fucking a married man.

You blink at him, searching his face, trying to understand whether it’s remorse or curiosity flickering behind his eyes.

It’s impossible to tell. He looks too calm for either.

“Does it bother you, Aaron?”

“I asked you,” he says simply. His hands slide back up your thighs. You shiver when the cold metal brushes your skin.

“Aaron, I don’t- I don’t get what you mean by-”

But you don’t get to finish.

He surges up, closing the distance between you, his mouth crashing into yours, desperate, like the realization just made him need you even more.

His hands are everywhere - grabbing, searching, and dragging you closer by the waist, his heavenly touch edged with the cold brush of metal.

You freeze for half a second, brain still trying to catch up to what’s happening, to how wrong it should feel (or if it should, at all-). But instinct wins. It always does.

Your hands find his belt, still locked in a deep, hungry kiss while fumbling with the buckle. The metallic clink cuts through the air as you undo it, pull it free, shove his slacks down, and find him - thick and hard - against the soft fabric of his boxers.

Oh wow.

You palm his erection through it, feel the heat, the damp spot of precum he’s left. He can’t help but hiss into your mouth the second your fingers press against the wet head.

“Please,” he whimpers. Of course it’s vague as hell. Cryptic to the last.

Please what? No, okay. You’re not about to make him say it - please fuck me - even though the thought of hearing those words in his perfect, restrained voice makes you clench around nothing.

You’ll spare him the humiliation, keep his saintly swear-free record intact. And he should really never say you don’t do anything for him.

You strip him down until he’s bare beneath you, nothing left but the loosened tie still hanging around his neck (and yeah, you might need that soon). You sit back, straddling him, just looking.

It’s unfair how beautiful he is.

You could take your time.

Trace every inch of him with your tongue. Follow that line of hair, taste the salt of his skin, lap at the bead of precum glistening at his tip while your hand wraps around all that girth-

But patience isn’t exactly your strong suit. Not now. Not when the alcohol’s still in his system and you’re racing against the possibility of whiskey dick. You need him while he’s like this.

You give him just a couple of strokes from base to tip, pumping him, your cunt clenching around nothing just from holding his weight in your hand and watching him tilt his head back against the couch, his lip caught between his teeth like he’s trying not to make a sound.

You position him at your entrance, teasing the bulbous head as it presses right where you want it, grinding your cunt against him. Slick drips from your folds like honey, coating his girth and trailing down the sides as he breathes shakily. He doesn’t say a word, probably thinking you’re taking your time to ease into it.

You’re not. You’re taunting him. Drawing it out just to watch him unravel.

It’s addictive - how he looks at you, how he whimpers quietly, waiting, eyes wide and so goddamn earnest it almost makes you feel bad.

Fine.

You sink onto him slowly, the first push stealing all the air from your lungs. A sultry moan leaves your lips as you sink down, inch by inch. The stretch feels unreal, toeing the line between pleasure and pain, your walls clamping around him so tight it’s almost too much.

He’s thick. He fills you up so, so, so good.

You feel his rough palms settle on your waist, thumbs stroking over your skin. Tender.

“You’re so perfect like this,” he murmurs, the sound of it alone making your walls clench around him. (#humbling.)

Another moan slips out of you when you feel the blunt tip of him kiss your cervix. The jolt steals your breath, your head tipping back as your hips find a rhythm, grinding against him, slick coating his skin, your swollen clit dragging across his lower stomach with every motion.

The friction rips groans out of both of you, the living room heavy with the sound of it - wet, reckless, echoing through the quiet, past any respectable hour.

His hands roam up your sides, tracing your waist, cupping the soft weight of your breasts. You arch into him when his mouth finds you, catching a peak between his lips, sucking hard, humming against your skin as his teeth graze lightly.

You ride him harder, thighs slapping against his, every thrust punching another sound out of you.

“You feel so good, Aaron…” you pant, pace picking up until all you can think about is taking him deep and deeper inside you.

He mumbles something against your breasts, barely coherent - something about how tight you are, how perfectly you take him, how this is such a good pussy. The words slur halfway through, like he’s losing track of his own damn data, too far gone to remember what he’s saying but unable to stop.

It sends another spark straight through you. You tug on his tie, pulling him closer, and he just melts into it - lets out this low, breathy chuckle that vibrates against you, still flicking his tongue over your nipple like he’s drunk on the taste of you.

You want more. Always more. So you twist the silk tighter around your hand, pull again until it bites against his throat.

He’s gone - completely gone – intoxicatedly giggling through the next moan, head tipping back against the couch, mouth slack and pink.

He smacks your ass once, then again. (Behave, bottom!) Your voice breakis around his name, leaving your mouth far too pornographically to ever be mistaken for anything innocent.

You’re not sure you’re going to survive him.

Tingling pleasure starts to spark up your spine when he grabs your waist and pistons his twitching cock into you, his hips snapping roughly against your thighs, the head of his cock finding that sweet spot inside you over and over until the coil in your belly winds dangerously tight.

“Aaron, I’m-” The words die in your throat, splintering into a cry.

Your head falls back, eyes rolling, mouth open as your body takes over - every nerve sparking, every thought obliterated by the way he fucks into you. All you can think - all you want - is for him to come inside.

It’s a terrible idea.

Disastrous.

But you’re too far gone to care, too cock-drunk on him to remember why it would matter, too lost in the heat to even pretend you’d stop him.

Your hand slips down between you, fingers finding your clit, circling fast and desperate until everything tightens, until the world narrows to heat and pulse and sound. The orgasm hits hard, blinding, ripping through you in waves as your body locks up, fluttering tight around him, milking him until he breaks too.

He groans your name, hips snapping up one final time before he spills. The warmth floods you instantly as he keeps thrusting, chasing the last tremors of pleasure, filling you until it’s spilling back out onto your poor sofa.

You collapse against him, chest to chest, boneless and trembling, every nerve still sparking.

His arms come up around you right away instinctively, pulling you close until you can feel every uneven breath against your skin. Warm praises spill quietly into your ear, even as the ring keeps brushing your spine each time his hand moves in tender caresses - frozen against feverish skin.

It’s distracting - almost as much as the smell of sex clinging to his damp hair, the trace of sweat and you mixed in.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But your fingers move anyway, threading through the tangled mess, finding the back of his neck, tugging him closer until he exhales against your shoulder and settles there.

Exactly where he shouldn’t be.

You let him stay. Just a little longer. Long enough that it almost feels… natural. Comfortable. You could fall asleep like this. Bodies tangled, skin still sticky, the air still thick with the proof of what you’ve done.

You keep forgetting someone else is waiting for him.

At home.

taglist: @aria-chikage ; @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @crying-ang3l ; @donttrustlove ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kiwriteswords ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @msfreedom ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @purechaosss ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @thiswildandpreciouslife ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

Sitting back against the seat, he tilted his head up to stare at the small TV displaying the upcoming stations. He still had several stops to go. If not for the certain knowledge of countless germs, he would have let his head fall against the cold metal pole, too tired to care about comfort.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the old woman still watching him, her expression one of gentle concern. He shot her another awkward smile before turning his face back to the window. He willed himself to become part of the scenery again, just another tired commuter in the rattling train.

He could still feel the woman’s gaze lingering on him. A subtle shift in her posture and a slight intake of breath, made him realize she was going to speak. He braced himself, mentally scrambling for the social script he hadn't needed to use in days. The BAU’s caseload had been weirdly quiet and without you in his apartment, his voice had become a stranger to him.

“You okay there, honey?” Her voice was as soft as her eyes, weathered by age but warm.

He summoned a fragile smile. “Yeah. Thank you, ma’am.” His hands found each other in his lap, fingers nervously intertwining.

She wasn’t convinced. Her eyes scanned his face. “You look pale,” she noted, her tone laced with grandmotherly concern. Before he could formulate another polite deflection, she was opening her handbag. She pulled out a packet containing a chocolate muffin, clearly a recent purchase.

“Oh, no, please, you really don’t have to—” he began to protest, his automatic response.

She waved a dismissive hand. Leaning forward, she gently took his wrist, turned his palm upward, and placed the muffin in it. Her skin was cool and papery against his. The simple human contact was startlingly foreign.

He looked down at the offering, then back at her, his smile turning watery and awkward. “Thank you. That’s… very kind of you, ma’am.” His voice was barely a whisper. He stared at the muffin. It was chocolate, with a few dark chocolate chips. When was the last time he’d allowed himself such pleasure? His eating had become a purely functional act. Takeout eaten standing over the kitchen sink when hunger finally broke through his apathy or protein bars consumed during cases. That's all his diet had consisted of for the past two months.

The woman watched him, her eyes missing nothing. She saw the way his gaze flickered nervously up to the station screen. “Honey,” she said again, her voice dipping even lower. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Spencer’s eyes met hers and the truth pressed against the back of his teeth.

No. I’m not. My heart feels like it’s been shattered into a thousand pieces, and the one person I could always talk to is gone and the one person who will always love me is forgetting my name.

Instead, he offered another smile. “Yeah. Just… visiting my mom.”

It sounded so normal. A dutiful son on his way to see his mother. It carried none of the weight it truly held. He wasn't just visiting his mom. He was making the long journey to the facility in Brookfield. He was going to sit in a room that smelled of antiseptic and old books with his mother whose brilliant mind was being erased second by second.

The woman nodded, her expression softening. She could sympathize with a son bearing the burden of a parent's care, but she couldn't possibly comprehend the devastating weight of his. He was visiting his mother, yes, but he was also preparing to say goodbye to her, over and over again, never knowing if this would be the visit where she would finally look right through him and see only a polite stranger.

Spencer toyed with the muffin, his fingers tracing its shape.

“Eat, sweetheart,” the woman prompted gently.

He looked up, meeting her earnest gaze and felt compelled to obey. He took a small bite. The chocolate was cheap and overly sweet, but it was the first thing he’d tasted in days that wasn't merely fuel.

She nodded in approval. Then, her eyes still fixed on him, she said, “Heartbreak feels like it will last forever. But it won’t.”

Spencer’s head turned slowly toward her, his chewing stilled. His wide eyes darted across her face, searching for a clue. How could she possibly know?

She smiled. “I know that look. I’ve seen it more than once on my own son’s face.” She chuckled softly. “Though never quite as sorrowful as yours.”

He gave a weak chuckle in return, a pathetic imitation of laughter. The walls he’d so carefully built felt thin under her gaze. “I’m fine,” he insisted, the lie tasting more bitter than the muffin was sweet.

She didn’t argue. She simply nodded. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “You will be.” She paused, letting the words settle. “It’ll hurt for a while.” She sensed that this trip to see his mother was a duty he’d been avoiding, another heavy weight added to the load of his breakup. He had been carrying it all alone and her motherly instinct was to offer some comfort to this lonely, young man. “But it will get better.”

Spencer's eyes darted away, staring at the dirty floor of the subway car as he truly considered her words. He couldn't imagine a future where the world wasn't muted and gray without you in it. How could anything ever be "better" when the best part of him was gone? Yet, he found himself nodding slowly.

“I hope so,” he whispered.

It hadn't been a bad breakup. There was no anger or yelling. It had been just the simple realization that he was too caught in his own mind to give you what you needed. It was a final hug in the doorway of his apartment, your tears soaking into his sweater, It was a conversation of "maybe one day" that neither of you could promise.

Maybe the woman could read that specific tragedy on his face. “The future is a mystery,” she mused, her voice taking on a thoughtful tone. “You know, George Eliot wrote in Middlemarch. ‘The future is a thing—’”

“—to be hoped for, not known,’” Spencer finished, the quote falling from his lips by instinct.

A warm smile spread across her face. “Smart man.”

A real smile formed on his face this time.

“So don’t think—” she began, and then she did something that would have normally sent his germaphobic mind into a spiral. She reached out and covered his free hand with her own. Her grip was surprisingly firm. “—that this pain will last forever.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

For a long moment, he simply absorbed the simple human warmth he’d been starved of. Then, tentatively, he squeezed back. “Thank you, ma’am,” he whispered. He kept his gaze lowered, focusing on their joined hands until he was certain the burning pressure behind his eyes had receded.

When he finally looked up, her eyes were filled with compassion for him. She gave his hand another gentle squeeze before releasing it. “Your stop, honey,” she said, nodding toward the window as the train began to slow, the platform signs for Brookfield coming into view.

A flicker of confusion crossed his face. How did she know? The sanitarium was the only thing of note near this stop, but he hadn't mentioned it.

He was unaware that in his hurry to rush to the train station, he had failed to properly close his satchel. The corner of an envelope peeked out, the facility’s address clear on the front. He’d rushed out the door in a hurry, after spent the afternoon staring at the ceiling, thinking about you and missing you.

The letter was one he’d written weeks ago, after reading a study on the importance of physical presence and mementos for Alzheimer's patients. And instead of sending it, he’d decided that on this visit, he would hand it to his mom in person. He never considered that the address itself would tell his story to a stranger.

He didn't see the elderly woman’s heart ache for him, for the young man shouldering a double grief, losing one love to circumstance and another to the cruel loss of memory. Her own eyes grew moist as she watched him gather himself.

He stood, clutching the half-eaten muffin. “Thank you again,” he said, the words feeling inadequate for the small moment of peace she had provided.

She offered a maternal smile. “Take care of yourself,” she said softly. “Everything will be okay.”

Spencer wasn't sure he could believe that. But as the doors slid open letting in cold air, he murmured a final, “Thank you. Goodbye,” and stepped out onto the platform.

The walk to the facility was long. He finished the muffin and carefully disposed of the wrapper. The signing-in process was a familiar routine. The woman recognized him, though it had been too long.

Now, he sat in his mother’s room. She was telling him about a book she’d read today as he nodded, interjecting with a comment or question where he could.

Mentally, he was exhausted. His only happiness had been the profound relief he’d felt when he first entered the room and she had looked up, her eyes lighting with recognition. "Spencer," she'd said, and he had crossed the room in a hurry to hug her tightly. He desperately hoped this hug could overwrite the memory of his last hug with you from two months ago. He could still see your tear-streaked face as you had accepted his decision.

It had been his idea to break up, but that made the memory no easier to bear.

His mother’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Something’s bothering you,” she stated, tapping her fingers on her thigh.

He looked up, forcing a weak smile and shaking his head. “No, Mom. I’m fine. Just tired from work.” He quickly thought for a distraction. “Look what I found yesterday,” he said, an idea sparking. He scooted his chair closer to hers. He pulled his leather wallet from his pocket, opening it in front of her. He was planning to show her an old photobooth strip of the two of them. He had found it in an old childhood book of his. It was a treasure from a rare day at the park when he was a young boy. The day had been so perfect he’d begged to capture it in the photo booth they had passed by on their way home.

But before his fingers could find the strip, his mother pointed a finger at the clear plastic window at the front of his wallet. “Who is that?” she asked, her voice filled with genuine curiosity.

Spencer froze. It was the picture of you and him. Garcia had captured it at one of Rossi’s dinner parties with her new camera. In the photo, you had just pressed a kiss to his lips and were pulling back, your noses still touching. His eyes were closed, a smile gracing his face, while your hands gently framed his face. He could still feel the warmth of your hands.

He stared at the frozen moment of a happiness that now felt like it belonged to someone else. He slowly said your name. It felt both foreign and achingly familiar to say it.

His mother, who had met you, who had held your hand and discussed literature with you on more than one occasion, simply stared at the picture. The woman who had once been so important to him and to his mother, was now just an unknown face in a photograph.

The double loss of it, your absence and his mother’s forgetting, struck him deeply.

His mother tilted her head. “I don’t know who that is,” she said slowly, her gaze flicking between the photo and her son’s strained face.

Spencer stared at her, a cold dread beginning to pool in his stomach. No, he thought, she just can’t see you properly from that angle.

In the picture Garcia had taken, it was mostly his face, with your profile and a cascade of your hair. It was a reasonable misunderstanding. He couldn't let himself believe she had truly forgotten you.

He fumbled to open another compartment in his wallet. He pulled out a Polaroid with a trembling hand. He had taken this one himself. You were on a date, standing under a red autumn tree, the one you’d pointed at with such joy. He’d captured the moment you turned, your smile wide, staring right into the lens. Right into him.

“Here,” he said as he handed her the photo. “Look.”

His mother took the Polaroid, holding it with care. She studied your smiling face, her own expression neutral. The silence in the room stretched.

“I don’t know who that is, honey,” she repeated, her tone soft and final. She offered a small smile. “Pretty girl.” She handed the picture back to him.

Spencer’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. “She—” The word caught in his throat. Girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend? He couldn’t force them out. Admitting it to Garcia had been one thing. Declaring it here, in this room where memories went to die, was another.

A desperate thought seized him. Proof. He needed proof.

“She got you those,” he rushed out, standing up so abruptly his chair scraped backward. He crossed the small room to the bookshelf, pointing to three specific volumes. “Those three books right there.”

His mother glanced up, her eyes following his gesture. “Really?” she asked softly.

Spencer hated this. He hated pushing her. His usual tactic was gentle redirection. But not this. Not you. He couldn’t let you just disappear from this room too.

“Yeah, yeah,” he nodded, the words tumbling out. He couldn't get his voice to stop shaking. “You said you loved them. You read one of them in a single afternoon. And you… you gave her one of the scarves you knitted in return. The blue one. Because you said she couldn’t just give you such a wonderful gift without getting one in return.”

He remembered the warmth in your eyes as you presented the books, the tender way his mother had accepted them, the profound happiness he’d felt watching the two most important women in his life connect.

His mother sensed the importance of this subject. A veil of maternal concern fell over her features. “Well, I’m sorry, honey,” she said gently. “Those books are lovely, though. She must have wonderful taste.” She gestured to the chair, an invitation for him to sit back down.

Spencer stared at her. He felt the hot press of tears behind his eyes and a shattering sensation in his chest, as if the last remaining pillar holding him up had just crumbled. He slowly lowered himself back into the chair. With violently shaking hands, he carefully tucked your Polaroid back into his wallet, sealing away the warmth of your smile that no one in this room but him could remember.

“What did you want to show me?” his mom asked, her fingers tapping a soft rhythm on her leg. This time, it was she who was gently seeking a safer topic, aware she had caused her son some unnameable pain.

Spencer stared blankly at the leather in his hands. "Oh, I—" His mind was a mess. He stared for a long moment. "Right. Sorry," he said slowly, the words hollow.

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly. Spencer managed to gather the scattered pieces of his composure, fixing his mood enough to seem okay. He stayed for dinner and she told him about the facility, the new painting class, the kind nurse who reminded her of a friend from her youth. She seemed content.

That, at least, was a small balm to the constant guilt that came with leaving her here.

When she excused herself to the bathroom, Spencer was left alone in her room. His gaze fell to the silver bracelet around his wrist, adorned with a single moon charm.

He remembered giving you a sun bracelet he’d seen in a store window, a spontaneous gift just because it made him think of your warmth. A week later, you had presented him with this one, your eyes sparkling.

“The moon and the sun,” you had said, fastening the clasp. “They work together. You… you remind me of the moon, Spencer. You’re like this constant gentle light. Even on the darkest nights, you’re still there, still trying your best to shine through.”

He remembered the overwhelming surge of emotion that had rendered him speechless. You had teased him for the sheen in his eyes and he had vehemently denied it, before distracting you with a kiss. In your stubborn nature, you had teased him again and in return he tickled you into dropping the subject. He could still hear the echo of your laughter.

He turned the bracelet around his wrist.

Two years. Had it all been thrown away so easily? The end of it finally hit him. The break up was made undeniable by his mother’s confused eyes, when she'd looked at your picture. A tear escaped, tracing a hot path down his cheek. He brushed it away quickly, just as he heard the bathroom door open.

He sat up quickly, forcing a neutral expression. His mother returned with exhaustion on her face. He had overstayed.

“I should go,” he said quietly.

His mom nodded, opening her arms. He stepped into her embrace, letting her hold him. “Take care of yourself, honey. Come back soon,” she murmured, her hand making soothing circles on his back.

Spencer pulled back, his hands resting on her upper arms. “I will,” he promised, the smile on his face was fragile. She smiled back and then, in a blur of farewells, he was outside.

Snowflakes had begun to fall. He tilted his head back, letting the icy crystals land on his skin and melt in his hair. He stood there for a long moment, allowing the cold to seep into his bones.

There was a strange relief in it. Physical pain to focus on rather than the mental one. The numbness was a mercy.

He wasn't sure how much time passed, before his feet began to carry him toward the train station. His mother's hug still lingered on his coat, yet he had never felt more alone. He ached for a different warmth. A specific one. Yours.

He didn't make a conscious decision. It was as if an invisible string was guiding him. He blinked and the familiar sight of your building materialized before him.

The snow was falling harder now. The cold was seeping through his jacket, biting at his fingertips. The streets were eerily empty and dark. No cars and no pedestrians. The only sound was the sound of snow accumulating on the frozen ground.

His feet moved on their own. They carried him up the familiar stairs and down the hallway until he was standing before your door. His knuckles rapped against the wood.

And then there you were.

The door swung open to reveal you in soft pajamas, backlit by the flickering light of candles from within your apartment. His eyes took a moment to adjust, to travel from the sight of your home and finally land on you.

Your eyes, wide and shocked, held his. When you breathed his name "Spencer?" it was a sound so familiar it hurt. He had to close his eyes for a second, just to absorb it.

When he opened them again, you were still there, still staring, as if unsure he was real. You didn't say anything else, just studied him with an expression he couldn't quite name. He stared back, drinking in the sight of you. The soft fall of your hair framing your face and the way the candlelight gilded your skin.

He was painfully aware of what you must be seeing in return. The harsh hallway light highlighting the dark circles under his eyes and the red rims that betrayed the tears he had unknowingly shed.

Your gaze softened, traveling from his eyes to the snow flakes dusting his shoulders and hair. You finally spoke in disbelief, "You walked in the snow."

He managed a sound. "Yeah."

Without another word, you opened the door wider. His mind registered nothing but the gentle pressure of your hands as you reached for him, your fingers closing around his cold ones, pulling him softly into the warmth of your apartment.

You helped him out of his coat, soaked with snow, as you hung it up. The melting ice from his shoes began to form a puddle on the hardwood, darkening your mismatched socks, but your attention was solely on him. You took the scarf from his neck, the one his mother had knitted for him, and draped it gently beside its twin, the one she had gifted you, on the hook. He toed off his shoes on his own, guilt washing over him as he stared at the growing wet patch on your floor.

You, then, simply stepped forward and pulled him into your arms.

It was the embrace he had been starving for. Your soft arms wrapped around him, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other a soft pressure against his back. It was the hold that had always felt safe. And it was that very safety, that finally broke the dam.

A sob tore from his chest. He crumpled against you, his arms coming around your waist, clinging to you. He felt your own grip tighten, your hands fisting gently in the fabric of his sweater. You held him as he cried, your one hand making circles on his back while the other played with his hair.

It was Spencer who finally broke the silence, though he didn't move.

“She didn’t know who you were.”

Your only response was to tighten your arms around him, pulling him even closer until there was not a single inch of space between you. His own hands tightened around your waist, as he pressed his face into the hollow of your shoulder.

He realized that the way you were holding him was exactly the same. It was the same embrace you’d given him when he’d surprise you with pancakes on a Sunday morning and the same hug you’d welcome him home with after a long case. It was filled with the same love.

Somehow, in the deepest part of his mind, he had been terrified that you had forgotten him too. That his mother's inability to recognize you was a terrible omen, a sign that the two of you were also losing each other. The thought that both his mother and you could forget him was something he couldn't bear. It would mean every imprint he’d made in the last few years was gone, that he was nothing more than a ghost in his own life. A fading memory.

This loving hug, however, wasn't like the sometimes hesitant hugs from his mother on her bad days, where he could feel her mentally grasping for the context of who he was. Your embrace was sure. It was certain.

It was a direct line to the truth he so desperately needed. He was still known. He was still loved.

Usually, he was a man of evidence and of words explicitly stated. But right now, he didn't need to hear the words 'i still love you'. In this moment, the evidence was irrefutable and had been there from the moment you opened the door.

And it was in the sun bracelet he had seen on your wrist as your hand came up to cradle his head.

The twin to the moon bracelet he still wore. The sun and the moon, forever connected, even when one couldn't see the other. You were still wearing it. You hadn't forgotten. You hadn't forgotten how to love him.

YOU’RE ANNOYED at your husband.

And yes, it’s probably for a stupid reason. Art autographed a hat with Love you! and it rubbed you the wrong way. The girl was young, maybe nineteen, glossy hair and ridiculously long lashes. She’s the kind of fan that giggles loud and obnoxious when his hand brushes hers to hand the cap back, who probably only watches tennis because she thinks the male players look hot in polos and shorts.

(Yes, you’re salty. Irrational, entirely unfair thought. Whatever. You aren’t above being childish.)

But what really gets under your skin is the way Art doesn’t even notice. He beams like the golden boy of tennis that he is, scribbles his name and the little love you! flourish without thinking twice, because that’s just who he is. Always giving, always generous, oblivious to how it might look to you. Which always leaves you to hold your breath, manicured nails digging painful crescents into your palm as the girl swoons right in front of your eyes.

He spends the entire day blissfully unaware of your annoyance.

So you make sure he feels it. Dodging kisses, keeping your hands shoved deep in your pockets to avoid holding his on the way back to the hotel, staying stubbornly on your side of the plush mattress. When he drapes an arm across your waist to cuddle before bed, you shrug it off with a muttered, “Stop. It’s way too warm, Art.”

You don’t catch the way his face folds into a hurt frown behind you, but you feel his hand fall away tentatively like he’s been stung before he withdraws to the opposite side of the sheets.

Two days pass in that same sulky fog until eventually he can’t take it anymore. Everyone’s always made jokes about him being your lapdog, unable to go a second without attention and a scratch between the ears. It couldn’t be more apparent than now when he shifts on his feet, gathering the courage to bring it up.

“Did I do something?” His voice is quiet, a touch careful, when he finally blurts it out. “You seem mad at me.”

All you offer in reply is a one-shouldered, entirely half-assed shrug with your eyes still glued to your phone screen. “No.”

It’s the clipped way you say it—without the usual why would I be? tacked on at the end—that gives you away. He swallows hard, too gentle to push (or maybe just too pathetic), and just nods. He slinks off and lets you stew in the irritation simmering beneath the surface, figuring you’ll come to him when you’re ready.

And you do. Not because you’re mature and ready to express your agitation like an adult, but because one of your friends forwarded you a Facebook screenshot: HE SAID I LOVE YOU!! I’M NEVER WASHING THIS!! scrawled under a blurry photo of that very same girl clutching her autographed hat.

Like she’d ever wash a signed hat in the first place. Idiot.

Okay, you’re being unfair. The displeasure in your chest isn’t targeted at the poor girl. You know it isn’t her fault. It’s Art. Stupid Art and his stupid inability to think things through. Stupid Art and his ridiculous charm. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The same night the text comes through, you decide to act on your frustration in bed. Art’s already there when you step out of the bathroom—cropped blonde hair damp from a shower, lounging in just his boxers with the sheets pulled back neatly. When he glances up, you almost feel bad at the expression that breaks out on his face. A faint smile, something one might even call hopeful. 

Almost.

“Hi.” It’s small, the way he says it. A peace offering, or an olive branch of sorts. Like that soft little greeting might soothe away whatever invisible line he crossed to have you sulking with him for two days. 

You don’t give him much back. Just a noncommittal hum as you crawl onto the mattress in a nightdress. Something short, nipples pert through the fabric, moisturised thighs on display as you straddle him. 

His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh.” His voice pitches in surprise. “You—uh, okay.” Then, like an idiot, he tries for a joke. “Guess you aren’t in a mood with me anymore?”

Your face doesn’t crack as your fingers trail down his stomach, muscles tensing beneath you. He watches with bated breath as they dip into his briefs, wrapping around him. He’s hard almost instantly—pathetic, really, how easily his body bends to your touch—and his breath stutters.

It only takes a few strokes to have him moaning. Your thumb catches on the round tip on every upstroke, smearing precum and making him squirm at the pressure against his leaking slit. Art’s mouth falls open, head tipping back and blonde lashes fluttering. 

“Tell me how bad you want me,” you coax, voice low and sultry.

“So bad,” he replies without even thinking, his own pitched in a whine. “I can’t even— nghhh. I wanna be inside you. Can you—?”

Finally, you smile at him. Something sharp that should really have alarm bells ringing in his head but he’s too desperate for your attention that he doesn’t even bat an eyelid. “‘Course I can,” you murmur, lulling him into that false sense of security. 

You don’t have to ask him to lift his hips for you. He just seems to know your intentions— you suppose several years of marriage will do that to you— and lets you ease his boxers down enough to fully free his aching cock. Then your nightdress is pushed up, no panties in sight, and the warm heat of you presses against him.

He reaches for your hips instinctively to help you balance, but you catch his wrists and pin them to the bed. “Don’t,” you murmur.

Art blinks up at you, dazed. “Don’t—what?” It wouldn’t take much strength from him to free himself, but he remains obediently still.

“Don’t move. Don’t touch.” You roll your hips forward, clit catching on his tip with a gasp. Then you free one of his hands (though it stays against the sheets) to wrap your own around his cock and guide him into you. The sink is deliberately slow, tight cunt gripping him until you’re fully seated on him.

He twitches inside you and the urge to rock your hips is strong, but you clamp down with your thighs and still yourself. “We stay like this.”

He’s already sweating. “Babe, wha—?”

“You don’t get to fuck me. Not until I say so.”

His brows knit, confusion breaking into something akin to need. He shifts slightly, barely a shallow twitch of his hips but enough to garner a moan, and you immediately clench tighter.

“Art.” Your voice is sharp, like you’re scolding a puppy and not your grown husband. “I said don’t.”

He groans pathetically, a long drawn out sound, and lets his head fall back into the plush pillow beneath him. “Fuck, you’re… come on, baby. You’re killing me.”

“Good.” You lean forward, tits pressed against his chest, lips grazing his jaw lightly as you continue. “Consider this punishment.”

He doesn’t even know what for. But the question catches in his throat—he doesn’t want to upset you any further. So his eyes flutter shut, pretty lashes brushing his cheeks instead as the tension in his body draws tight. Every time your walls flutter around him, a tiny sound slips out. A muffled whimper, a bitten-off groan.

Minutes seem to stretch into forever.

You hardly move other than to languish his jaw in barely there kisses. Your weight shifts once or twice to adjust yourself, but every tiny ripple around his throbbing length has him gritting his teeth and clutching the sheets to keep himself still.

It feels like you’re punishing yourself too. You can feel it: the way the heat coils low in your belly, filled so deeply it makes you ache with the burning desire to move. To ride him until you forget about the girl and the hat. But you restrain yourself and stay still, iron-willed despite how much you’re gushing around his cock, while he writhes underneath you.

“Please,” he croaks. “I can’t—”

“You can.” You aren’t sure if you’re encouraging him or taunting him. “You’re an athlete, Art. Discipline is in your nature.”

His hips tremble beneath you. “Not like this,” he counters, voice cracking with desperation. “It’s—oh, God—it’s too much.”

A cruel roll of your hips has him choking on a sound halfway between a moan and a sob. His eyes squeeze shut, lashes growing damp the longer you perch on top of him. When he blinks again, there’s a damp sheen on his cheeks.

“Are you crying?” You murmur, tilting your head.

His face flushes and he tries to turn his face away, but you catch his jaw and force his eyes back on you. His lip trembles. “I can’t,” he repeats in a whisper. “I need you so bad.”

It’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen: Art Donaldson, golden boy of tennis, your husband, shaking and tear-streaked under you with eyes blown back with anguish. Another two minutes of that exquisite torture and he’s breaking.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry. Please, I’ll never do it again. Just… fucking move. Sorry. I just—nghh. Please let me do something. Or… or tell me what I did so I can apologise. Come on, give me something.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

He blinks, thrown by the non-answer. “... Okay. Any… ah, any particular reason? Or is that just a general character assessment?”

“The hat,” you bite.

“The—” He frowns, clearly lost. “What hat?”

“The one you signed for that girl. The one you wrote ‘love you’ on.” You push yourself up, and he groans beneath you at the shift. The sting of the entire thing rises all over again, and you're half-tempted to send him down to reception to book himself his own room for the night for some space. “Do you have any idea how stupid that makes me look?”

Recognition finally flickers across his face. Oh. That hat. His mouth opens, then shuts immediately, scrambling for the right defence. He could tell you you’re blowing it out of proportion, but something tells him you’d never let him cum again if he dared utter such a thing right now.

“Baby, I was just being nice—” He tries instead.

“Too nice,” you cut in. “You don’t think, Art. You never do.”

He looks guilty now, bottom lip jutting out in a teary pout. “I didn’t it mean it like that. You know that, come on—”

“Exactly. You don’t mean it. But these idiot fangirls think you do, and it makes me look like some cheap trophy wife when you’re letting eighteen year olds fawn all over you.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, fingers flexing against the sheets. Your cunt squeezes around him and another tear slips down his cheek. “I love you so much. I swear, I won’t be so stupid again. I’m an idiot.” Art rambles. “No more signing like that. I didn’t mean it. Not at all. You’re the only one I care about.”

“I know you didn’t mean it. But you need a reminder.”

“A… reminder?”

“Mmm. Of who you belong to.” Another slow roll of your hips. “Of who you save your love for. So you get to stay here, just like this. And you get to think about how stupid you were.”

So Art stays there obediently. Lets you cockwarm him while he’s sniffling and choking back sobs, apologising profusely every time you squeeze him. But you can feel it—you aren’t even moving and he’s nearing the edge. His cock is swollen and throbbing inside you, balls drawn up, trying to withhold himself.

You could let him cum like this. It’d be embarrassing. A few words about how he’s only yours and he’d be filling you up without you moving an inch.

But he hasn’t even earned that. So you lift yourself off him slowly, his cock slick with you, dragging against your cunt as you pull away. He makes a sound like he’s genuinely being gutted, a pathetic whimper of loss, hips lifting to chase your wet heat.

“No. No, babe, please—”

“Shh.” You straddle his thighs again, a hand on his chest to press him flat against the mattress. “I don’t think you deserve my pussy tonight.”

His jaw drops. “What? That’s not… fuck. But I need you—”

“You need to learn,” you cut him off mercilessly. Your hand wraps around his cock, slick from being buried in you for so long, and he sinks into the pillow with a weak groan. “You’ll take what I give you. You only get my hand tonight.”

You stroke him deliberately slow, twisting your wrist in a way that has his entire body jerking. Within a minute he’s leaking over your fingers, borderline wailing with every drag of your hand.

“God—” He says, guttural. “I’m so close. Please don’t stop, I’m sorry—”

You speed up, pumping him harder, your thumb pressing into the thick vein alongside the underside of his length until he’s jerking helplessly up into your first. His strong thighs are trembling, mouth hanging open on broken moans, begging incoherently and apologising all in the same strained breath.

And just as his cock twitches and he gasps out your name— 

You let go.

He cries out, high and desperate, hands clutching at the silk as his entire body convulses. His cock spurts weakly against his stomach, unfinished, his orgasm ripped away mid-spasm. You’ve left him trembled, frustrated and leaking, denied the sweet relief he was milliseconds away from.

You lean down and kiss the corner of his wet mouth as he takes in a shuddering breath, tone deceptively sweet. “There we go. No more hats.”

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“Oh, God, you're so beautiful,” Clark gasps, his eyes going from your face to your pajama top, pulled down to reveal your tits as they bounce with the rise and fall of your body. Then, his gaze travels lower, to where he disappears in you. “You look so perfect like this.”

His hands move from your hips to your thighs, then up to your waist. He doesn't really know what else to do but watch, maybe move his hips up to match your movements.

He watches your pussy, folds puffy as you stretch to fit him, your slick arousal smearing all over his lower abdomen, a white ring at the base of his cock where your wetness gathers.

You whine lowly, hips stuttering a little as your strength gives way to the grogginess still clinging to you. You lean forward, resting your forehead against his, eyes fluttering shut.

Clark leans up a little and kisses you, slowly moving his lips against yours, his legs shaking under you with the need to buck up into you. But he keeps himself still and lets you do as you want.

You gently bite his lower lip, drawing a whine from him, and a grin forms on your mouth. “You feel so good in me,” you whisper, kissing down to his jaw.

He groans, taking in a sharp breath as your gummy walls clench around him tighter. So warm and wet and tight, he sometimes wishes he could stay in you for hours and not do anything else.

His hands move over your body, strong fingers kneading your flesh as you ride him. He squeezes your thighs, your ass, your hips, then lets his hands slide up to your waist. He presses a palm against your upper back, pushing your chest against his face.

He kisses your tits, one, then the other, almost reverently. You mewl, pleased, as he takes a nipple into his mouth and sucks on it, swirling his tongue around it. Your other nipple gets attention from his thumb and forefinger.

Clark is practically drooling against your chest, his saliva coating the skin around your nipple, some of it dribbling down your tit. He makes little content sounds as he feels the hardened peak in between his lips, and little slurps are audible as he sucks eagerly.

He pulls away from your nipple with a wet pop and then moves to the other one, paying it the same attention.

All the while, you’re bouncing on him, gasping and mewling as his cock fills you deep, almost pressing against your womb. He’s so big, and he feels even bigger in this position. Sometimes, you don’t even know how you fit him.

As Clark keeps himself entertained with your tits, one of his hands slides down, his fingers parting your folds so they can rub at your clit. You gasp, pussy clenching him harder, and Clark whimpers.

“You’re gonna make me come too soon,” he complains, voice muffled by your tit.

That spurs you on. You ride him faster, gasping, one of your hands on his shoulder to hold yourself up and the other one at the back of his head, fingers tangled in his hair and tugging slightly.

Clark grunts, his hips bucking up into you, his body no longer obeying him as his release builds quickly in his lower abdomen.

“Honey,” he gasps, pulling away from your chest. “Baby, wait. You’re gonna make me — fuck, I can’t —” He throws his head back, exposing his neck, the words lost on him.

You lean forward, mouth finding his throat, and you kiss and bite at the sensitive skin, sucking hickeys everywhere you can reach.

He can’t hold back despite his best attempts. He comes suddenly, the muscles in his abdomen tensing, his cock twitching before he spills into you. Thick spurts of sticky cum fill you, warm as they smear over your inner walls.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Clark mumbles, leaning forward and burying his face into the space between your neck and your shoulder, the words spilling against your skin. “Jesus, baby. Fuck.”

You grin, pleased with yourself, and kiss his sweaty temple. He slowly pulls away from your shoulder to meet your gaze, his eyes intense, cheeks and the tips of his ears gone pink.

“You made me come before you,” he says, almost accusingly, definitely embarrassed. “Now you gotta let me take care of you.” He rolls you over, laying you down and covering you with his body. “Tell me where you want me to make you come. On my cock? My mouth? My fingers?”

Your eyes grow dark with lust, heartbeat spiking at the last option. He hears it and he smirks knowingly.

“My fingers, then,” he murmurs, pulling out of you slowly, leaning back on his haunches to look down at your pussy. Your arousal is smeared everywhere, and his cum is dripping out of you. He gathers it up with his fingers and pushes it back in, groaning as you whine.

He fucks you with his fingers, slow and precise, touching you just the way you like. Your hips roll in time with the movement of his digits, your cunt squelching as he fucks his cum back into you.

“You should keep that in there,” he murmurs, his thumb coming down on your clit to rub messy shapes on it. “Keep all of my cum in you, let me give you a baby.”

You gasp, inner walls tightening around his fingers, and he shudders.

“’s that what you want, honey? You want me to make you a momma? Want me to put a baby in that pretty tummy of yours?”

“Clark,” you mewl, pussy sucking his fingers in, thighs shaking as that familiar coil of hot pleasure tightens in your womb. “Please.”

“Please, you want my baby?” he asks, his fingers moving faster, heat stirring low in his belly even though he just spent himself in you. “Please, you want me to fill you up until I get you pregnant?”

“Yes!” you squeal. “Fuck, yes, please!”

His cock is already hard, the blood rushing through his veins feeling like molten lava. He pulls his fingers out of you, leaving you empty a moment, before nudging your hole with the thick head of him and then sliding into you.

You moan, a sweet sound to his ears, and he gasps, giving you a second to adjust before he’s pounding into you.

He places a hand on your womb and adds pressure, murmuring, “Right here. Gonna put all my cum right in here.” His thumb is on your clit, rubbing you in time with his thrusts, his hips faltering as he feels you tightening around him.

You were already close, and Clark’s body is so enthusiastic about the thought of putting his baby in you, that neither of you lasts long.

You come first this time, crying out his name as your cunt clenches around him tight, sucking him in as deep as possible, pretty eyes rolling into the back of your head.

Clark’s orgasm follows. He spills even more cum this time, every drop filling you up. Warm and thick, it gathers against your cervix as he thrusts slowly, pushing it deeper with each roll of his hips.

“God,” he murmurs, staying in you as he comes down from his high, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Now you’ve got me all excited about giving you a baby. Gonna have to do this every morning until it works.”

𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk 💛

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---

Clark Kent masterlist

Your brain’s no longer in mission mode. It’s replaying the last time you watched him undress in reverse when he peeled this same suit off piece by piece in the dark, muttering about zippers and armor and how you better not be laughing at his tactical socks right now. He’d shoved you up against a wall that night. He didn’t even get the full suit off before he made you come twice.

Now?

Now you’re watching him zip into it like a fucking Greek tragedy every inch of skin disappearing under Kevlar and straps and just enough smugness to make your mind race.

Your thighs press together on instinct.

He catches you staring and smiles.

Then flexes his bicep with the most unnecessary stretch known to man.

“You good, babe?” he calls out, like he doesn’t already know your brain is melting.

“Peachy,” you manage, voice two octaves higher than usual.

Peacemaker walks by, snorting. “If you two fuck while we’re out on the run Adrian’s fired.”

You flip him off without looking away from Adrian.

He winks.

Slow. Smug. Mask dangling from his hand.

You already know what’s coming next

He’s gonna put that damn mask on, drop into full Vigilante mode, and pretend he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing to you.

And you?

You’re already planning how to shut that cocky little smirk up later preferably with your mouth full and your hands tied.

“Alright,” Harcourt says, clicking her mag into place. “We’ve got recon up north. It’s looking heavy, lots of bodies, tight grid, no clear exits. Ads, Peacemaker, you’re with me. Economos, comms and drone feed. Vigilante—”

Adrian straightens beside you, helmet in one hand, the other casually resting on his holstered Glock. “Yeah?”

“You and your girlfriend stay here.” She finishes.

He blinks. “Wait, what?”

“Just in case we need backup. If this turns into a clusterfuck, we’ll call you in for cleanup.”

Peacemaker snorts. “You mean we’re leaving the two horniest people in this group alone with guns and free time?”

Harcourt glares at him. “Shut up and move.”

Adrian tries not to smile as he salutes with two fingers. “Ten-four. We’ll, uh… hold down the fort.”

The others file out quickly, boots stomping, gear clinking, doors slamming. The echo of the door slams shut, and then… it’s just you. And him.

Alone. In the basement.

In his suit.

Still glistening just a little from earlier.

Still cocky. Still Vigilante.

You stare at the door.

Then stare at him.

Adrian shrugs, tossing the helmet onto the nearby couch like it owes him money. “Welp. Looks like it’s just us.”

“Uh-huh.”

He turns to you, slow, like he knows exactly where your brain is going. He’s still got his gloves on. Still wearing the full armor. Still standing there like the world’s sexiest war crime.

You fold your arms. “This is fine.”

“Yep. Totally normal. Just… two professionals. On standby.”

“Absolutely.”

A beat. You eye the couch. He eyes you. Another beat.

“Babe,” he says, tilting his head. “Are you thinking about how I looked five minutes ago, sweaty and half-dressed, while I loaded a magazine with my teeth?”

“No,” you lie.

“Are you thinking about how tight the suit is right now and whether or not I’m already hard?”

“I…no…shut up.”

He takes a step toward you, slow and smug, boots echoing on the concrete.

“You’re absolutely thinking about unzipping this suit just enough to ride me without taking it off,” he says, matter-of-fact, hands sliding to his belt. “Maybe right here. Maybe while I keep the gloves on. For grip.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“…This is why they don’t leave us alone,” you whisper.

He grins wide, cocky, trouble. “Too late now.”

He sits down on the couch with a loud thud. He shifts his hips trying to get comfortable and you know what you have to do.

You dropped to your knees, unzipped his suit just enough to pull him out, and started sucking him off slow, messy, mean hands pressed to his thighs while you looked up at him with the look that drives him crazy.

“Fuuuuuck,” Adrian groaned, head tipping back. “Oh my god. Babe. Babe. I can’t feel my legs. This is better than acid. Better than killing pedophiles—wait, no, tie. It’s a tie.”

You hollow your cheeks and pull back just enough to let him fall from your mouth with a wet pop, then drag your tongue up the underside of his cock while looking him dead in the eyes.

“Hmmmm,” you murmur, licking the tip. “You’re not doing a great job of showing your appreciation for me.”

He stares at you, mouth open, chest rising fast.

You know he’s close. So you pull back again. Just a little.

Let your fingers slide down. Gentle strokes. Featherlight. Not enough for him.

He groans, frustrated. “What the fuck. Babe…”

You grin. “You gonna beg?”

That’s when everything changes.

Adrian tilts his head. Still smiling. But now it’s different.

“Ohhh,” he says slowly. “That’s what we’re doing.”

Before you can react, he grabs you under the arms and pulls you up like you weigh nothing. You yelp, scrambling and he drops you sprawled across his lap.

“Wait, what are you…”

“I tried to be normal about it,” he says cheerfully, flipping your skirt up. “But you wanted to poke the psycho.”

You feel his gloves between your thighs, yanking your panties aside.

“Adrian….wait!”

“Nope. You wanted to tease me? Cool. Now I’m gonna make you come so many times you forget your own fucking name.” You look over your shoulder seeing pull his glove off with his teeth, gosh he’s so fucking hot.

You try to squirm. It’s adorable, really. Because he just locks one arm across your waist, the other hand already rubbing slow, firm circles over your clit. He’s deliberate. Rhythmic. No break, no mercy.

“Wait, fuck” you gasp, legs twitching.

“Hmm?” he says sweetly. “Something wrong, babe?”

“You’re going too fast—”

He speeds up.

“Oh my god—”

“You should’ve thought of that,” he says through a grin, breath hot against your ear, “before you did that little tongue flick thing on my head and then stopped.”

You twitch in his lap, already too far gone.

“That was rude,” he murmurs, fingers still working your clit with slow, lethal precision. “You know I love that shit. You deserve this.”

You’re panting now hips jerking, muscles spasming and then you’re coming, thighs shaking, toes curling, moaning something that doesn’t even sound like a real word.

But he doesn’t stop.

“Adrian… Adrian… fuck ’s too much…”

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Good,” he says, voice low and mean. “Then it’s working.”

Two fingers push into you, hard and deep. You try to close your legs on instinct, desperation, panic-laced pleasure, but he just shifts underneath you. His thigh locks between yours, spreading you wider, keeping you open while he crooks his fingers exactly where he knows your body can’t take it.

His fingers drag against that spot and your whole body jolts.

“So squirmy,” he mutters. “Still sensitive. Still leaking all over my fuckin’ hand, babe.”

The wet sounds echo obscenely in the basement air slick, messy, raw and you can hear how wrecked you are. Can feel it. Your breath is stuttering, your face is buried in your arm, and you’re drooling onto the couch like a girl who forgot how to function.

He curls his fingers again, deeper this time.

You scream. Your orgasm crashes down so fast it nearly folds you in half, your back arching, hands clawing at his suit, thighs spasming helplessly as he fingers you through it.

Still.

Still.

Still.

His hand doesn’t slow. Doesn’t ease up. Just keeps moving inside you like he’s making a point.

“Had all that attitude earlier,” he says, almost sweetly. “Where’d it go?”

You whimper. You know it’s pathetic and he loves it.

He grins. “God, I love when your brain shuts off. You’re a fucking mess,” he says, voice all lightness and chaos, curls sticking to his forehead. “Look at you. You came, like, three times. Maybe four? I kinda lost count after you started drooling.”

You try to catch your breath. Try to move.

Your body’s not cooperating.

Then Adrian shifts underneath you and spreads his legs a little wider and that’s when you realize just how solid his thigh is beneath you. Rock hard. Thick. Covered in that stupidly tight suit, slick with sweat and slicker with you.

And he knows what you’re thinking.

Oh, he knows.

He taps your ass once. Light. Teasing.

“Go on, baby. If you wanna come again…”

He leans back against the couch, arms spread lazily over the top.

“Do it yourself.”

Your head snaps up.

“What—?”

“No hands,” he adds, smirking now. “Just ride it.”

Your mouth drops open. “Are you serious?”

Adrian just nods, calm as anything. “Deadly. I’m gonna sit here and watch you fuck yourself on my thigh like a filthy little maniac.”

You stare at him ruined, soaked, skin flushed, thighs shaking and you still feel that twitch of need low in your belly. One more. Just one more. You can take it.

You shift to straddle his thigh. Your hands rest on his shoulder before you move your hips forward, dragging your soaked cunt against the muscle, and your whole body shudders.

Adrian groans. “Oh fuck yes. That’s it. C’mon, don’t be shy.”

You grind down harder, hands braced on his chest, moaning through clenched teeth as friction sparks like fire through your core.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, watching the way you move. “You’re soaking my suit. Do you hear that?”

You do. You look down and see his hand stroking his cock clearly enjoying the view.

Each slick roll of your hips is obscene, wet, messy, needy and the sound only pushes you closer. You chase it. Grind harder. Faster. Your clit throbs against the firm muscle, and your knees tremble with every pass.

“Look at you,” he breathes, one hand teasing over your waist, the other braced casually behind his head like he’s not being drenched in your slick. “So fuckin’ desperate. So close. You gonna do it? Gonna finish like this? Hump yourself to a messy little orgasm on my leg?”

You nod, trembling, thighs shaking as the edge builds higher and higher, your body practically vibrating with the need to just let go.

But then—he moves. Fast. In one brutal motion, Adrian grabs you under the thighs, lifts you clean off his lap and you whine.

“Adrian!”

Your orgasm hits you mid-air. You’re still coming when he pushes you against the wall, your back hitting concrete, arms flailing around his neck, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask. He just frees his dick with one hand, lines up, and drives into you so deep and so fast it knocks the air out of your lungs.

“Oh my fucking—” you sob, clawing at the back of his armor. “I was already…fuck Adrian!”

“Exactly,” he says, thrusting into you hard, each thrust bouncing you against the wall with a dull thud. “You were gonna come without me. Not happening.”

He’s frantic. Unhinged. Perfectly in control.

“Wanted to see it,” he pants. “Wanted to feel it. Wanted you twitching on my cock while you came again on me.”

Your whole body shudders, still riding the tail end of your last orgasm as he fucks a new one into you.

You’re drenched. So overstimulated.

And he’s still going.

“Fuck…fuck—Adrian, please”

He kisses you like he needs it to stay alive. “You’re not done. Not ‘til I finish with you.”

His hands grip your ass, pulling you down onto every thrust, slamming into you with so much force you swear the wall cracks behind you. Your arms are jelly, your brain static. You’re babbling, moaning, begging, cursing and Adrian is losing his goddamn mind.

“God, you feel like heaven,” he grunts. “Tight little pussy just milking me.”

You come again. You don’t even mean to.

Your orgasm rips through you like a firestorm, your body clenching around him so hard his hips stutter.

“Shit…fuck” he gasps, voice breaking. “You’re—oh my god, I’m gonna—”

He buries himself deep and groans through gritted teeth as he comes, hard, cock throbbing, arms shaking as he presses you against the wall like he’s trying to merge with you.

It’s silent.

For a second.

The two of you panting together. Sticky, shaking, wrecked.

Then Adrian, very softly “…That was romantic as fuck.”

You laugh into his shoulder. “That was new.”

He doesn’t let you go. You hang on him every part of your body vibrating. Still up against the wall, still stuffed full of him, still twitching in aftershocks.

Adrian leans his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“…Okay,” he pants. “So that was…holy shit. That was the Olympics of sex.”

You try to laugh. It comes out as a wheeze.

“I didn’t know I could cum that many times.”

“Yeah,” he nods, totally serious. “You definitely ascended. You were speaking nonsense for a second.”

You blink at him.

“I think that was just me sobbing into your collar.”

“Still counts. Spiritually, you left your body.”

You groan, letting your head fall against his shoulder.

“Okay. Please pull out before we fuse together.”

He grins and slowly withdraws, and it’s hot, sticky, and absolutely gross in the best way. You shudder, clinging to him, and he doesn’t even flinch. Just cups your ass a little tighter to keep you steady.

“Aaaaand there I am,” he says, breathless but smug. “That’s my cum. Right there. Gravity’s workin’ overtime.”

You smack his shoulder. “Shut up.”

He adjusts his grip and lifts you up like you weigh nothing. You’re sore, your thighs are trembling, and you’re pretty sure you left part of your soul somewhere back on his thigh, but he’s so annoyingly proud of himself that you can’t help but smile.

He walks you over to the couch like he’s transporting a priceless artifact.

Then gently, so gently lays you down like he’s tucking in a sleeping kitten.

You sigh. “Okay. That was… a lot.”

He crouches beside you, eyes soft now. “Too much?”

You shake your head. “No. Just… perfectly unhinged.”

He beams. Then reaches into one of the random utility pouches on his suit and pulls out…“A baby wipe?”

“Stole it from the van,” he says proudly. “Thought it might come in handy if we got bloody. Or, y’know…”

He gestures at your thighs.

“Sexy messy.”

You snort, flopping back on the cushions as he starts gently wiping you up, muttering under his breath like he’s narrating a true crime documentary.

“Gotta get the crime scene cleaned up… victim appears to have been ravaged by a sex God in tactical boots…”

“Adrian.”

“Suspect was insanely charming, allegedly.”

You roll your eyes, but you let him do it. Because honestly? It’s kinda sweet.

Once he’s done, he tosses the wipe into some vague corner of the room (you’re not investigating where), zips his suit back up halfway, and flops down beside you, immediately pulling you into his arms.

Your face lands against his chest. His heartbeat’s still a little fast.

“You good?” he asks, nose buried in your hair. “Like… good good? Or did I go too hard, do you need anything?”

You hum, pressing a kiss to his neck. “I feel like my bones melted. I’m so good.”

He grins then tightens his grip around you. “Cool. Because I was absolutely gonna pretend to get a cramp if you made me stand up.”

You slap his chest lightly.

“Shut up and cuddle me.”

He buries his face in your hair.

“I’ll do it forever.”

The basement door slams open so hard it rattles the frame.

“VIGILANTE, WHAT THE FUCK?!” Harcourt’s voice slices through the air like a goddamn grenade.

You bolt upright on instinct or try to. Your body says nope, your legs immediately give out, and you flop back onto Adrian’s chest with a squeak.

He just blinks.

“Oh hey, you guys are back.”

Harcourt storms into the room, gun still in hand, eyes blazing. Ads and Peacemaker are right behind her, looking like they just sprinted a mile uphill in body armor.

“We called for backup,” Harcourt snarls, “twice—a million times. You were supposed to be on standby.”

Adrian just blinks. “Oh fuck. Was that still going on?”

Peacemaker glares at him. “The comms were fucking live, man. You were supposed to listen—”

Ads stops mid-step. Eyes wide.

“Wait.”

She looks from Adrian’s rumpled wet suit to you flushed, very clearly freshly fucked in a couch nest of your own sweat and shame.

Her jaw drops. “Oh my god. You guys did have sex?!”

You groan and bury your face in Adrian’s chest. “Please shoot me.”

“You left the comms again?!” Harcourt explodes.

Adrian shrugs. “Technically no. I ummm, maybe have forgotten to re-enable them after I muted us during the, uh…”

He gestures vaguely.

“Thigh-based incident.”

“WHAT,” Peacemaker shouts. “What the fuck is a thigh-based incident?!”

Adrian lifts a single finger like he’s about to make a PowerPoint.

You slap your hand over his mouth.

“Stop. Just stop.”

Ads is cry-laughing now. “We were out there getting shot at! Harcourt was screaming into the comms and he was probably wrist-deep in you like it was a side quest!”

Adrian tries to speak. You keep your hand over his mouth. Shaking your head no.

“Do not describe anything out loud right now,” you hiss.

He mumbles something against your palm. You glance at Harcourt, who’s doing the slow, murderous exhale of a woman who has to process what she’s seeing or she’ll commit an actual felony.

“Next time,” she grits out, “when I say standby, keep your pants on.”

Adrian finally pulls your hand away.

“We were technically on standby,” he offers brightly. “We just got a little horizontal with it and I swear I had my pants on the whole time.”