- layla 👀

toru gojo doesn’t make it past rule number one.

he fails because he doesn’t know how to not bite his cheek & choke on the blood when you stroll in with four inch heels & glossy lips & nails that toru prays will gouge his eyes out. he can’t fucking think. his throat’s all achey & you smell like sugar & his tongue dries so hard he swallows blood to keep it wet.

he tries to say you look beautiful. the words dribble off his tongue & plunk into his drink.

“—earth to toru? it’s really rude to stare.”

how shameful of him! he should dig his knees into the tile. grovel & beg till your pout dissolves & you decide you can forgive him for making you even the slightest bit uncomfortable.

but instead he shifts his arm over the booth seat. clenches his throat. reminds himself of the training toji worked oh-so hard to give him & pinches his thigh so his foot stops tapping so hard,

“s’not much to stare at.”

what ?

in front of him you’re fawn freckled & doe eyed, lashes fluttering like—heaven forbid—you hadn’t even heard him.

so he says it again. “uhm, there’s nothing much to stare at—“

“i heard you the first time.”

your tone cuts him like a knife. toru’s not sure when you start packing, but suddenly your purse is half full & your fork’s on the table & say her name—say her name—”

he calls your name & screams an apology. you leave as the words plunk into his drink.

TOJI’S REMARK : SON, I AIN’T TEACH YOU ALL THAT.

PLAYBOY TACTICS #2: GOOD GIRLS LIKE BAD BOYS

taught by: sato gojo

“girls don’t care about that ralph lauren shit. take off that polo and get in this tech, man.”

⎚-⎚

toru gojo’s room reeks of fratboy & paint thinner.

there’s two pizza boxes & a beer can rotting; sugar in sato’s molars & suguru’s piercings glimmering in the heat. & sukuna is here; lately he always is, laid up in toru’s bed with his phone raised over his head & palm inching dangerously towards his waistband. toru gojo knows better than to comment.

“you’ve got no game, twin. how are we even related?”

sato speaks with a mouthful of popcorn. beside him suguru’s snacking too, shoving things in his backpack & parting lips so sato can feed him the occasional kernel.

suguru scoffs, teeth sticky. “it’s a miracle she even lets herself be seen with you. poindexter looking ass.”

“i know, right? mr. bean ass closet. he won’t spend money on clothes and wears the same shirt in different colors everyday.”

“that’s not true—“toru grips his neckline. “—i’m not even wearing the shirt right now!”

he gestures to the material but geto only wrinkles his nose.

“can you please stop moving? i can hear the polyester in your hoodie..”

sato snorts. sukuna grunts & it’s not due to the joke.

suguru’s done packing now. he kisses sato’s cheek. ruffles toru’s hair. turns to dap up ryomen sukuna before deciding he probably shouldn’t. he takes his exit with a palm waving goodbye.

sato turns to his twin. “you know what you really need, man?”

“the ability to set boundaries? i don’t know why ryomen thinks it’s okay to fap in my sheets.”

“that,” sato nods, ignoring the wet sounds that leave toru’s bedside, “and a new fucking wardrobe.”

ⵌ SHOW TIME ! tw: satirical references to suicide.

toru gojo looks like a fucking idiot.

glasses half-foggy. nose cherry pink. dark jeans with too many rips & chains dangling everywhere. sato’s jacket has zippers that don’t actually zip anything, and the nicest thing about the outfit are the ugly birkenstocks that show his flushed pink toes.

toru greets you with a smile. eyes bright, just happy to look a mess.

“hey, y/n!”

“Hello. Are you mad?”

your tone is clipped & makes toru flinch. he swallows, blood sticky in his jugular. your nose is wrinkled & lashes fluttering & your gaze flits to the library exit like you might run away.

he won’t let that happen. not again.

so he clears his throat. pinches his wrist. pretends his brother’s jacket doesn’t fit too loose & itch at his chin: “nope, just trying something new! shall we get started on the project ?”

his smile stretches like plastic. there’s sweat on his chin & you think he has too many teeth.

—-

toru gojo keeps tap tap tapping.

birge-carnegie library is oakwood old & glimmering with glory. the air is heavy with heat & coffee shells & the bitter realization that toru gojo is never getting the girl.

at least, not at this rate.

it’s been twenty minutes & yet all toru can do is stare. god, you’re so pretty. swollen cheeks, pretty gaze, cherry coke lips pressed into a pout & clicky nails that stab toru in the gut as you tap at your keyboard. you’re so pretty & it’s fucking killing him because you’re pouting & toru swears you don’t even want to be here.

toru can only bite his lip. mind racing, heart aching.

you’re shivering now.

and it’s not quite obvious, & if toru wasn’t staring at you like you were girl turned god he probably wouldn’t have noticed. but he sees it. the way your lip quivers. the way you tug your sleeve over your wrist & pout when it flicks back into place. the way your shoulders squeeze like they’re clinging to the heat.

you don’t even know how you make toru’s chest hurt.

& before he can think it through he’s leaning over to place his—well, sato’s—jacket over you shoulders. he can only pray it doesn’t still smell like suguru.

“this smells like suguru.”

oh, well.

but you’re softening now; settling into your seat. lashes fluttering as you push your arms into the holes & turn back to him with gentle gaze & eyes star-achingly bright.

“thank you,”

your voice is too soft. his heart is too sticky.

sato’s jacket swallows you whole.

toru thinks it’s cute. you think it’s annoying. it’s been five minutes & you’re still shifting it over your skin, pulling & tugging & pouting when you discover yet another zipper.

you frown. “i feel like a jingle bell.”

“merry christmas.” “it’s a tuesday in may..”

it is. toru doesn’t know why he said that. he’ll likely hang himself when he gets home.

but the embarrassment doesn’t end there. you stand up—just to tug the jacket over your thighs, just to straighten it out—but toru gojo doesn’t know any better so he fucking lunges—

“toru!” you gasp, startled.

toru freezes; glasses tilting off his face, mouth part open. & he looks at you, eyes wide & cheeks flushed & so fucking startled, & he thinks he’ll definitely be seeing that noose when he gets home.

“sorry—i’m sorry—i didn’t mean to—“

“you scared me.”

you’re gripping the hem of your jacket now—his jacket, sato’s, whatever—and god, he’s such an idiot. so fucking stupid & can never do anything right & will likely die knowing he was born into this world just to leave as his brother’s shadow. and worst of all, that he will never, ever, get the girl.

“i’m so sorry,” he trembles. he doesn’t look at you, he can’t & he doesn’t deserve to, so it’s fine. “i wasn’t thinking. i just saw you standing up and i thought—i thought—“

he swallows. looks away.

but you don’t let him off that easy.

“you thought what ?”

he doesn’t answer. god, he looks ridiculous. curled into himself, palms on his knees all stupid & polite. cheeks flushed, glasses foggy. lips half-bitten & a flushed gaze that never meets yours.

giving you his jacket left him in a wife beater two sizes too big. he looks small & scrawny & you think you want to kiss him.

“toru.”

he exhales, long & slow. he still doesn’t look at you. you wish he would.

“i thought you were gonna leave again.”

“what ?”

he continues, “like at the restaurant. when you—when you stood up. walked out,” he swallows. “i didn’t want you to leave again. i didn’t want to watch you go.”

god. your throat is far too tight. your nails itch at your wrist like you’re not quite sure what to do with yourself.

“i’m not gonna leave,”

your voice is too sweet, too gentle. it sounds like honey & it spoils in the heat.

“you promise?”

you only sigh, walk over and slip into the seat beside him. you don’t say you promise but toru thinks he’ll be fine for now.

SATO’S REMARK : KINDA PITIFUL, BUT HEY, IT’S SOMETHING !

PLAYBOY TACTICS #3: NEG NEG NEG

taught by: geto suguru

“it’s all about the mystery, man. you gotta lower her value to make her see yours.”

⎚-⎚

“so how do you neg?”

“well personally, i’d start with calling her a monkey,” geto has his tongue in his cheek, desk chair groaning with a creaaak as sato spins him playfully. “unless she’s black. you shouldn’t say that if she’s black.”

“i don’t think i should say that either way..”

sato rests his chin on the chair head, cheeks peach-tinged & grin clumsy.

“probably shouldn’t!”

geto shrugs, tapping at toru’s keyboard. it’s 12 PM monday & the gang’s all here: suguru’s playing the sims 4 on toru’s new PC. sukuna is asleep with his dick in his hands. sato is whining because suguru doesn’t want to have a gay love story with him in the sims. and toji’s not here—12 PM monday means a new shift at his new job. toru hopes skai jackson will take it easy on him—working as her personal AI prompt writer must certainly be exhausting.

“the logic is simple—” suguru smacks sato’s hand away from the keyboard, “if you subtly insult her, she’ll feel the urge to prove herself. and her trying to prove herself—” another smack to sato’s stubborn hands, “tricks her brain into thinking you’re worth impressing.”

“and eventually, that she likes you!” sato cheers. “woah, sugu—when did you install wicked whims?”

“huh—? what the hell? why does my sim keep trying to fuck bob pancakes!”

“make him fuck mine instead.” / “please slit your throat.”

toru breathes, drags a palm over his face. his brother & best friend are fighting now—god knows about what—but he’s more concerned about the fact that he’s got a movie date with you in two hours and today’s game plan is far from complete.

“suguru’s right. and for a feisty bitch like y/n ? negging is even more crucial.”

sukuna’s voice is close to guttural & has all eyes snapping towards him. he’s awake now, cheeks flushed & bleary gazed & eyes half-lidded. his cock is sticky on his stomach & his palm strokes it lovingly.

toru frowns. “don’t call her a bitch. i’m serious.”

“and don’t talk with your dick in your hands. i’m disgusted.” suguru snarks.

sukuna shrugs, still lazily palming himself for the world to see. suguru wrinkles his nose in disgust & turns his head back to the game. he rage quits when he turns to find his sim palming himself too.

“neg her as much as possible,” sukuna breathes, toes curling. “humble her, make her second guess—shit.” he’s pumping faster now, gasps short & breath heavy. “make her—fuck! m’gonna cum—!”

sukuna blows his load. suguru & sato have long left the room, & toru is still searching for that noose.

ⵌ SHOW TIME !

cineplex at yonge-dundas is too-bright screens & overpriced popcorn. even now, toru’s got caramel sticky in his teeth & palms crossed in a silent prayer. there’s blood in his throat & an ache in his ribs & he’s got a tie on his neck for no fucking reason.

you walk in looking like a midsummer dream.

toru really does think you’re girl turned god. after all, most girls his age aren’t honey-mouthed or starry-eyed or flush-cheeked like you are. you walk in in tight top & short skirt, lashes fluttering as you glance around the room in quiet search of him. your eyes are all big & your lips all pouty & toru bets you don’t even notice. bets you don’t even know how you leave him sweat-soaked & feverish.

“toru!”

you’ve sauntered up to him now, purse in your hands & grin on your lips. your smile is clumsy & satoru’s heart must be too because it swells over & bursts like overripe fruit. his vocal chords slosh against his throat like blood.

“hi,” he blurts. “you look pretty.”

you tilt your head & look up at him all warm-cheeked & doe-eyed. “thank you.”

it’s silent for a beat; toru’s eyes boring into yours with two cracked teeth & a kernel in his mouth. you’re so pretty & you look so sweet & he wants to kiss you so fucking bad.

you break the silence. “you like my outfit?” you step back, voice soft. “i went shopping yesterday.”

toru wants to ask if you did that just for him—just for today’s date with him—but he doesn’t. he knows better so he doesn’t.

instead he drinks you in. he looks like a butterfly trapped in a hazy addiction: pupils blown & bleary eyed, jam smeared cheeks & a quickly reddening nose. his lips are half-parted / his mouth is half-dry.

your outfit’s simple but oh-so effective: denim skirt too short on your thighs, black off-shoulder with ruffles on the sleeves, kitten heels to match your top. god, you’re so fucking cute.

and because you’re so cute, toru can’t fuck this up. so he decides it’s time to implement suguru’s lesson from earlier in the day.

“you look incredible,” he swallows, knuckles shaky. “did you—uhm. did you pick black to hide your stomach rolls?”

toru gojo shouldn’t have said that.

he knows because your lips part immediately. cheeks flushed, eyes wide. you’re frozen in front of him, lips quivering with something toru recognizes as embarrassment.

oh jesus—ya allah—great universe—what has he done?

before toru’s joints can unfreeze you’re already turning away, & toru swears there are tears in your eyes. he’s sworn he’ll never let you leave again without a fight so even though his vocal chords slosh against his throat like blood, he manages to speak.

“y/n, wait!” he gasps, already moving. “i didn’t mean that—! your body is tea! your body is tea!”

GETO’S REMARK : MAN, CALL YOUR FUCKIN’ UBER.

PLAYBOY TACTICS #4 : GET YOUR GAME FACE ON !

taught by: ryomen sukuna

“you know your problem, man ? you’re not taking this seriously, not locked in at all. let me put you on, friend.”

⎚-⎚

sukuna sighs, flops out of toru’s bed with his dick hanging out of his boxers. he has his elbows on his knees & a palm on his chin & precum sticky on his abdomen.

“i think it’s time i stepped in and gave you some advice.”

“you have a porn addiction. i think i’m good.”

PLAYBOY TACTICS #5: OR MAYBE…BE YOURSELF ?

taught by: nanami kento

“you’ve been taking advice from those idiots all this time? oh…”

⎚-⎚

in the men’s bathroom of birge-carnegie library, toru gojo has his pulse in his teeth & his heart in the sink.

4PM today toru gojo walked into the library with too many books in his hands & glasses begging to tilt off. you sat at a table near the center, & when toru walked past he saw it: your gaze meeting his before burying itself between a thick book. the bite of your lips & the way your nose crinkled with disgust.

did you pick black to hide your stomach rolls?

how embarassing! toru gojo should hang himself now—or at least after returning his library books. the overdue fees were no joke. his life was one however, & the heavy realization has his knuckles rousing white on the bathroom sink as he sheds his nerves by the pint.

his eyes are red tinged. cheeks bloody. nose too red & throat too sticky so when he tries to breathe it comes out as a hiccup. toru gojo is truly pathetic. he’s known it his whole life but now the fact has chewed him up & won’t spit him back out.

“hello. what is your problem.”

kento nanami has a tone too clipped. he’s standing at the bathroom door & his mere presence has toru gojo startled. toru jumps back, face contorting in alarm, tears still sticky on his lashes. “kento!”

“in the flesh,” nanami pushes up his glasses. he’s in pressed suit as always, looking years older than toru & his age mates. “why are you loitering in the bathroom? this is very unsanitary.”

toru sniffles, wipes his eyes. “i’m sorry—” he tries for a swallow but it comes out as a hiccup & his eyes are burning all over again because he can’t even fucking breathe right. “—i’m sorry, i’m sorry for everything. i fucked up like i always do and i should’ve used that noose ages ago and i, and i—“

nanami’s brows knit in alarm. toru’s sobbing now, and kento joins him at his side.

“toru,” his voice is soft. “tell me what’s going on.”

if you told nanami kento that going to the carnegie library today would mean comforting one of the gojo twins in the men’s bathroom instead of picking up the new BL manhwa he’d requested the library to stock, he would’ve looked you in the face & laughed.

but here he is, awkwardly patting toru’s back & not reading the latest volume of nerd project.

in his shaky distress, toru recounts everything—the lessons with the sigma-chi boys. sukuna’s refusal to stop jerking off in his bed. him pointing out your stomach rolls—& kento can only shake his head. how ridiculous. he should be reading about andrew young & luke davis right now!

but kento gently wipes toru’s tears. he’s always been rather fond of the younger twin anyways. “have you tried being normal? as in, being yourself?”

toru’s eyes swell, big. he looks stunned—why didn’t he think of that?

but he quickly deflates. he had thought of it. but he’s much too uncool—scrawny & weak & only good for reading textbooks & mediating fights between geto & his dumb brother. he had no choice but to lean into the larp.™

“i can’t—“ he gasps. “—she wouldn’t like me. i’m not cool—“

“and you think the others are cool?” kento raises a brow. “toji, whose a deadbeat dad while in college and sells himself to earn money—“

“he doesn’t do that anymore,” toru gulps. “he works for skai jackson now.”

nanami nods. “and sato, who has a gambling addiction and loses thousands to hakari every week,” toru flinches.

“suguru, who’s addicted to the sims and is in a homoerotic friendship with your brother.”

another flinch.

“sukuna, who is—“

“i didn’t take any advice from sukuna.”

kento nods, “well done. but you know he has a porn addiction and an exhibitionist kink.”

toru gulps, “yes.”

“so no more listening,” kento claps his back. “you apologize. explain to her what you’ve been doing all this while, but also take accountability. you’re smarter than this. you should’ve known better.”

“i’m sorry. she makes me stupid.”

“i know,” kento sighs, softening. toru’s wiping his eyes now. “but you shouldn’t be apologizing to me. go out there and make things right. and wash your hands first.”

toru nods eagerly. he doesn’t even remember to wipe his hands dry, and nanami can only shake his head half-fondly as he watches the younger twin go.

—————

when toru finds you, there’s a pen in your teeth & you won’t meet his eyes.

toru knows you see him standing there beside you. but you don’t flinch. your lashes flutter & you blink slow like you’re totally engrossed in whatever you’re reading. is that percy jackson?

toru shakes his head. then wishes he didn’t, because he must’ve looked really stupid physically shaking his thoughts away. “y/n.”

you don’t respond. his throat folds.

but he keeps going anyways. “y/n, i owe you an apology,” he clears his throat, & he thanks god because he doesn’t hiccup this time. “i’m sorry. i’m really truly sorry. especially for yesterday,” he gulps. “—and your body is tea.”

irritation rises in your features & quickly dissolves.

“uhm,” he’s still standing there, arms behind his back, feet shuffling. “i didn’t—i don’t actually think you have stomach rolls.”

you shut your book with a bam! “can you please stop talking about my stomach?”

“i’m sorry! oh my god i’m so sorry, i’ve been taking advice from my brother and the others on how to be cool and make you like me back but i just ended up being a total idiot! and it’s stupid! it’s so stupid and i should know better but i like you so much that i can’t fucking think and i’m so sorry for hurting you and i’ll spend the rest of my life making up for it if you’d let me and—“

“toru. you’re rambling.”

“i’m sorry!” he panics. “please forgive me!”

“oh my god,” you sigh, palm dragging over your face. “can you please sit down first?”

he sits across from you; hands digging into his knees, back too straight to be healthy.

“so you’ve been taking advice from sato and the others all this time?”

“uh, yes.”

“in what universe is that wise?”

he deflates. “i don’t know how to be wise when it comes to you.”

your tongue’s in your cheek. right now, toru gojo is something akin to a kicked puppy. he’s got a gaze that won’t meet yours & his neck is rash red & you think he might explode.

you click your tongue. “i had my suspicions.”

his head snaps up. “you knew?”

“no, i suspected it,” you tuck a book into your bag, then another, and another. “i first thought so when you showed up at the library looking like ken carson. sato set you up, by the way. even he left his opium era back in 2023.”

“he said girls like guys who dress like that..”

“he lied,” you hum, “i prefer your usual button ups anyway. you look all smart and sexy.”

“thank you. wait—what?”

“mhm,” toru’s not sure when you get up, but now you’re sitting beside him; and god, you’re in a skirt again, and toru wishes you wouldn’t wear skirts. his brain acts all funny when you wear them. he gulps.

“for a smart guy, you’re awfully slow,” your thighs are touching his & your perfume’s in his lungs & fuck, his heart is doing that funny thing again! “do you think i would’ve asked you to dinner that first night if i didn’t like you?”

“the night i said you weren’t much to look at and you left?”

you grit your teeth. “yes, toru. that night.”

he swallows, pupils shifting because he can’t handle your pretty eyes glaring at him. “i thought you did it for a dare.”

you poke his temple & he winces. “i would never do that. you idiot, i’ve liked you since you bumped into me at the library and accidentally said ‘pretty’ instead of apologizing!”

“oh.”

“‘oh’ is right,” you sigh, falling into his shoulder. you don’t miss the way he freezes under your skin. “you’re such an idiot…”

“i really like you.” toru blurts, cheeks pink. “and uhm, i’m happy you like me back. and i think you’re beautiful. so beautiful. you’re probably the most beautiful girl in the world.” he swallows. “and i’m happy you like me back. did i say that already?”

you tilt your head to look up at him from his shoulder. his gaze is trained on his knees, neck flushed, ears pink. & you’re a devil of a girl so you stroke his arm when you purr:

“look at me when you confess. please?”

toru squeaks. because you sound so pretty when you say that in his arm. because the heat of your touch sends shockwaves to his spine & his sleeve is likely sticky from your gloss but he doesn’t care. he doesn’t fucking care.

he turns to you, slow. and you’re already gazing up at him, cheeks flushed, lashes low, sun-soaked & bleary eyed. your lips are so pretty. you’re so pretty. he can’t believe he almost wanted to kill himself. what an idiot.

he clears his throat. “i like you. i wanna kiss you so bad.”

toru’s eyes widen. he didn’t mean the last part—well he did, but he didn’t mean to say it & oh god he’s fucked up again & he felt you tense against him & he’s made you so uncomfortable & you’re gonna leave him again and—

“kiss me,” you breathe. “please, toru?”

his heart hammers. you sound so pretty when you say that. why do you sound so pretty when you say that?

& more importantly, who is he not to obey? so he does as you ask—cups your cheeks oh-so softly with rouge knuckles & gentle hands. and your lashes flutter shut, & oh my god he’s really doing this.

he presses his lips to your own. you sigh into his mouth.

——-

oh, but the story doesn’t end there.

four bookshelves behind & a corner to the right, the gang’s all there. sato & suguru are leaning over the corner, stacked over each other like this is some sort of cartoon. sukuna has a granola bar in his hand instead of his dick. toji’s still not here, still slaving away typing AI prompts for skai jackson’s snapchat stories. nanami kento is here though, standing just enough to the side so no one can mistake him as friends with these idiots.

“what the hell,” sato whispers. “did he just kiss y/n?”

“no way. i think he actually did.”

“why are you guys whispering? you look fucking stupid.”

“says the guy who talks with his dick in his hands.”

“i’ll put it in your mouth next, bastard. or you only like sato’s cock in it?”

“ayoooo. you right but not too much, not too much.”

“who the hell said he was right?!”

nanami takes his leave. that’s enough stupidity for one day.

SIGMA-CHI’S REMARK: HEY, HOW’S HE DONE THAT ?!

𐦂𖨆𐀪𖠋𖨆𐀪𖠋.

CASANERDVA, end.

© HEARTKAJI. do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload.

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Spencer has revisited the events of the other night more times than he cares to admit. It doesn’t help that he works with you; even watching you do something as innocent as make copies has him imagining the feeling of you in his lap, rutting against him. He had always been certain that your emotional connection would translate to undeniable physical chemistry, but he was in absolutely no rush to test his hypothesis, given your past. Spencer would’ve waited years if that’s what it took for you to be comfortable engaging in that kind of activity with him. Of course, he’s grateful it didn’t take that long, but in a way, getting a taste of that side of a relationship with you has been a double-edged sword.

Now that Spencer’s had you straddling his lap like that, his vast intelligence has been consumed by thoughts of one thing: you. Your smile, your earnest trust in him, the feeling of your lips on his, how your lips might feel somewhere else… 

Great, now he’s aching. 

Spencer shakes his head, attempting to snap out of his lust-fueled thoughts. He’s mildly successful; he’s managed to even out his breathing a bit, but he still finds himself wondering how you’re doing right now. He knows you’re at girls’ night with the other BAU ladies. He hopes they’re being welcoming. You may have been with the team for approximately two months at this point, but this is the first time you’ve agreed to hang out with the girls without looking like the thought may make you sick. 

A fond smile comes to his face as he imagines you befriending the rest of the team. It hasn’t been that long since you were completely closed-off to the concept of emotionally connecting with any of them, but he’s noticed the great strides you’ve made. Not just with him—with everyone. Hell, Garcia even jokingly stuck a silver Christmas bow atop your head the other day when she passed by your desk, and you actually stopped her to ask her what her holiday plans entailed. You, initiating conversation. Garcia was ill-prepared to hide the shock on her face, but she quickly recovered and accepted you as her new best friend. He’s pretty certain she’s currently begging you for all your life’s most interesting gossip, now that you’ve actually joined her for a night out.

Resigning himself to finish his novel another time, Spencer rises from the couch and trudges sleepily to the kitchen. It’s getting late—or is it early, at this point?—but he’s never been one to deny himself a fresh serving of caffeine when the urge hits him. He opens one of his cabinets, stifling a yawn while he grabs a bag of ground coffee. He runs through the familiar motions of brewing a pot, and is hovering in front of the machine when a loud noise makes him jump.

A sudden thump, coming from his living room. Before he can properly identify the sound, a chill shoots down his spine. Unexpected noises have always made him a bit squirrely, a consequence of living with constant stress. Spencer thinks back to how you had mentioned having a therapist, and briefly wonders if he should talk to a professional about his hypervigilance. Then, he quickly remembers that he’s just heard a suspicious noise from inside his apartment, and thinks that now is probably not the best time to contemplate the benefits of Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. Also, it’s definitely not the best time to be wondering if you would be proud of him for prioritizing his mental health.

Spencer’s gun is currently resting on his entryway table, so he settles for a butcher knife, weakly wielding it in front of him as he steps around the corner, back into the living room. His grip falters when he’s met with an empty room. Over the faint music drifting from the speakers on the TV stand, he hears another thump, and realizes with relief that the sound is filtering in from the hallway. Returning the knife to the block on the kitchen counter, he crosses to his front door, crouching a bit to peer through his peephole.

Strangely, he can’t see anything. There’s something blocking his view. Comforted by the safety of his gun resting on the table beside him, Spencer unlocks his door and attempts to hesitantly prop it open an inch or two. However, there’s something heavy leaning against it, so once he’s turned the knob, his door flies open, nearly decking him. He steps back, just in time for the door to whack against the wall.

Someone stumbles through the doorway, and it takes him all of a split-second to realize that it’s you. At first, he’s incredibly confused by your unannounced, peculiar arrival at his doorstep. After all, it’s well past midnight, and you’re walking with the grace of a newborn giraffe. Then, you push your unruly hair out of your face, your eyes meet his, and he registers the hazy—albeit, thrilled—look in your gaze. Suddenly, he pieces together the fact that you’re positively sloshed, and must have been banging your head against the door in lieu of knocking. 

Your eyes light up, as if you’re surprised to find Spencer at his place of residence. The grin that spreads across your face is precious, if not a bit… maniacal? Spencer’s heart flips; regardless of how ridiculous you might look, he’ll always find you beautiful. 

“Spence!” you exclaim excitedly, an unmistakable, drunken drawl to your greeting. You sway slightly on your feet, and now that Spencer has had time to process the fact that he’s not in imminent danger as he had initially thought, the sight of you drunkenly smiling at him is more amusing than anything else. 

“Hi there,” Spencer replies, suppressing the urge to chuckle. “Are you drunk?”

You squint, as if you need to seriously ponder his inquiry in order to determine your answer. Then, you offer a big shrug, your actions sluggish yet incredibly exaggerated. 

“A little,” you respond, feigning nonchalance. 

“Just a little?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow. You nod your head vigorously, and he hopes you’re not making yourself dizzy. He’s never seen you drunk; he’s really hoping you’re not the type to throw up all night and end up with a wicked hangover, though he’ll happily hold back your hair, of course. 

“Mhm,” you hum in affirmation. Your head goes still, and you blink slowly. You’re looking at him with an awful lot of affection, though he supposes you’ve just properly imbibed. He files away this image anyway, just in case it’s the only time you’ll regard him with such unadulterated adoration. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks, trying not to get hung up on his worried thoughts. Evidently, he asked the right question, because you gasp and hop giddily, as if you’re about to tell the most intensely fascinating story known to man. 

“Emily tried to drink me under the table!” you say with an incredulous scoff at her apparent foolishness. Then, you add, “Heh. Sucker.”

Spencer blinks at you.

“That… doesn’t answer my question,” he replies slowly. You barrel on, gesturing animatedly as you elaborate.

“Oh! Well, she lost. I won, and you were the first person I wanted to tell,” you explain, emphasizing your declaration with a light poke to the center of his chest. The simple touch ignites a swell of emotions in his heart, but the moment is quickly ended as you retract your hand. 

Spencer almost wants to cry at how easily you just admitted to wanting to see him. “You were the first person I wanted to tell.” Rationally, he knows you’re only making a claim like that because of the alcohol currently flooding your system, but the sentiment makes him flush all the same. Could he really mean more to you than he thought?

“Congratulations?” he says, unsure how to respond to the best sentence he’s ever heard come out of your mouth. There’s a little flicker of hope, somewhere deep in his bones, that says you might have genuinely meant what you said. There’s a memory taunting him, like a word on the tip of his tongue. He’s trying not to read too much into it, but he still feels a bit like he’s floating. Is this heaven?

Then, it hits him.

You had once told him that you don’t drink because you get too honest. Those had been your exact words.

So, if you really did want to see him above everyone else, what else could you possibly be thinking right now?

“Thank you! Can I come in?” you ask bluntly, and Spencer attempts to ground himself in reality. Regardless of how you may or may not feel about him, you’re here, and he’d be a damned fool if he didn’t enjoy every second of being beside you. He clears his throat and steps aside so you can properly enter his apartment, and you practically skip into his living room. He locks the door and follows you inside. 

“Of course,” he confirms, though you’re already making yourself comfortable.

“Whatcha doin’?” You throw the question over your shoulder, and Spencer is simultaneously amused and concerned by how carefree you sound right now. He has about a million questions—how did you get here? Why did you drink so much (aside from your stubborn competitive streak)? Did the other girls make it home safe? Why the hell did they let you come here alone? How drunk is everyone else?

You wander around the space like you’ve never seen it before, and Spencer immediately worries about your emotional state. He knows how trauma affects the brain, and considering the small amount of details you’ve shared with him about your past, he’s acutely aware that you may have a tendency to dissociate. Who wouldn’t, with neglectful parents and a history of suffering from abuse? With the way you’re analyzing the books on his shelves and tapping your nails along the edge of his chess board, humming happily, he has to resist giving into his gnawing barrage of fears. 

Surely, you’re just acting like a different person because you’re inebriated. That’s it. He refuses to believe that there could be any other explanation. Of course you remember sleeping over weeks ago, and borrowing his clothes. Of course you remember playing chess, and kissing, and…

You fiddle with a white pawn, plucking it from its square and staring at it with a scrutinizing gaze. After a moment of silence—in which Spencer anxiously observes you—you mutter something that sounds vaguely like “useless”. Spencer heaves an audible sigh of relief. You’re talking to the same piece that you always use for your opening move, despite Spencer encouraging you to try different approaches. With the clear disdain in your tone, he comes to accept that his fears are nothing short of irrational. You’re not looking at his apartment with unfamiliarity; you’re just wasted off your ass. 

He inhales deeply, willing himself to exhale any residual nerves. 

You’re here, and you’re okay, and he needs to stop worrying. 

“Well, I was reading, but I guess I’m entertaining you now,” he says, injecting more calm into his tone than he truly feels. 

“You can keep reading,” you announce, carefully returning the pawn to its starting position and turning your attention to his speakers. You fiddle with the volume knob, adjusting the sound to your liking. 

“I doubt I could focus,” Spencer says flatly, raising his voice just enough to speak over the now louder music. He rolls his eyes fondly, though your back is turned to him. He’s pretending to be annoyed by your meddling, but really, it does something funny to his stomach to know that you enjoy his music enough to turn it up. You bob your head along to the instrumentals for a moment before deciding to answer him. 

“Aw, but you look so cute when you’re focused!” you exclaim, turning to shoot him another wide grin. 

“Thanks,” Spencer mutters, his cheeks turning pink in response to your comment. You bounce across the rug, planting your feet right in front of him. Unexpectedly, you throw your arms around Spencer, hugging him like you’re afraid to let go. 

“I missed you,” you mumble, your sweet words barely audible over the combination of the music and the thick material of his sweater. 

“You saw me like, six hours ago,” he replies with exaggerated disinterest. Big liar, he is, considering how he was fantasizing about you until the second you showed up at his door. 

“That’s a long time. Almost two days in dog time,” you say solemnly, lifting your head to look up at him with wide eyes. 

“Good thing you’re not a dog,” Spencer says, the tiniest smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. He’s trying to contain himself, but you’re acting so damn silly. He can’t help but feel enthralled. 

“I know. Then I couldn’t date you! That would suck,” you pout, tucking your head back under his chin. 

“A terrible fate. Truly,” Spencer deadpans, though of course, the thought of not being able to date you absolutely horrifies him. He has precisely zero interest in letting you go right now, so he raises one hand to rest on the back of your head, smoothing your hair as he often does. The two of you stand like that for a few minutes, and Spencer thinks he could get lost in the feeling of your soft breathing against his chest, your warmth pressed against him. 

As abruptly as you had hugged him in the first place, you extract yourself from his arms, and his hands fall sadly at his sides. It feels like he’s been tasked with dogsitting a puppy on a sugar high, the way you suddenly prance into his bedroom. He follows you, and is struck by the panic that you might find something embarrassing in his room, but it’s not like he sleeps with an embroidered pillow that professes his intense feelings for you. 

You move about his room like you own the place, and the scene would feel incredibly domestic if you weren’t ridiculously drunk. You poke his closet door insistently, and turn to face him. 

“Can I borrow your hoodie again?” you ask with a little tilt of your head. 

God, he would give you anything you asked for.

“Sure,” he agrees simply. 

“You’re the best!” you cheer, like he’s offered you an all-expenses paid vacation as opposed to a piece of cloth. Spencer stands in the doorway as you slide open his closet, pushing aside sweater vests and cardigans until you find the sweatshirt you’re looking for. You gingerly remove it from the hanger, treating it as if it’s a precious gemstone. You lay it out on his bed, smoothing out the wrinkles crossing its front.

And then, your hands fall to the hem of your blouse, and you start to pull it over your head.

“Stop! What are you doing?” Spencer squeals, clapping his hands over his eyes. 

“Changing…?” you reply, confused by his outburst. He would be tempted to laugh by how adorably unsure you sound right now, if he weren’t currently struck by how close he had just come to seeing your bra. Assuming you’re wearing one. Oh sweet Jesus, what if you’re not even wearing a bra? 

Focus, Spencer.

“Jesus, just put it on over your shirt,” Spencer pleads, parting his fingers just enough to take a quick peek at you. When he determines that you’re no longer in the process of an inadvertent striptease, he drops his hands away from his face. Your fingers are hovering against the bottom seam of your shirt, like you’re still considering ripping it off, but you’re hesitating. You have a pensive look on your face, your brows scrunched up and your lips curled into a little frown. Seeing your dilemma, he adds, “Please.”

“Huh,” you sigh. You look down at your own chest—your, by the grace of God, covered chest—and hum a discontented little sound. Spencer is having a really hard time resisting the urge to follow your gaze down your body, but he is first and foremost a gentleman, so he watches your face, instead. Your beautiful face, which looks so ridiculously insulted when you ask, “What… you don’t wanna see my boobs?”

This is the most hilariously teasing situation Spencer has ever found himself in. Lord, if only you knew how much he wanted to see them. Truly. But now’s not the time. 

“Um… I’m sure they’re very nice, but you’re drunk,” he reminds you. You lift your gaze to meet his eyes, and you look so bewildered.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” you state, and Spencer lets out a shaky chuckle. 

This is so not how he pictured his night going. Imagine, turning down your girlfriend—are you his girlfriend?—when she wants to flash you. Boy, he hopes your offer still stands when you’re sober…

For the love of God, focus!

“Trust me, hon. You’ll thank me in the morning,” Spencer says breathlessly, fighting tooth and nail to keep his mind out of the gutter. Once more, a pet name has unintentionally slipped from his mouth. His cheeks start to burn; although he enjoys the feeling of referring to you so affectionately, he’s never sure how you’ll respond.

Just as you have in the past, you don’t make a fuss about the name. Instead, you seem to ponder his words, eventually pulling your hands away from the hem of your shirt to grab the hoodie from its place on his bed.

“Okay,” you concede, slipping the sweatshirt over your head. Your hair creates a messy sort of halo around your head, and Spencer is struck with awe that someone as perfect as you could be even the slightest bit interested in him. 

“Thank you,” he sighs.

“I can’t believe you’re thanking me for that,” you say, preoccupied with bunching up the sweatshirt sleeves so that your hands are free.

“Yeah, well,” Spencer mumbles, trying not to think dirty thoughts about what had almost just happened. You plop down on the edge of his bed. It’s the side he usually sleeps on, and he finds himself wondering if you sleep on that same side. He thinks that he would happily destroy his usual routine if it meant getting to accommodate yours. 

“So, what do you wanna do now?” you ask, sitting back on the heels of your palms and looking up at him expectantly. Spencer’s answer comes automatically. He cares too much about you to consider any other option. 

“Get you some Tylenol. Some water, too,” he declares. And then, because he’s a sucker for caring for you, he adds, “Tuck you in.”

“Boooooring,” you complain, sounding much like a petulant child who abhors their bedtime. He huffs with amusement.

“Uh-huh. What did you have in mind, then?” he asks, crossing his arms and preparing to double down on his decision. You bat your eyelashes with faux innocence. 

“Lots of kissing, for starters,” you propose, your voice suddenly sounding rather sultry. While Spencer appreciates the interest, he would never take advantage of you in this state. Or any state, for that matter. He shakes his head firmly. 

“We can do that tomorrow. Maybe then you’ll actually remember it,” he teases, though the former half of his statement is a genuine promise. God, he wants nothing more than to feel your mouth against his, and if you’re still interested when you’re sober, there will be no reason to hold back. 

“Ugh,” you grumble, flopping down against the mattress with a huff. Spencer rolls his eyes again, assessing you with an admiring look. 

“Mhm. Get in bed, I’ll bring you some water,” he assures you, struggling to tear himself away from you, but wanting to make sure you’re cared for. 

Spencer is gone for no more than a minute, retreating to the kitchen to fill a cup with cool water. He returns to his room to find you snuggled under the blankets, propped up against the headboard and blinking sleepily.

“Milady,” he says dramatically, bowing his head in mock reverence as he offers you the cup. 

“Heh,” you snort, taking his offering and sipping some water. Spencer disappears into his bathroom for a moment, procuring some over-the-counter painkillers for your impending hangover. He drops the tablets on the nightstand before leaning down to press a tender kiss to your forehead. 

“Sleep tight,” he whispers. Then, on second thought, he drags the trash can from the corner and places it beside the bed as he adds, “Try not to hurl on my carpet, please.”

“Wha-? Where are you going?” you stammer, looking—and sounding—very offended. Spencer’s brows raise, as if the answer should be obvious. 

“The couch,” he states. You double over as if the idea physically pains you, collapsing dramatically onto the sheets. 

“Nooo. Stay here,” you beg, patting the empty space beside you. 

“That sounds like a terrible idea. You’re gonna pull something,” Spencer replies, unimpressed. As tempting as the image is of you laying in his bed, he would feel like the world’s biggest piece of shit for indulging in his own selfish interests at your expense. 

Still, is it really so wrong if all you do is sleep…?

“Nuh-uh. I will be so good. I swear. Just cuddling, no funny business,” you promise, sitting up and lazily drawing a cross over your heart. 

Spencer has nearly no resolve in the first place when it comes to you, so he’s pretty much helpless to resist you. Still, he has one condition. 

“No kissing,” he commands, glaring at you pointedly. He’s determined to behave himself, but he needs to be sure that you’ll do the same. 

“I will keep my mouth so far away from yours,” you agree solemnly. Spencer hesitates for a second, wondering if this is really the best decision, but as aforementioned, he is a sucker for you.

And so, he slides into bed beside you. 

“You better,” he says, narrowing his eyes at you in a weak threat. Your reply comes in the form of an arm thrown over his chest. You nuzzle up against his side, burying your head in the crook of his neck. He can feel your eyelashes flutter against his skin, and foolishly assumes that you’re making a genuine attempt to sleep.

Not a moment later, he feels your lips press against the thin fabric of his t-shirt, offering a soft kiss against his shoulder. He instantly recoils, looking down at you incredulously. You have the gall to act just as offended as he is.

“I said no kissing!” he exclaims, shifting away from you ever so slightly in a feeble attempt to resist his attraction to you.

“That was an accident!” you say with mock innocence, pretending to be just as indignant as Spencer.

“Sure,” he drawls, unconvinced. He narrows his eyes again, and you have the audacity to gasp at his accusatory tone.

“Your shoulder just bumped into my mouth,” you declare, eyes flitting to the aforementioned body part as if it’s betrayed you. 

“Likely story,” he replies flatly. 

“You should watch where you put that thing,” you respond, voice brimming with enough solemn energy to challenge Spencer’s deadpan delivery. He rolls his eyes.

“Oh, my bad,” Spencer says sarcastically. In your alcohol-addled mind, you take his teasing as a concession and hum approvingly, feeling like you’ve won this argument. You cozy up against his side, tightening your grip around him. This time, your muscles loosen and you sigh contently, like you’re truly about to drift off to sleep.

“Mm,” you breathe. Although Spencer was initially concerned that you might be trying to proposition yourself to him in your drunken state, it seems that your kiss truly was nothing more than an affectionate gesture. Satisfied that you’re going to behave yourself now, he relaxes beside you, settling in for the night.

“Comfy?” he asks softly. You’re resting your head on his arm like it’s the most comfortable pillow you’ve ever had, and his thumb draws lazy circles on your shoulder. 

“Very,” you reply in a tiny, blissful voice. 

“Sweet dreams,” he murmurs, admiring how comfortable you appear to be, curled up at his side. He feels something more than like as he looks at you, snuggled up against his chest. He doesn’t even know what you are to him, what he has the right to call you, and here he is, feeling… more. He’ll have to ask you about this when you’ve sobered up, but for now, he just enjoys the feeling of you next to him. 

“G’night,” you answer, though with you in his arms, it already is.