#drunk reader

The private booth in the upscale Madrid club felt like an extension of the celebration itself—velvet seating curved around a low table already scattered with chilled bottles, delicate glasses catching the warm light from overhead fixtures, and a small reserved card that had your name on it.

The first hour unfolded slowly, unhurried. Congratulations blended into easy conversation as fresh drinks replaced empty glasses almost without anyone noticing. Stories from work drifted into football, football into travel plans, someone ordering another round before the waiter had even collected the previous one. Every so often another toast interrupted the conversation, glasses clinking across the table while your friends insisted on celebrating "one more thing."

It wasn't until your glass had been topped up for what must've been the third time that you realised you'd hardly moved from the spot you'd claimed beside Jude all evening.

You sat nestled against your boyfriend's side, his arm draped casually along the back of the booth behind your shoulders. The fabric of his black shirt was smooth under your fingers whenever you reached for your drink, and the subtle scent of his cologne mixed with the faint citrus from the cocktails.

Your girlfriends arrived in waves of laughter and hugs, their partners trailing with easy handshakes for Jude. Congratulations came in steady, warm increments, each time someone raised a glass or leaned across the table to toast your new contract, Jude’s hand would find your knee or lower back, giving a gentle squeeze. “Told you she’s brilliant,” he’d say, voice carrying that expressive pride without ever sounding performative.

His eyes would find yours across the small space, holding for a beat longer than necessary, the corner of his mouth lifting into a genuine smile. You felt yourself glowing under the attention, the champagne and cocktails sliding down easily, warming your chest and loosening the long day’s work tension from your shoulders.

Time stretched comfortably, conversations wandered: one of your friends recounting a disastrous event from last month, Jude chiming in with a dry comment about how football dressing rooms had nothing on event logistics chaos.

You laughed, the sound brighter than usual, and reached for another sip. The alcohol settled in gradually, first a pleasant buzz in your limbs, then a softer haze that made the lights seem a touch warmer and the music more inviting. Jude noticed, of course.

His thumb traced slow patterns on your shoulder, and when your laugh turned a little too loose he leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Pace yourself, darling. You want to enjoy yourself until later, right?”

The words were affectionate, not scolding, carrying the same quiet reminder he'd given you more than once before.

You smiled into your glass almost immediately.

He wasn't trying to stop you from drinking. If anything, Jude loved seeing you like this—lighter, louder, laughing at things that probably weren't as funny as they seemed after two cocktails. But the two of you knew exactly where your limit lived, mostly because you'd crossed it enough times to recognize the warning signs. You were a spectacular lightweight, and every celebration seemed to end the same way: waking up the next morning trying to piece together the last hour of the evening while Jude filled in the blanks over breakfast.

Somewhere along the line, you'd been the one to ask him to step in before that happened. Not to stop you, just to slow you down enough that you'd still remember the night you'd spent weeks looking forward to.

The club filled slowly around your booth. What started as a refined, spacious atmosphere grew denser with bodies and voices. Jude’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly at first, his arm stayed around you, but his gaze began flicking toward the growing crowd more often, tracking the flow of people near your table.

When someone bumped the edge of the booth reaching for a passing waiter, Jude’s body angled slightly, creating a subtle barrier between you and the movement. He didn’t say anything about it, just continued listening to the conversation, nodding along, fingers still playing idly with the strap of your dress on your shoulder.

You were too pleasantly tipsy to register the full shift, the way his easy usual energy had quietly layered into something more protective.

Eventually the music began to drown out the conversations around the table. One of your friends disappeared toward the dance floor first, dragging her boyfriend after her with surprisingly little resistance, while the second couple followed not long after, laughing as another round of drinks arrived just as everyone seemed to be abandoning the booth.

Jude stayed where he was for another minute, one arm still resting lazily along the back of the seat behind you as he watched the small exodus with quiet amusement. His fingers rolled the condensation around his glass while the conversation naturally dissolved into smaller pockets, people getting to their feet one by one without much urgency.

Clubs like this had their own rhythm. There were no phones held discreetly under tables, no whispered excitement when someone recognisable walked past. Famous footballers, actors, musicians, old-money families and business owners drifted through the room with the same quiet anonymity, everyone seemingly understanding that the point of the place was to leave one another alone. Privacy wasn't advertised; it was simply expected.

It was one of the few places where Jude could disappear into the crowd despite standing well over six feet tall.

He finished the last sip from his glass before setting it down with a soft clink, turning towards you with the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Come on."

His hand found yours before you even had the chance to answer, giving it a gentle squeeze as he stood. You followed with a quiet laugh, letting him pull you effortlessly to your feet, the room tipping ever so slightly from the champagne before his free hand settled instinctively at your waist to steady you.

"Easy," he murmured, smiling to himself.

Together, you slipped away from the booth and into the growing crowd.

His hand remained wrapped around yours as you left the booth, weaving between clusters of people without ever really having to think about it. Every now and then someone stepped into your path—a waiter balancing a tray of drinks, another couple laughing too hard to notice where they were going—and each time Jude adjusted instinctively, his hand slipping from yours to the small of your back for a second before finding it again once there was space.

The dance floor was fuller than it had been earlier, though it still carried the same restrained elegance as the rest of the club. Nobody was trying to outshine anyone else. Groups drifted together and apart beneath the warm lights, expensive dresses catching the glow as conversations dissolved into music.

One of your girlfriends spotted the two of you from somewhere near the middle and lifted her glass in the air with an exaggerated cheer before disappearing back into her own little world.

Jude laughed under his breath. He stopped just before the crowd thickened, turning to face you properly for the first time since leaving the booth. His hands settled naturally on your hips, thumbs resting lightly against the fabric of your dress as though they'd found their usual place without either of you thinking about it.

"There she is," he murmured, the grin on his face widening as you immediately caught the rhythm. "Closing deals by day..." You laughed before he could even finish. "...Owning the floor by night."

"Oh, shut up."

"I'm serious." His answer disappeared into a quiet laugh as you gave your hips an exaggerated sway just to prove a point, he watched you for half a second before shaking his head. "I'm really proud of you, you know that?"

You felt your own smile falter into something smaller, warmer.

"You worked your arse off for this." He gave you the gentlest squeeze before pulling you a fraction closer again, as though the words themselves weren't enough. "You deserve tonight."

Without thinking, your arms slipped up around his neck, fingers lacing loosely together as they rested there. The music carried on around you, people moving past in blurred flashes of light, but for a moment it felt as though the two of you had quietly drifted into your own little pocket of the room.

"Thank you," you said, the words coming quieter this time.

Jude frowned ever so slightly.

"For what?" His smile showed that he had no clue what you were referring to.

"For being here." You leaned in just enough to steal a slow kiss, unhurried and familiar, lingering for a heartbeat before your forehead brushed lightly against his. "I know you've been exhausted."

His expression barely changed, but you saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes. Pre-season always asked a little more of him than people realised. New tactical sessions, double training days, fitness testing, constant travelling, the expectation of arriving sharper than he'd left. It wasn't unusual for the two of you to spend most of a week working around one another's schedules rather than with them, stealing dinners together at ten o'clock or settling for a FaceTime call when one of you was still in the office and the other had an early recovery session the next morning.

"You've had a rough couple of weeks," you continued gently. "You could've gone home after training and slept for twelve hours."

A quiet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Could have."

"Instead you're here."

His hands settled a little more securely at your waist.

"Where else was I going to be?" The answer was so matter-of-fact that it made you smile. He shrugged one shoulder, almost as if the decision had never really existed in the first place. "My girl just signed the biggest contract of her career, I'm not missing that for shit."

You smiled and kissed him again, the corners of your mouth lingering there even after you'd pulled apart. Neither of you hurried to say anything else, there wasn't much left to add.

The music carried you forward instead.

Another song bled seamlessly into the next, and the two of you simply kept moving. Sometimes it was little more than an easy sway, your forehead brushing his chin as he absentmindedly traced the curve of your waist beneath his palm. Other times one of your girlfriends would pull you into a small circle, laughing as the group attempted increasingly questionable dance moves after another round of cocktails, each fresh drink arriving before the previous one had quite disappeared.

Somewhere along the way you'd stopped counting.

Jude never protested when you wandered off for a minute or two, he'd simply watch with that small, amused smile of his, occasionally catching the eye of one of the other boyfriends as they exchanged the kind of look only people accompanying very happy women seemed to understand. Every now and then one of them would drift over, the conversation between the four men coming and going naturally while they watched the celebration unfold in front of them.

They laughed amongst themselves, nursed the same drinks for far longer than any of you did, and every so often one of them would peel away when his girlfriend came looking for another dance.

He kept that balance for a long while: hyping you with grins and quiet praise, then instinctively shifting whenever the dance floor grew tighter around you. His body would angle just enough to absorb the occasional bump from passing strangers, one arm finding its way more securely around your waist while the other remained loosely tangled with yours whenever the music slowed again.

None of it felt deliberate, it was simply how Jude moved through crowded spaces.

Your group drifted together, then apart again, your girlfriends pulling you into little circles before someone inevitably reached for another round of drinks. You laughed more easily with each passing daiquiri, the pleasant warmth in your chest settling into your limbs until everything—the music, the lights, the conversations around you—felt softened around the edges.

More than once you caught Jude watching you instead of the room. Every time your eyes met, he'd smile without thinking, as if he still couldn't quite believe the night was real.

At one point he reached for you again, drawing you back against him with an easy familiarity before pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. When he pulled back, his eyes lingered on your face for a second longer than necessary, taking you in beneath the shifting lights before the corner of his mouth lifted.

"I'm gonna grab another round and use the bathroom," he said eventually, leaning close enough that only you could hear him. His hand gave your waist one last reassuring squeeze. "Don't wander off. I'll be quick."

You nodded, smiling up at him before letting yourself be swept back towards your friends as one of them waved you further into the crowd.

The minutes after Jude disappeared into the crowd stretched a little longer than you'd expected. Around you, the dance floor had reached its evening peak, conversations overlapping with the music as people drifted in loose circles beneath the warm lights.

One of your girlfriends was halfway through dramatically reenacting a disaster from a gala the month before when a man in a tailored navy suit wandered over, lifting his glass in greeting.

“Quite the celebration over here,” he said, raising his own glass in a small toast. “Saw the bottle service. Special occasion?”

Your little circle laughed almost in unison.

"She does," one of your friends answered before you had the chance, pointing enthusiastically in your direction. "Biggest contract of her career."

You groaned, already laughing. "Don't make it sound so dramatic."

"It is dramatic," another one insisted, throwing an arm around your shoulders with considerably less balance than she'd intended. "We're celebrating."

"Fair enough," the man smiled, his attention drifting back to you. "Congratulations."

"Thank you." You smiled politely. "It was a good day."

"What do you do?"

You told him the name of your company, explaining in a sentence or two that you worked in event promotion. Recognition flickered across his face almost immediately.

"Right... I know the name."

The conversation wandered naturally from there. He mentioned attending one of your company's events a couple of years earlier, one of your girlfriends interrupted to argue that yours had been better, somebody else burst out laughing because they'd completely forgotten what they were talking about in the first place, and before long all four of you were speaking over one another in the wonderfully chaotic way slightly drunk friends always seemed to.

The man stayed beside the group, chiming in every now and then with a comment or a question that you answered without much thought whenever there was a gap in the conversation.

Most of your attention, though, belonged elsewhere.

Your stomach already hurt from laughing.

At one point another boyfriend appeared beside your friend with the long-suffering expression of someone who'd clearly been sent to collect her before she embarrassed herself any further. She protested dramatically, insisting she was perfectly capable of standing on her own before immediately wobbling into him anyway, sending the rest of you into another fit of laughter.

You doubled over, clutching your friend's arm as tears threatened to gather in the corners of your eyes. "Oh my God..."

"I told you!" your friend managed between laughs.

"I can't breathe."

Somewhere beside you, the conversation with the man continued.

You answered something, you weren't entirely sure what. Whatever it was seemed polite enough.

Across the room, Jude emerged from the bar with two fresh drinks balanced easily in one hand (water for you). His eyes found you almost immediately, more out of habit than anything else. For a second, everything looked exactly as he'd left it, your friends laughing amongst themselves, music carrying through the room, you smiling so hard your shoulders were shaking.

Then he noticed the man.

It wasn't anything obvious. No wandering hands or exaggerated flirting. Just the way he kept subtly angling himself towards you every time the conversation shifted, waiting for your attention to drift back to him. You, meanwhile, seemed entirely oblivious, answering whatever he asked before dissolving back into laughter with your friends a second later.

Jude stood where he was for another beat, watching the interaction settle into place. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before he started across the dance floor, weaving through the crowd with the same measured pace he'd had all evening.

By the time he reached the group, the conversation hadn't changed all that much. You were still laughing, one hand resting on your friend's arm while you tried, and failed, to explain whatever story had just sent the three of you into another fit of giggles.

Jude stepped in beside you as though he'd never left. His free hand settled naturally at your waist, fingers spreading lightly against the fabric of your dress as he leaned in just enough to place the fresh glass into your hand.

"There you go, darling." You looked up immediately, your whole face brightening.

"There you are!" The smile that broke across your face was so immediate, so instinctive, that Jude felt something inside him quietly settle.

"Miss me already?" he asked, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"Mm..." you hummed dramatically, already leaning into his side. "You took ages."

"Seven minutes."

"Exactly."

A quiet laugh escaped him. He bent to press an unhurried kiss against your temple, lingering there for a second before straightening again.

Only then did he acknowledge the man standing opposite, his expression never changing.

"Alright, mate." The greeting was polite, almost conversational.

The man returned the nod without hesitation, glanced once between the two of you and smiled politely. "Congratulations on the contract."

"Cheers." A beat passed. "I'm gonna steal her back."

There wasn't a trace of hostility in Jude's voice, he'd said it with the same easy certainty someone might excuse themselves from a conversation at dinner.

The man understood immediately, wished the group a good evening and disappeared back into the crowd without another word.

Jude didn't watch him leave. His attention had already returned to you, his arm still comfortably around your waist as though it had never belonged anywhere else.

The rest of the night unfolded in that same unhurried rhythm. Jude kept his arm around your waist as the stranger melted back into the crowd, his fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of your dress in a way that felt more like habit than anything deliberate. You leaned into him without thinking, the pleasant haze of the evening wrapping around you both as the music swelled again.

For a while, nothing seemed different, your girlfriends pulled the group back into a loose circle on the dance floor, laughter rising easily whenever someone missed a step or nearly spilled a drink. Jude moved with you, his hands finding your hips as the beat shifted, pulling you close enough that your back rested against his chest, the warmth of him was steady, familiar.

Another song bled into the next, you turned in his arms, looping yours around his neck as you swayed together. Jude’s forehead brushed yours for a moment, his breath warm against your skin. Then, almost casually, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, he murmured, “Funny guy, eh? What was he saying over there?”

You blinked up at him, the question landing softly through the tipsy glow. A slow smile spread across your face as realisation dawned. “Oh my god,” you laughed, the sound light and affectionate, pressing your cheek against his shoulder for a second. “Were you jealous?”

Jude’s hand tightened slightly at your waist, but his expression stayed easy, almost sheepish. “Not jealous. Just… curious.” He shrugged one shoulder, eyes flicking down to meet yours as you both continued moving to the music. The crowd shifted around you, but the space between your bodies stayed small and warm. “He seemed pretty chatty.”

You grinned, tipping your head back to look at him properly. The alcohol made everything softer, warmer, and his subtle shift in mood only made him look more endearing. “Baby, I barely remember what we were talking about. Something about the club, I think? One of the events we did last year. I was mostly laughing with the girls.” You reached up, fingers brushing along the back of his neck as you pulled him a little closer.

He watched you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You kissed him then, slow and sweet, tasting the faint trace of his drink on his lips. When you pulled back, your smile was teasing but warm. “My big, strong footballer boyrfriend getting a little worked up over some random guy who probably just wanted free bottle service stories.” You laughed again, the sound bubbling up easily, and Jude finally let out a quiet chuckle of his own, shaking his head as he rested his forehead against yours.

“Alright, alright,” he murmured, but his hand stayed firm at your waist, thumb tracing slow circles as the music carried you both.

The conversation didn’t linger, it dissolved the way things often did between you—into another kiss, then another sway of your bodies, your girlfriends pulling you back into the group for a few chaotic minutes of dancing before Jude drew you close again.

The night continued around you, laughter and lights and the steady pulse of the club, but you noticed the tiny shift in him as the hours wore on. He was still there, still affectionate—his hand finding yours, his lips brushing your temple—but he was quieter than usual, more thoughtful.

His smiles came just as readily, but they settled a little deeper, like he was turning something over in his mind without quite saying it aloud. You knew him well enough to see it, even through the pleasant fog of champagne.

Eventually the group decided it was time. Goodbyes stretched out in warm hugs and promises to text tomorrow, the energy winding down naturally as everyone filtered toward the exit. Outside, the Madrid night air was cooler, carrying the faint hum of the city. Jude’s driver was on the way, so the two of you lingered near the discreet side entrance, the doorman giving you both a respectful nod.

You were deep in that sweet, affectionate stage of being tipsy, everything felt softer, warmer, and Jude suddenly seemed like the most solid, wonderful thing in the world. You leaned your full weight against him without warning, arms wrapping around his middle as you pressed your face into his chest.

“Kiss me,” you mumbled against his shirt, the words coming out a little muffled and demanding in the best way.

Jude’s laugh rumbled low, one arm steadying you around the waist while his free hand came up to brush hair from your face. “You’re a handful tonight,” he said softly, but he obliged anyway, tilting your chin up gently and kissing you slow and deep. His other hand slipped your handbag and phone from your shoulder without being asked, tucking them securely under his arm as he kept you close.

You made a contented sound into the kiss, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, growing progressively handsier as the minutes passed and the car still hadn’t arrived. Your hands wandered down his sides, then lower, pressing closer until your bodies were flush.

He indulged for a while, kissing you back with the same lazy heat, one hand sliding up your back while the other kept you steady on your feet. But when your touch grew bolder, he chuckled quietly against your mouth and redirected with effortless care. Instead of pulling away, he tilted his head, kissing slowly along your jaw and down the side of your neck. His lips lingered there, warm and deliberate, before he gave one teasing, gentle bite just below your ear.

You shivered, a soft laugh escaping as you tilted your head to give him better access. Jude’s hand stayed firm at your lower back, guiding you subtly when you wobbled on your heels, his body strong and reliable against yours. He passed you his water bottle between kisses, murmuring, “you better drink this before getting into bed,” without ever making it feel like a correction.

You took the bottle, still grinning against his neck, and tipped it back for a few long gulps. The cool water slid down your throat, cutting through some of the pleasant haze. When you lowered it, you caught him watching you closely, his gaze lingering on the way your throat moved, the faint sheen on your lips. The corner of your mouth curved into something mischievous, the tipsy warmth making you bold.

“You’re so jealous,” you teased, voice low and playful as you pressed closer, one hand sliding up his chest. “Look at you, staring like that while I drink water. What, worried someone else might offer me a sip?”

Jude’s eyebrows lifted, but the small smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. His hand flexed at your lower back, keeping you anchored against him as the night air brushed past. “Not jealous,” he said, the words carrying that familiar Brummie lilt, warm and slightly defensive in the most endearing way. “Just making sure you stay hydrated.”

You laughed softly, the sound flirtatious and provocative as you tilted your head, lips brushing the line of his jaw. “Mhm. And you’re taking up all of my space and bossing me around.” Your fingers traced lazy patterns on his shirt, pressing just enough to feel the steady beat of his heart. “Very possessive for someone who claims he’s not jealous.”

“I’m not bossing you around,” he countered, voice low, but there was a quiet laugh threaded through it. His free hand came up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek as he looked down at you. The streetlights caught the subtle tension still lingering in his expression from earlier, but it softened under your teasing.

“Yes you absolutely are,” you shot back, grinning up at him with bright, tipsy eyes. You pushed up onto your toes—wobbling again—and stole another kiss, this one slower, more deliberate, your body leaning fully into his. “Big strong footballer taking care of his girl. Making sure no one else talks to me. Passing me water like it’s an order.” Between kisses you kept the playful pressure on, your voice dropping into something flirtatiously sweet. “Admit it. You hated that guy chatting me up.”

Jude exhaled a quiet laugh against your mouth, the sound vibrating through his chest. He didn’t pull away. Instead he kissed you back, deeper for a moment, then redirected with that same effortless control—lips trailing slowly down the side of your neck again, teeth grazing lightly in a teasing bite that made your breath hitch. “You’re trouble when you’re like this,” he murmured against your skin, hand steady at your waist as he kept you upright. His touch stayed sensual, affectionate, but grounded—never letting the moment tip too far while the car was still minutes away.

You hummed happily, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck as you melted further against him. The teasing hung in the air between kisses, light and warm, the subtle undercurrent of his earlier mood still present but wrapped in the easy intimacy of the night winding down.

The minutes outside the club stretched lazily, the cool Madrid night air doing little to temper the warmth still buzzing under your skin. You stayed wrapped around Jude like that for a good while longer, the teasing flowing as easily as the laughter between you. He kept one arm locked securely around your waist, holding you steady while his other hand occasionally adjusted the strap of your bag on his shoulder or passed the water bottle back to your lips.

You drank when prompted, but mostly you used the moments in between to push your luck, wobbling deliberately on your heels just to feel his grip tighten, pressing closer until your bodies were flush, your fingers tracing the line of his collarbone beneath his shirt.

“You’re so jealous,” you murmured again, voice syrupy and provocative as you tilted your head up, lips brushing the underside of his jaw. “Admit it. You wanted to drag me away the second he smiled at me.”

Jude huffed a quiet laugh, the sound warm against your hair. “You’re winding me up on purpose now.” His hand slid lower on your back, steadying you as you shifted your weight again, one heel catching awkwardly on the pavement. “Careful.”

You giggled, the sound bright and unfiltered, and did it again—just a little wobble, enough to make him pull you tighter against his chest. “See? Bossing me around." Your hand wandered down his side, playful and bold.

He shook his head, but you could feel the smile in the way his cheek pressed against your temple. “You’re trouble,” he said again, lower this time, the words laced with affection. For several long minutes you stayed like that, talking about nothing, really. Teasing him about the way he’d watched you drink the water, giggling when he tried to defend himself, stealing lazy kisses that tasted like champagne and the night air.

He indulged you, kissing you back whenever you asked, sometimes deepening them until your fingers tightened in his shirt, sometimes redirecting with slow trails down your neck that left you shivering pleasantly. The city hummed softly around you, distant traffic and the occasional passing car, but it all felt far away.

When the black luxury van finally pulled up—sleek, tinted windows, the driver stepping out to open the door with quiet professionalism—Jude’s demeanor shifted. He kept his arm around you, guiding you toward the open door, but his voice dropped into something more serious, steady, and low.

“Alright, that’s enough of that,” he said, the words firm but not harsh, carrying that natural authority he slipped into when he needed to be the grounded one. “You keep pushing and I’ll have to put you in your place when we get home. Behave for five minutes, yeah?”

The warning wasn’t a threat, it was Jude, looking after you in the way he always did, serious enough that you knew he meant it, but wrapped in the same care that had defined the whole night. You pouted dramatically as he helped you into the backseat, but the giggle that followed ruined the effect.

Inside the van the world narrowed to soft leather seats, dim ambient lighting, and the smooth hum of the engine as it pulled away from the curb. Jude settled beside you, immediately pulling you close so your head could rest on his shoulder. He took your heels off without being asked, setting them neatly on the floor, then draped his jacket over your lap when you shivered lightly.

You were still giggling at first, tipsy and affectionate, trying to climb into his lap with clumsy determination, lips seeking his again.

“Baby,” he murmured, catching your hips gently but firmly before you could fully straddle him. “Not here.” He redirected you back down beside him with effortless strength, kissing your forehead instead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth—slow, soothing presses that calmed the restless energy without shutting it down completely. “Settle. You're drunk, baby.”

You pouted again, dramatic and sleepy now, but the fight drained out of you quickly. The gentle motion of the car, the warmth of his body, and the long night finally caught up. You melted against his side, head heavy on his shoulder, fingers loosely tangled in the front of his shirt.

“You’re so sweet,” you mumbled, voice softening into something smaller and more vulnerable. “Taking care of me all night… even when I’m annoying.”

Jude’s arm tightened around you, his free hand coming up to stroke your hair in slow, rhythmic passes. “Not annoying,” he said quietly, lips brushing the top of your head. “Just happy, I like you happy.”

You hummed contentedly, eyes already drifting shut as the city lights continued to streak past the windows. “I love you,” you whispered, the words slurred with sleep and affection, genuine and unguarded. “So much.”

He pressed another kiss to your hair, holding you closer as your breathing evened out. “Love you too, darling. Get some rest. I’ve got you.”

The rest of the ride passed in comfortable silence, just the low hum of the engine and the steady warmth of him beside you, carrying you home.

author's note — don't even know what to comment i'm sleepy as fuck and my back is killing me. if this sucks blame the pre-season because apparently i suffered through it too.

Garcia gasped like you'd stabbed her in the back, "I can't believe you'd choose a man over me," she bemoaned, a hand to her chest.

"Well, in any other circumstances I wouldn't," you slipped your coat on, grabbing your purse, "but I promised I'd tell him as soon as I was off of work. And the first date went so well, I don't want to disappoint him again."

The colorful woman resigned with a dramatic sigh, waving you off, "Fine, fine, go get your prince charming. But you better tell me everything. And I mean everything." her tone left no place for arguing, and you nodded dutifully.

"Yes my love," you kissed your friend's cheek, as Emily and JJ echoed Penelope's wish to hear about the date.

"I have to go get ready, see you all on Monday !" you chirped as you waved goodbye to your colleagues. Morgan winked at you, Rossi nodded, and your eyes lingered on the young genius at his desk.

Spencer didn't look up. In fact, it looked as if he was attempting to make himself invisible, to disappear completely. You assumed he'd curled into himself in the hopes of being forgotten by Garcia's enthusiasm, but something in your chest told you that wasn't quite right. Trying to ignore the feeling, you ruffled his hair as you walked past him.

"Have fun doc," you smiled, "and close that godforsaken file."

Spencer's cheeks flushed slightly, and he quickly closed the folder, clearing his throat.

"You too- have fun, I mean." he replied back quietly, eyes still fixed downward.

Stepping out of his office, Garcia pounced on Hotch, stating that he wouldn't get away from her by overworking himself. Morgan and JJ wished you luck on your date, and you bid all of them goodnight.

"Drinks on Rossi !" Garcia sang as you stepped into the elevator, earning her cheers from the team, and a mumbled "When did I agree to that ?" from the man in question.

At O'Keeffe's, the team settled into their usual booth, and Spencer slid into the furthest corner of it, preparing for a night loud music and louder voices, of his friends trying to get him to dance, of Hotch and Rossi trying to hold a conversation about some mundane thing. A night of little interest for the young doctor.

But as Penelope, JJ and Emily bee lined for the bar, he found himself thinking about the person missing from this little gathering. A date. You were on a date. And not just a date, but a second one, after a seemingly successful first that he hadn't heard about.

It wasn't strange that he hadn't known about it. After all, you rarely spoke of such things with him, and he with you, though that might've been more due to a lack of things to tell on his end. For some reason though, the thought of you, dressed to the nines and laughing at some clever story that wasn't his made his stomach churn. It was stupid, he'd never done or said anything to hint at his feelings toward you, let alone ask you out. The jealousy he felt, the regret, it was all from his own indecision and cowardice. Still, the knot in his chest tightened as the girls returned, handing everyone their drinks as Emily raised her glass, cheering to your date.

Reid barely even lifted his lemonade, lazily circling the straw around the rim of the glass.

"What's up pretty boy ?" Derek smirked, "Did you finally get bored of lemonade ?"

Spencer rolled his eyes, and Emily's shoulder bumped his, "Come on genius, cheer up, we got the guy ! now's the time to celebrate, not sulk," she teased.

"Well maybe I just celebrate more quietly than you all." he simply stated, taking a sip of his drink.

"Why not just let loose a little ? You know, one or two drinks wouldn't kill you," Derek suggested, "I know you're not a fan, but it really does help with the whole anxious tension you've got going."

"Yeah ! Maybe then you'd dance with me boy wonder !" Garcia seconded with a bright grin.

"Don't listen to them Reid. You don't have to drink to enjoy yourself." Hotch chimed in, his tone low and comforting, "It helps, but it's not required."

The young man sighed, looking up as Garcia and JJ shimmied their way through the crowd. He wasn't the biggest fan of the bitter tang of alcohol. In his opinion, any drink tasted better without it, and all it did was compromise your actions and your memory. But right now, it wasn't the most prevalent thought going through his mind. Right now, Spencer was desperate for anything to pull his mind free of the traitorous thoughts of you at that dinner table, of your eyes on someone that wasn't him, of your hands in someone else's, of your lips on someone else's.

Under the surprised look of his coworkers, Reid suddenly grabbed Morgan's beer, chugging it down with his eyes shut tight, as if the lack of visual stimuli might help with the bitterness of the drink.

"Woah, slow down there cowboy," his friend chuckled incredulously as Spencer coughed, Emily patting his back.

"What was that ?" she asked, half amused half concerned.

"Nothing. You're right," he mumbled as he squeezed out of the booth, turning to Morgan "I'll get you another one."

Tonight, he would drink. Maybe alcohol would dull the grief he felt. Maybe he'd finally accept to dance with his friends. Maybe for a moment, he'd manage to forget you.

The waiter had only just brought the main course, yet you already found yourself aching to ask for the bill.

It had started off so well. You'd gotten ready just in time, clad in one of your favorite outfits, one that toed the line between formal and casual perfectly. Your hair had been cooperating, which felt like a miracle, and you'd even managed to put on that fantastic perfume that JJ had gotten you for your birthday and that you hadn't yet found a good excuse to try.

He'd knocked only two minutes after the agreed upon time, which, in your book, was almost early. As soon as you'd opened the door, you'd been met with a bouquet of lilies, the flowers glowing in their bloom, and the attention warmed your heart so thoroughly that you decided against telling him that they would probably end up somewhere where you couldn't appreciate them in order to prevent your cat from the deadly snack.

The restaurant was dim in a way that made everything look charming, and he'd pulled a chair for you, smiling as you thanked him. The discussion had flown exactly like it should have now that the awkwardness of the first date was behind you, and you'd even found yourself laughing at some of his stories.

And yet somehow, there you were. Smile pinched like you were fighting against the impending roll of your eyes, the hold on your glass just loose enough to keep it from shattering in your hand.

After apologizing for the date's delay, the topic had strayed toward your respective dating history. You'd counted, and in the last thirty minutes, the man in front of you had called three of his exes crazy, had made two comments on "females", and one about how you were supposedly "different". In just half an hour, every green flag you'd encountered up until now turned the color of the half empty wine glass in your hand, and all that was left on your mind was frustration, as well as a nagging question.

How do I get out of this ?

As you ate your dinner, absentmindedly nodding along to your date's words – not that he seemed to notice, too entertained by the sound of his own voice – you reviewed your options. Staying until the end of dinner would mean declining his attempts at driving you back to your place, or worse, to his own. Declining would most likely mean confrontation, and considering the week and a half you'd just spent, you had neither the energy nor the patience to deal with this.

Now, you could fake a case, but considering that the team was at the bar right now, you doubted they'd be in any state to help with that. Of course, Hotch would probably be close to sober, but the idea of texting your Unit chief to ask him to save you from a disastrous date seemed ridiculous.

You were lost in reflection when your phone pinged once. Twice. Three times.

From the look on his face, your date was less than happy to be interrupted in his monologue. Trying your best to appear apologetic, you grabbed your phone as it kept pinging.

"Sorry– I should check this out, I'll be right back–"

Excusing yourself, you made it to the restaurant's restrooms before opening your phone.

9:34

Boy Genius : Hi

Boy Genius : Hows' si it gonig?

Boy Genius : how is it Gong ?*

Boy Genius : Going*

Boy Genius : Sorry

Boy Genius : goof ?

Boy Genius : Can't wrte srry

Boy Genius : Mrgans being mean

Boy Genius : Mss u

You chuckled to yourself at the texts.

9:37

You : I thought you didn't drink ?

Boy Genius : Hi

You : Hi Spencer

Boy Genius : S your date ovre?

Boy Genius : over*

Boy Genius : ?

You : Not exactly

After watching the dots appear as he wrote for a few minutes, you started to worry.

9:44

You : Are you okay ?

Instead of replying, Spencer called you.

"Hey, are you alright ?"

"Couldn't write– Damn phone–" his language makes you gasp teasingly.

"Reid !"

"Sorry– 's just annoying," he mumbled. You could hear the way his words slurred even through the muffled noise of the bar around him. In the distance, you could hear the familiar pitch of Garcia's voice, the hum of Morgan's, followed by bright laughter.

"You didn't answer my question Spence," you reminded, "are you ok ?"

On the other end of the line, the young doctor made a noise akin to that of a horse huffing through closed lips, "m'fine, I'm great, whatever," he replied, deepening your confusion.

"Uh-huh, sure honey," you grinned fondly, and he squeaked, though you couldn't tell if the sound was a reaction to your words or to his surroundings, "Come on, what's up ? Why are you drinking ? I've never seen you drink alcohol before."

"Not true. I tasted Rossi's wine last time," he countered, making you roll your eyes in response.

"Sure, but that wasn't drinking, that was tasting"

To this, you heard him mumble a slurred "tomay-to tomah-to" before Derek's loud voice cut through. He must have grabbed Spencer phone, because you could hear the doctor's protests, now pushed to the background.

"Why hello beautiful," the agent purred, "how's the date going ?"

Chuckling through a sigh, you checked the time, "Could be better. I was trying to find a reason to flee, and it looks like our resident genius just gave me one."

Rendered oblivious to your discomfort by his own alcohol consumption, he exclaimed, "Oh don't worry about pretty boy ! Go and enjoy your date !"

Were you worried about Reid ? Sure, in the way one would be worried about a friend in the hospital, knowing full well that they're in good hands, surrounded by qualified people. But your date didn't need to know that. For all he knew, one of your friends was in mortal danger and their safety was your immediate responsibility.

With that in mind, you wished your friends a good evening, ignoring Spencer's distant protests to you hanging up, and you walked back to the table. Combing some mess back into your carefully arranged hair, you joined him, now wearing a meticulously crafted frown, lips tugged down by concern. The act seemed to work, because as soon as you sat back down, his expression shifted.

"What's wrong ?"

"Oh, it's–" you sighed in feigned exasperation and looked down, "I'm so sorry, I'm going to have to leave early. I need to go take care of a friend."

Disappointment flooded his face, and you almost felt bad.

"Can't someone else ?" he suggested, but you tilted your head and shook it.

"No… All of our mutual friends are drunk, but he's gone past his limit, and I can't leave him like that," you sighed again, and decided to add something to really bury the date, "And he's my roommate, so–"

His frown suggested that your plan had been successful, "You never said anything about a roommate."

Pressing a hand over your mouth, you muttered, "Oh– Sorry, I wasn't planning on– Well I usually don't tell people, because– Well, they usually think it's weird." you fake a nervous laugh as you slip on your coat, "We should do a movie night next time, the three of us,"

"Oh– Uh, maybe," you'd won, "We'll talk about it over text, yeah ?"

"Sure !" you nodded, waving a waiter over and pulling out your wallet. When he offered to pay, you accepted without much of a fight, and in an instant, you were both out of the restaurant.

"Should I drive you ?" he didn't seem too convinced with his own offer, and relief bloomed in his eyes when you shook your head.

"I'll just take a cab. Thank you."

After a rather awkward farewell, you managed to escape. In the rear view mirror, the restaurant slowly shrank until it was nothing but a dot in the distance, and only then did you let out the breath you'd been holding onto. Diving a hand into your pocket, you fished out your phone and checked the time. Barely ten pm, you were headed home, and you regretted not having taken Garcia up on her invitation.

Though you supposed you still could.

Updating the cab driver on your destination, you adjusted your coat. Once in the bar, you'd feel outrageously overdressed, but that thought was quickly swallowed by the memory of Spencer's inebriated voice on the phone. Despite what you'd told yourself earlier, you did harbor some worry for your friend. You had no doubt that the team wouldn't let anything happen to him, and still something gnawed at you – why had he been drinking in the first place ?

When you'd first joined the team, you'd asked Emily if there had been a reason to his sobriety, and she'd been the one to bring up the hypothesis that he might've feared the addictive quality of alcohol. Only about a year later did he first tell you about his traumatic history with addiction itself, and upon hearing about it, his boundary made absolute sense in your mind.

Safe to say that your worry tonight, the one that festered with every second you spent in the narrow car, wasn't born from the alcohol consumption in itself, but from the thoughts that had led him to its decision. Had something happened ? He'd seemed off when you left the bullpen, but you hadn't thought much of it. Was something wrong ? Would he tell anyone about it ? Would he tell you ?

Drowning in the sudden onslaught of questions, you barely heard as the driver announced you'd arrived at the bar. After tipping him for the change in itinerary, you stepped out of the vehicle, heels clicking against the wet pavement as you made your way toward the bustling entrance.

Inside, a myriad of scents flooded your senses, lights and loud music sending shockwaves through your nervous system as you tried to scan the crowd.

A high pitched squeal told you you'd been spotted first, and Penelope strode your way with sparkling confidence.

"What are you doing here ? Oh my lord look at you !" she gushed, hands squeezing your shoulders affectionately as her eyes trailed up and down your figure, "You, my friend, are a vision."

Smiling helplessly at the praise, you shook your head, "Thank you darling, you're glowing."

Garcia gasped in delight and gave you a turn, her colorful skirt swirling under the neon lights, "You like it ? Oh we should totally go shopping sometime !" when you chuckled and nodded, she seemed to suddenly remember why she was only greeting you now.

"Wait, weren't you supposed to be on your date with Mr. Hunk-supreme ?"

A simple shake of your head, paired with lips pulled into a thin line, told her all that she needed to know.

"Bad-bad ?" she frowned sympathetically.

"I'll tell you about it tomorrow," you promised, "right now you should go have fun. Oh, but before you go, could you tell me where Spence is ?"

Hand clasped around yours, Garcia danced her way through the crowd, and like some sort of magical and highly sequined train, dropped you off at your station with a kiss on the cheek. The booth was a locker room for the team members that took turns on the dance floor. Its current guardians, who were surely replacing a long gone Aaron Hotchner and David Rossi, were packed into a corner, seemingly deep in conversation, though not deep enough to stop the young doctor from lighting up at the sight of you.

"Well hi there silly boy," you grinned as he beamed at you. Morgan raised his glass in your direction.

"Looks like your saving grace is here kid," he gave Spencer a brotherly pat on the back, "can I leave you two there ? Some ladies have been eyeing me for about half an hour and I've got an itch to scratch."

"Ew," you joked, "yes, Don Juan, go, I've got him."

Settling in his place, you took a moment to admire the sight in front of you. Spencer Reid, usually so delicately put together, was unrecognizable. His hair was messier than usual, strands forming thin curtains over his brown eyes, themselves lined by puffy flushed skin that had seemed to suggest he'd been crying. His cheeks were a blotchy pink shade, matching the tips of his ears and the length of his neck, down to the hint of collarbone peeking from where he'd clumsily pulled his tie loose. His lips were parted like he was about to speak, but his eyes were the ones doing the talking – they hadn't left you since you'd entered his field of vision, and you could feel some part of yourself melting at the adoration they displayed. Whether a result of his drunken state of a translation of true reverence, the end result remained the same, your own expression softening into fond concern.

"Hi," he whispered, and for a moment, you forgot all about your disastrous date, instead raising a hand to his cheek, brushing curls behind his ear.

"Hi Spencer," you smiled, "so, what's gotten into you ?"

He shrugged, his shoulders lifting and dropping unevenly, and leaned his head toward your hand, "Dunno"

Narrowing your eyes in feigned disbelief, you raised a brow, "Oh really ? You don't know why you suddenly decided to drink alcohol to the point of drunkenness when you haven't finished a glass or even ordered one since I met you ? Come on."

Another shrug, and you pulled your hand away, crossing your arms over your chest, "Do you think me a fool, Spencer Reid ?"

The immediate shake of his head could've had you cooing at him like you would a puppy, had your will been any weaker than it was.

"Then why are you blatantly lying to me ?"

Spencer leaned into the backrest of his seat, eyes finally leaving you and finding his own hands in his lap. Softening your tone, you leaned closer, "You can tell me if something's wrong. There's nothing you could say that could make me think any less of you. I'm just worried."

Tentatively, he glanced back up at you, before dropping his eyes again and giving you another uneven shrug. The sigh that left you was more akin to resignation than to annoyance, and your eyes scanned the crowd for a familiar face before turning back to him.

"Do you want to go home ?" you suggested quietly. Spencer gave a slight shake of his head, and you figured it had more to do with a hypothetical lack of company than with him having a great time in this very overwhelming environment. With that in mind, you worded your question differently, "Do you want to get out of here ? I can stay with you if you'd like."

His honeyed eyes found yours again, and you wished the men you dated had for you half of the devotion his drunken self seemed to hold. His chin lowered in a sheepish nod, and you left the booth to find one of your friends. Once the role of locker room guardians had been successfully delegated to JJ and Emily, leaving Garcia to dance with her personal playboy – who had apparently abandoned his conquest of the previous group of girls – you grabbed your purse and helped Spencer slip out of the booth. Waving your friends goodbye, you made your way toward the exit, a stumbling Dr. Reid a step behind.

The night air was a sweet relief compared to the packed atmosphere of the bar, and yet, Spencer recoiled as it hit him.

"Cold," he breathed through his teeth, wrapping his jacket tighter around his frame. His complaint seemed to amuse you as you hooked your arm through his.

"Come on pretty boy. Let's take a walk," you tugged him forward, and he followed with the gracelessness of a rag doll.

"A walk ?"

"Yes, a walk." you grinned, "You know, that thing where you put one foot in front of the other and move forward ?"

His scoff materialized into a small cloud at the corner of your vision, and you could almost hear the roll of his eyes, "I meant walk where ?"

With a shrug, you led him to a crosswalk, holding him back when he didn't stop.

"Being drunk doesn't suit your brain."

"That's not an answer," he mumbled, shoulder pressed against your own.

"Well I don't know Reid, do people always need to have a destination in mind when they walk ?"

"Most of the time yes, or else they'd get lost."

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes. How could this man still argue everything you said while simultaneously being unable to walk in a straight line ?

"Well then we're walking to your place." you decided as the cars stopped to let you pass.

"My place ?" Spencer's voice was weaker as he spoke, his tone akin to one of a whiny child.

"Do you have something against it ?" your brow arched as you glanced his way, eyes following the slight pout of his mouth, the downturn of his own gaze.

"No– I mean I don't– I just," he pushed his glasses further up his nose with the help of his right shoulder, visibly unwilling to pull his hands out of his pockets, "I don't want to– to…" a huff left his lips, "Never mind. It's stupid."

"Hey," you squeezed his arm, "what is it ? Is your place flooded or something ?"

His gaze was fixed on his shoes as he answered, words slurring more severely when he lowered his voice, "Just don't wan' be alone."

His mumbled sentence squeezed your heart as you looked up at him. For a moment, you just watched him. The way loose curls brushed across his brow, furrowed in stubborn reluctance. The flush that had spread up the back of his neck, settling at the tip of his nose and ears, whether from the cold or the beers. From here, he looked nothing like the careful genius you spent almost every day with. From here, he looked nothing like the professional profiler, the one whose eyes always swept across everything like every inch of a scene was a crucial element. From here, he looked like the young man you'd sometimes met, on quiet afternoons filled with paperwork, the one who performed magic tricks to make his friends smile, or rambled about the history of some topic you'd mentioned in passing, turning red anytime someone ruffled his hair.

From here, he looked like a young man you desperately wanted to ki–

The sudden pull of your arm reached your brain before his shriek did. Your feet fumbled for balance, inadvertently catching onto the protruding edge of a tile as you vainly attempted to prevent the fall. Spencer landed first, his backside landing in very conveniently placed bushes with a surprisingly loud crack. You followed suit, hands catching onto the metal fence his back was pressed against, stopping your face from hitting it full force from a few inches. Your knee was already burning up, but you found more useful to swat Spencer in the shoulder than to check for injury.

"Ow–" he yelped, sinking further into the bushes.

"You absolute–" you pushed against the railing to try to stand, only to fall back down, hand braced against his stomach, "–idiot–"

Spencer, uselessly attempting to pull his sleeve free of the branches, whined, "Don't press there– I'm gon' throw up–"

Just as his words reached you, so did the sheer absurdness of the situation, and you hid your face against the young doctor's woolen sleeve as a violent wave of laughter overtook you, shoulders hiccuping with the intensity of it. You felt the moment your amusement contaminated him through the vibrations of his chest, and the mental image of two idiots cackling while half buried into the bushes of someone's front yard only made the laughter burn brighter.

After a few minutes spent fighting for breath, you patted his arm, "Come on genius," while your free hand yanked your own coat free.

"Can't–" he looked up at you with those damned brown eyes, "'m stuck."

Rolling your eyes, you raised to your knees and grabbed the fence again, "Yes you can, come on," and with that, you got back on your feet, stepping away from the bushes before bending down to dust your knees off.

When your eyes met again, the look you found could've lit up the entire street. The brown of his irises was amber and gold from the streetlights, his hair mussed, curls framing his brow with a sweetness that your heart deemed unfair, thumping heavily against your ribs. He looked stupidly boyish in this position, settled awkwardly into the bushes, sleeves stuck to the branches, knees drawn up in a way that made it obvious that his skeleton hadn't been designed to fold this way. Still, he looked utterly entranced by whatever he saw when he looked up at you. You'd never been one for the spotlight, nor had you ever been firmly against it, but with his eyes on you, suddenly you understood both the dizzying thrill of it and the stage fright. Warmth bubbled deep within your chest and climbed its way up your throat, pushing past your lips in a nervous giggle as you glanced away, feigning interest in your scraped knee for a fleeting instant.

"Are you planning on sleeping there boy wonder ?" you look back at him, praying that your teasing tone paired with his inebriated perception can effectively disguise the distinct flutter in your stomach.

Any other day, Spencer would've looked away, red in the face as soon as he'd been caught staring. This wasn't any other day. This was the day his entire belief system had been reduced to dust particles around the halo that the light had created with your hair. This was the day Spencer Reid encountered the divine, and the scientist in him ached to gather as much information as he could before you vanished into thin air. With this in mind, he drank all of you in, his eyes greedily sweeping over everything that made you you, everything he'd always adored quietly, everything that wasn't his to keep.

"Spencer ?"

The thought dug its claws into his heart. Suddenly, he wished he was still at that table, a disgustingly bitter beer squeezed between his tense fingers. He'd never liked drinking, and yet in this moment, he felt dreadfully sober.

Your outfit was a carefully crafted one, as was the subtly elegant way your hair had been pulled back, leaving only a delicate strand, framing your artful features. What he wouldn't give to be the subject of such attentive preparation. What he wouldn't give to be the one you graced with your time.

The gentle brush of fingertips against his knuckles pulled him back to reality, only to nearly send him reeling at the mere sign of concern in your expression.

"Spence ?" your voice was quieter, softer, your own tone betraying you.

"Hm ?" he piped up, heat rising to his cheeks as your fingers slipped through his.

"Do you need help getting up ?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but every thought in his mind suddenly rushed to get out, cluttering his throat and rendering him utterly speechless. His lips clamped shut again as he gave up on speaking, instead nodding sheepishly.

Instantly, you sprang into action, the hand that wasn't holding his moving to steady him as you pulled him up. After stumbling like a newborn fawn for a moment, Spencer's feet finally found solid ground again, and you let out a small huff of breath.

"For someone so scrawny, you're surprisingly heavy," you noted, breathless amusement coloring your voice, "has anyone ever told you that ?"

"Hm," the doctor nodded, fingers still securely wrapped around yours, "Morgan. Repeatedly."

You laughed, and Spencer thought that if he could get drunk on the sound alone, he'd probably give up on sobriety altogether.

"So," you let go of his hand to dust off the back of his coat, and as his fingers pathetically tensed around thin air, he found himself already missing the contact, "you don't want to go back to your place, because you'll be on your own ?"

The sudden reminder of his impending loneliness had a melodramatic sigh escape from his lips, and he nodded slowly.

"Well, Dr.Professional-Kicked-Puppy," he tried rolling his eyes at the name, inconclusively. "I can't offer to stay at yours because I desperately need to change, but you can crash at mine if you want"

You turned your head to catch the way his eyes lit up, "Would you like that ?"

Spencer nodded quickly, before kicking his legs into action and catching up to you. After a few moments of walking side by side in silence, shoulders bumping with each of his stumbling steps, he gathered the necessary courage to utter a quiet "Thank you", to which you responded by slipping your arm through the crook of his elbow.

The chill night air, the quiet street, the soft hum of the city… Everything that should've contributed to soothing his usually relentless train of thought was only participating in his silent agony. If the young doctor was known for anything, it was surely for his inability to keep his mouth shut, especially at times when he needed to most. This was one of those times.

"So, how'd your date go ?" the words tumbled out before he could stop them, slightly blurred where alcohol lingered. As much as he'd wanted to convince himself he had sobered up, anyone with eyes and ears would've been able to tell that he very much had not. Despite this, he knew with unshakable certainty that he had absolutely no desire to hear you talk about the oh so wonderful guy whom you'd picked over Garcia's slightly threatening invitation to the bar twice now.

Still, he listened as you told him about the man, about the beautiful flowers he'd brought you, about his impeccable choice in restaurant, his fabulous storytelling… He listened, oblivious to the underlying disappointment in your words, to the lack of details in your own retelling, or even to the fact that his own jealousy and drunken mind had completely altered your tone and choice of words, making you sound, to his ears, like a besotted teenager.

By the time you reached the top of your stairs, Spencer's lungs and heart were ready to give out. You'd recounted all of the jokes your date had made – which was just three, but to his intoxicated mind, it might as well have been twenty – and he regretted ever asking. When you unlocked the door and pushed it open, kicking off your shoes with a relieved sigh, he considered fleeing. His thought process was interrupted as your voice pulled him back, making him lift his eyes to meet yours. The soft light of a lamp in the background framed your silhouette as you leaned your temple against the wooden door.

"Are you coming in ? I wouldn't recommend the doormat for sleeping."

The image of you earlier, eyes filled with concern, hair lit back by the streetlights flashed through his mind, and he was once again hit by the sheer adoration he felt for you. When his voice passed his lips, it sounded weaker than he'd expected it to.

"Do you like him ?"

Despite the backlighting casting shadows over your features, he caught the way your brows pinched together slightly. You shrugged.

"He's nice."

Spencer let out a sound that might've been an amused breath or a quiet sob.

"You went on two dates with him, and that's all you can say ?"

Your lips pursed for a moment, before relaxing into a thin smile, "Well, one and a half, since you called me in the middle of dinner."

The young doctor dragged his feet to your couch, plopping onto it and hiding his face into his hands.

"Oh god– Right–" he raked a tense hand through his messy hair, "I'm– so sorry. I just– I–"

It occurred to him, in the form of a distant echo of consciousness, that telling you that he'd called because he missed you and was sickeningly jealous of the man you were with was probably not the wisest thing to say. Thankfully, your soft laughter stopped him in his tracks.

"It's okay, doc." you settled next to him on the worn couch, far enough not to touch, but close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from your skin. Your coat had been shrugged off on a chair, and the sight of your bare shoulders made him feel like a parched Victorian man.

"You saved me, really," you huffed in amusement, settling back against the cushions. Bewilderment felt too light of a term to describe the utter confusion he was feeling.

"What– Saved you ? Was he– Were you in danger ? Oh my god why didn't you say so– We would've–"

You cut him off by flicking his forehead gently, "You would've what ? Stumbled your way over and threatened him by standing on your hind legs like a red panda ? As much as I adore you, boy genius, you're not exactly intimidating. Especially in comparison to a 6'2 man twice your width."

"I–" color rushed to his cheeks, "I can be," he mumbled, "And red pandas don't have any other way to defend themselves, as their claws are mostly used for climbing trees. They have to find other tactics. I don't, I have my brain and a gun."

"Not so sure about the brain part in your state," you hummed with a light smirk, "but in any case, I wasn't in danger. Well, unless you consider boredom and exasperation to be dangers."

"Actually," Spencer piped up, "though some studies show that boredom can lead to impulsive decision making, it's actually a necessary and very healthy way to rest the mind and to cultivate creativity–"

"Spencer"

"Sorry–"

You sighed and shook your head, an amused smile still lifting your cheeks, "Anyway. I wasn't in danger. And it went well, for the most part. But when he started referring to his exes as 'crazy', and going on about how 'women always choose to be with assholes instead of nice guys like him', I just started regretting turning Pen's offer down."

"Jesus," he huffed.

"Yeah." you chuckled, "So when you called, I was just… Relieved."

Spencer barely tried to conceal the smile that dug dimples into his cheeks.

"Glad to be of service."

You bumped his shoulder with your own, and he felt lightning at the spot of contact, "My knight in knitted sweaters" you mused.

The flush of his cheeks spread over his entire face, and he glanced down at his lap to catch his breath.

"That sounds ridiculous," he whispered.

"It sounds perfectly you."

After rummaging through your cabinets, you found some food to snack on and handed it to Spencer while announcing that you were just going to take a quick shower and change. While he grieved how beautiful you looked in your very put-together outfit, the idea of seeing you in lounge wear was making his skin buzz. Or maybe that was another side effect of his drinking. In any case, the idea that you'd cut your – albeit boring – date to come tend to him was making him dizzy again. He pushed a mouthful of biscuits past his lips and tried not to focus on the sound of water hitting the tiles.

Instead, he sank further into the couch and let his eyes close for just a second. You were always there when he did. When sleep tugged him closer, and memories and fiction melted together. Even now, in the darkness of his fogged up mind, you smiled at him, nodded along as he spoke, listened in the way only you did. The first time you'd called him by his first name, he'd froze up, and you'd worried about having crossed a line. You hadn't, of course, but there was no way to rationally explain the dizzying amount of oxytocin that had flooded his veins at the sound of your voice. So he just reassured you that it was okay, that you could call him however you preferred. You'd never used his last name again, only ever switching up with a playful "doc" or a gentle "Spence", both of which always made his knees threaten to buckle.

"Spencer ?"

He sometimes dreamt that you'd whisper his name to wake him up in the morning, fingers carding through his hair. Or that you'd smile through it at the sight of him. On lonelier nights, when he reluctantly allowed himself more depraved thoughts, he'd dream of you breathing his name out in a moan, only to wake up to an empty bed.

In his dreams, your voice heals his wounds. In his dreams, you say his name like there is a hidden meaning.

"Spence,"

He could smell your pomegranate scented shampoo, and he wondered if he could overdose of a smell. What a sweet end that would be.

"Sweetheart," you brushed a stray strand of hair behind his ear, and his lashes fluttered open, "hi," you smiled softly.

"Hm," he blinked drowsily, taking in your damp hair and oversized hoodie, "hi"

"You fell asleep," you were crouched in front of him, one hand on his knee and the other still brushing against the shell of his ear, "you'd be more comfortable in bed."

It took a few long seconds for your words to reach him, but when they did, he immediately shook his head, "I'm not taking your bed," he slurred quietly, "I can sleep here, it's fine,"

"Oh it wasn't a suggestion darling," you hummed, and fireworks erupted in his chest at the term of endearment. He tried to play it cool, which, considering the blotchy red on his cheeks, he was failing at miserably.

"But I dun' wanna bother you," he managed to mutter, "I don't want you to sleep on the couch,"

You chuckled and tilted your head to the side, "Well my bed is big enough for the both of us. If you're ok with that."

Spencer nodded before he could even fully comprehend what that entailed. Still, in his state, the panic and excitement he might've felt was considerably dulled by the promise of comfort.

"Alright then. Come on," you whispered as you helped him to his feet.

You led him to your bedroom, laughing breathlessly every time his weight shifted.

"I get why you don't drink now" you huffed, "you big baby,"

He whined in response, plopping down onto the bed and lazily pushing his shoes off with his feet, and complaining under his breath when he didn't manage to. With an exasperated sigh, you crouched down again and gently untied his shoe laces before pulling them off of his feet. His mismatched socks were next, and as you carefully folded them together, the young genius laid down over the covers with the grace of a wooden plank.

"At least get under the covers," you shook your head as he groaned and clumsily slipped under them.

You rounded the bed and settled beside him, laying on your side to face him. He mirrored you, curls spreading messily over the pillow.

For a moment, you stayed like this, looking at each other in the dim light. Then, barely loud enough for you to hear, a whisper cut through the silence.

"You looked like an angel" his voice was hushed, as if this thought wasn't meant for the outside world, "earlier. Well– still."

You were grateful for the low lighting as you felt your cheeks burn up.

"You're drunk," you whispered with a smile, "I think your perception is a little affected."

He shook his head, "I don't think so. I mean, yes, but– you are. I mean, you look– you always look–" he huffed in frustration.

"Thank you, Spence," you grinned, cutting his stuttered attempt short.

After another second, he spoke again.

"Are you disappointed ?"

His question pulled your brows together, "By what ?"

Spencer's teeth pulled at some loose skin on his lip, "The date. It was the second one, so surely the first one had gone well,"

You thought for a moment.

"Well… I guess so. But not exactly surprised, just… passively disappointed." you responded honestly, "Though I didn't expect too much anyway."

Now it was his turn to frown, "So… Why'd you go on a second date with him ? Let alone a first ?"

You shrugged, "Well, I wanted to give it a try. And… He asked."

"Is that all it takes ?" he whispered, not to offend, but with genuine curiosity. And something akin to hope, "To ask ?"

"It depends, but it's always a good start." you hummed, "If no one asked, no one would go on dates."

His frown deepened, "I guess that makes sense."

Again, silence settled over the both of you, and for a moment, you thought maybe Spencer had fallen asleep. Which made it all the more surprising when he murmured your name.

"Yeah ?"

"Would you ever… Go out ? With me ?"

His question gave you pause. Not because of hesitation, but because you remembered his intoxication. As much as hearing the question from his lips warmed your chest, you couldn't imagine what you would do if he didn't remember this conversation in the morning.

"Maybe you should ask me when you're sober, Spence."

"Would you say yes ?"

"Well, you'll have to find out I guess," you teased.

"Not fair," he argued quietly, and you chuckled.

"Well the world isn't fair. Deal with it."

Even in the dark, you could see the way his eyes rolled.

For a few minutes, he seemed to be debating something. He rolled over to his back, hands laced over his stomach, eyes fixed on the glowing stars you'd stuck to the ceiling when you'd moved here years ago. You waited, wanting to see if he'd let you in on whatever was going on in that genius head of his.

He opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to piece the words together without breaking. When he finally spoke, it was in the softest voice you'd ever heard from him.

"I felt horrible." he whispered, "When you talked about it. Back in the bullpen. When you turned Garcia down, and the girls started gushing about that… man that you'd been on a date with." you caught the hollow in his cheek, where he was biting into the flesh, "I couldn't– I felt sad, and– and angry– which is stupid because it's not your fault, and I've just– I've never felt that before. Not the anger, but the– the ache–" one of his hands pressed against his sternum, "It was like someone had punched me in the stomach, and I couldn't think about anything except the fact that you– that you were with some– some guy, and I couldn't stop picturing you laughing, and just– smiling at him, and when Emily talked about how date number two was usually when people kissed, and I just– I wanted to throw up–"

You waited to see if he was done with his train of thought before speaking.

"Well, I didn't kiss him," you'd intended for this to be some sort of humorous remark, but it only pulled a sigh of genuine relief from Spencer.

"So… You drank because you were jealous ?" you suggested. At first, he seemed about to protest, but then his features softened and he pursed his lips.

"I guess so." he fidgeted slightly, "But mostly, I was… Frustrated. A few years after I'd started at the BAU, I'd asked Elle why I couldn't get a date. She told me the only reason was that I didn't ever ask anyone out. And– I couldn't get that out of my head. What if you'd– what if you'd met someone you really liked, and I'd missed my only chance because I'd been too busy getting stuck in my own head ? What if–"

You took his hand in his before he could damage the skin around his nails any further, effectively interrupting his spiraling.

"You didn't miss out on anything. Just… Ask me again when you're sober. Even if it's while stumbling over your own words. Even if it's written down because you couldn't make yourself say it. I don't care. Just ask again." you whispered, "Trust me."

His fingers curled around yours, and he nodded slowly.

"Now," you reached out to turn off your lamp, "You should sleep, or you'll be even worse off in the morning."

He groaned in complaint, and you chuckled at the sound, "Hey, you chose to drink. You could've just called me, sober."

"Would've lacked the dramatic effect." he joked as his eyes closed.

"Whatever you say doc," you leaned closer and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek before drawing back and whispering, "Good night."

"Good night," he echoed through a tight throat.

As he drifted off, cheeks still burning, Spencer pulled your hand to his lips and returned your quick kiss. He didn't know if he'd have the courage to ask you out again as soon as he sobered up, but he knew that however long he took, you'd be right there, waiting.

Clark was trying to speed up the move into your freshly rented apartment in Metropolis, but you insisted on poking through all the souvenirs of his childhood that his mother kept. Some of which were mortifying, because Clark did not have the hallmark tokens of a normal childhood. Instead of a first loose tooth, Martha had kept the first metal pipe Clark had ever broken with his bare hands. It was just a bunch of junk that tracked his progression of strength, but it clearly tickled you. You had been giggling all morning as he packed. It was only when you reached the high school box that you found the real treasures– his varsity jacket from the one and only year he was on the football team, pictures from proms come and gone, cassettes full of his moody music. And lying at the bottom of the box in a little lead container… a ring. 

“Hey, what’s this?” You called out to the shuffling sounds just beneath you. Clark was in his old room, trying to box up his books. 

“What’s what?” He shouted.

“This ring!”

A slight brush of wind rustled the hair against your neck, and the piney scent of Clark lingered at your side. You peeked at his profile, his furrowed brows, and you knew it meant confusion. 

“A ring? What ri–”

You grinned and grabbed his palm, slipping the ring on his finger. You saw the knuckle twitch as if he was going to pull it away, but you were quicker. You tucked it snuggly to his digit and admired how the ruby stone seemed to glow against the tan of his farm hands. A class ring, you figured, and a gaudy one at that. “I never took you for a sentimental guy. I thought you hated high school.”

Clark felt a rush of something familiar; something that made his stomach initially curl with sickness, but was then replaced with a low buzz; a thrumming through his veins that felt like a shot of energy. If you were looking in his eyes, you might've caught the red blaze that illuminated them, but your attention was on the ring. Clark rolled his shoulders back and smirked down at you, the soft scent of your perfume clogging his nose. 

“I did,” he purred, taking the bejeweled palm and sliding it under your chin, tilting you up for a kiss. 

You let out a surprised little huff as he tilted your head back too far, and lifted it up so high, he actually hoisted you off the ground by about an inch. It didn’t hurt, but you felt your weight suspending. His lips sealed over yours sloppily– Clark usually never kissed you without care– and you grabbed at his arms to try and leverage some of your own weight. Against his mouth, you mumbled, “Mm- Clark, put me down- what are you doing?”

He laughed softly and let you plop right back down on your tailbone, and you grunted. He reached out to ruffle your hair, and he watched the strands brush over the beaming stone. “Kissing you.”

You looked up at him with rosy cheeks, narrowing your gaze. He looked… weird. His smile was crooked, not that full-toothed picture you were used to. And his eyes were big. Wide open. Like something spooked him. “Are you alright?”

“When am I not alright?” Clark grinned, hooking his hands under your armpits and yanking you to your feet. 

“Woah–”

“You smell good,” Clark grunted and backed you up against one of the beams in the attic, hard enough you heard it creak. His lips attached to your neck like a leech, and you let out a little whimper.

“Hey– ow, Clark, you’re smushing me too hard!”

Clark’s big palms let up on pressing and instead slid down your back, until they curved over the swell of your soft tush and found purchase. He chuckled at the hysterical pitch of your yelp.

“Clark!” You pushed him off with some effort, staring up at him in shock. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” he lied, “Just excited to move in with you. Live our lives together. Give you little babies to run around with.”

“Babies– what?” You flushed profusely. “You’re– are you sure you’re okay?”

Clark rolled his eyes, almost like his long thread of patience had suddenly been snipped. “I said I’m fine.” But his tone softened again– however soft he was capable of being with the rush of his boiling blood– and he coaxed your jaw back, pressing you into another kiss that quickly shut you up. Between stealing the breath from your throat, he whispered, “Let’s go out.”

“Out where?” You panted. 

“Dancing. Drinking, I don’t know. Somewhere you can look pretty for me.”

Your flush spread down your neck like a rosy infection. “You’re being very spontaneous.”

“Take it or leave it,”

You laughed at his sudden suaveness, and you kissed him again. “I’ll take it.”

——͙͘͡★——

The next thing which should have persuaded you that something was wrong was when Clark insisted upon going to a nightclub in Metropolis, of all places. He hated going there for work, let alone pleasure. But he was in this ridiculous bout and you couldn’t help but bend to his will– he could be so persuasive when he just kissed you into agreeing…

He put on a leather jacket, something you did not even know he had. And he looked killer in it. It had a collar like a cloak, sharp and on the same incline of his jawline, almost as if he’d had it custom-made. Maybe he did, because you’d never known a shirt to do him poor favors, but this jacket… phew. Tight. Promising to distract. It was like he knew you were into the mood swing in some twisted way, and wanted to toy with you. You were undeniably worked up. Who wouldn’t be? He was surprising you, asserting himself in a way you’d never seen. You adored his meagerness, you’d never wish for it to change; but what’s the harm in a little play now and then, when all he does is work? Clark dedicated his life to saving people, enduring torture and meeting it with kindness and unyielding hope. You were surprised he didn’t act reckless all the time with all that power coursing through him. 

Of course, you might not have thought so if you knew about the red Kryptonite. In fact, you didn’t know there was any other color than green. He hadn’t seen it, touched it, since high school, and you were a token of his time in Metropolis. Post-farm, post-Smallville meteor freaks. When he chose to tell you the truth of his biology, you had been so gentle, so receptive, and when he told you about the kryptonite, you panicked. You were afraid you wouldn’t recognize it if you saw it, and you might be the very one to hurt him. He had never seen such fear in you, and like an idiot, it had blindly persuaded him to keep a few other dangers a secret, so as not to terrify you any further. He was not yet at the stage of understanding that all secrets are a dangerous affair. He was still at the stage of hoping that he could protect people by keeping some things hidden. That would not last after tonight. 

Clark had plopped you unceremoniously on a street corner downtown, seemingly not even looking to catch any bystanders, which made your stomach flip with thrill. He was being careless, and paired with his sharp smile, you didn’t mind for now. You squeaked as he yanked you up the blocks into the inner hub of nightlife, your black dress squeezing your curves and coat catching the brick corners of buildings. 

“Maybe after we can go get ice cream or something,” you suggested, clinging to Clark’s arm. 

“Ice cream?” He snickered low, peeking down at you, as if the wholesome idea was utterly stupid. “Bunny, you’re lucky if I don’t drag you to my bed after this.” 

You flushed all down the valley of your neck and shoulders in the cold wind, and felt the growing thumping of bass beneath your heels as Clark ushered you down a main street lit by neon signs of clubs and bars. This was a seedy part of town, and it made your embarrassment flourish. “Jeez, Clark, if that’s what you really wanted, you know you could’ve just asked. We could’ve stayed home.”

“I didn’t want to fuck you at home. Well, at least not yet.”

Your cheeks burned deep as he tussled you in front of a line full of waiting patrons to a place near the corner. You remembered vaguely one night he’d had you beneath him in his childhood bedroom, taking his sweet time, and you asked him to talk a little dirty; he had said, “Baby, I don’t even like that sort of thing. You aren’t something I use, you’re someone I’m lucky to even touch. I’ll try it if you want…” That had made you infinitely more horny than any sleazy phrase or nickname ever could. There was no kink stronger than being the object of Clark’s honest affection.

You couldn’t even see the sign, only a velvet rope that held people off from a descending staircase into some club that was surely wall-to-wall with people. Clubgoers drunkenly protested as he strongarmed his way in front, and he slipped a few bills which you couldn’t make out to the bouncer, who begrudgingly let you both down the steps. You raised an eyebrow at him, but all he did was lick his lips and nudge you down. 

The music was so loud it hurt to even come close to. You wandered down the staircase, which took a sharp left at the bottom towards a dingy glass door. When he opened it, a thick wave of recycled air smacked you in the face, like walking into a bathroom while someone was showering. Your coat stuck to you as you slipped down a brick hallway lit purple and blue by pulsing lights, and you felt Clark’s possessive grip on your hips like handles, pushing you forth into the crowd as it opened up before you. A sea of dancers and drunks swayed, bobbed, leaped above your head, on the ground floor, over the balcony, on poles, in cages like birds. You thought these sort of clubs could only be found in Gotham, all their debauchery included, but clearly Metropolis had its own seedy underbelly. 

Goosebumps rose as Clark peeled your slick coat from your skin and tossed it at a coat check woman, who (you were sorry to say) seemed untrustworthy with it. “Come on,” he purred in your ear, “I want to dance with you.”

You stowed your concerns about the place and people for a moment, because there was no such thing as danger when Clark was around. You trusted him with everything in you. 

Clark swept you through the crowd of sweaty skin to the center, under a glimmering chandelier. The strobe lights flickered and painted the club with rainbows as he drew you in close, hands curling in your hair and down your spine, swaying you into something resembling a beat as this hard, heavy music battered your head. You smiled when you saw him gazing down at you, tucking your hair back from your warm face, hungry as a dog. 

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” you shouted over the crowd, “but I don’t hate it!”

“Shut up and dance,” he called back, and he nosed his way into the crook of your neck, sinking his teeth into the offering of your skin. You slithered your arms around his neck and let your eyes flutter shut, surrendering to the swooping feeling in your gut. 

It was good for a while. He spun you around, smushed you to his chest, danced you into a place where you felt like drinking. Got three drinks in you, your magic number, and then three more, and feasted on the margarita-syrup on your lips. Soon enough you were the one swaying him, dropping lower, shaking the parts of you which giggled, which begged to be kneaded. It was in the middle of a particularly dirty song, one that had him spinning and squishing you, that a rough body slipped behind you and smoothed its palms up the backs of your thighs. Your fuzzy brain scrambled to make your sluggish body turn around and catch the culprit. 

“Heey,” you slurred, blinking hard and trying to whip around. The hands reached your ass before you got there, and you yipped, swatting at them. It was a man– just some unmemorable, drunken man– but it didn’t matter now. He would be lucky if he was a man at all in the next five seconds. 

Clark noticed your alarm and snapped out of the haze that was touching you, and his eyes were engulfed in flame. His hand snatched out and twisted the guy’s arm in a horribly unnatural position. The music smothered his cry of pain. 

“How would you like to have no hands to touch my girlfriend with, motherfucker?”

You flushed nervously and clawed at Clark’s arm. “Hey! You’re hurting him!”

Clark glared down at you, at your gorgeous cheeks, the sympathy in your eyes. Sympathy for a pervert. Sympathy for a man that wasn’t him. He shoved the drunken nobody back, casting him into a sea of girls who squealed and swallowed him whole, and a jealous rage infiltrated his body. Clark seized your wrists hard enough to hurt, and you whimpered, drunken eyes fluttering. 

“Ow! Clarkieee…”

“Quiet,” he barked, and before you had time to see what was happening, he hoisted you over his shoulder like a sack of meal and shoved through the floor toward the bathrooms. 

You felt sick to your stomach as the club blurred around you. You couldn’t focus on any one thing, and so the reprieve of a shutting door helped to ground your churning stomach. A bit of shock rippled up your knees as he set you roughly against a tile wall, grime clinging to your dress, cold seeping into your feverish skin. 

“What was that?” he snipped. 

You blinked and flushed deeper, furrowing your brow in confusion. “What was what?”

“You defended that asshole. He fucking groped you.”

You couldn’t control the heat of your skin. “You were… hurting him,” you swallowed, words thick with tequila. 

“He shoved his hands up your dress, and you blushed like you liked it.”

“What?” you hiccuped, “I didn’t–”

“What, am I not enough for you or something? Huh? Don’t I do it for you?” 

You grunted as he pressed you harder into the wall. You could’ve sworn his eyes were glowing, but everything felt like it was flashing from the illusion of the strobe lights imprinted in your vision. He was constricting your lungs with the weight of his body, and his paw hooked under your knee, hitching you around him. 

“Don’t be stupid–”

“Stupid? You liked getting groped in front of your own boyfriend,” he growled, squeezing the flesh of your thigh hard enough to leave spotted bruises. “Like some kind of slut.”

You swallowed thickly, head spinning and heart pounding. He was being extraordinarily rough, behaving so unlike himself. But something in you liked it. Craved it, even. How many times had you wished he would just hold you down and take what he wanted? You were always won over by his entreaties of gentle touches, slow thrusts, soft words spoken into your neck. You loved being cherished. But every now and again, when he got eager, he’d just apply a little pressure, and you were a slave to that feeling. He was a superhero, for Christ sake, and he refused to use his strength. That wasn’t crazy to want… was it?

Well, it didn’t matter now. You were getting what you’d secretly wanted. And you were getting it right now. 

“Somebody’s gotta teach you how to behave,” he grunted, dropping your leg and twisting you around, pressing your soft tummy against the wall. The sinks were adjacent, along with their mirrors. Your glazed-over eyes peeked at the reflection of Clark’s body, hard lines and tall stature, imprisoning you against the tile, hiking your dress over your hips. You whined softly.

“You like this, don’t you?” he panted, unhooking his pants with precision, not wasting a second. “You like being trapped. Getting what you deserve.”

“Clarkie,” 

“What was that? Huh?” he whispered warmly, pressing the heat of his withholding erection between your thighs, lifting you a probable inch off the floor with his barehanded hold. You moaned at the show of strength, and his eyes narrowed with a possessive pleasure. “Jesus. You’re drooling.”

You licked your lips, feeling a wetness on your tongue. You didn’t mean to, but your brain was throbbing inside your skull. You were drunk and he was grinding into the notch between your legs. You flushed deeper, which only seemed to anger him more. 

“Bad bunny,” he snarled, slipping his thumb under the bridge of your panties and tugging them aside. You felt the warmth of his familiar skin pressing against your slit, and your surprised eyes fluttered shut, body heating to a boiling point. “Showing yourself off to all those guys back there. Making them want you, liking when they touch you, doing it in front of me.” You whimpered as he dragged the head of his cock back and forth over your slick folds, teasing you cruelly. “Such a little slut, bunny. I thought you were mine.”

You groaned as he suddenly sunk into your pulsing heat, face twisting against the tile, now warm from your body heat. Clark usually spent as long as he could, stretching you on his fingers, tyring to draw orgasms out of you with his tongue before fucking you, because he never could last very long. He could go a few rounds with all that alien stamina, but he just couldn’t hold himself back, and he wanted you to last as long as possible to make up for his prematurity. It seemed you just made it too hard to pace himself. But he did not show you that care this time. He jammed himself deep, deep enough you wondered if he was prodding your small intestine as he knocked you into the wall. 

“Ah! Clark,” you mewled.

“This is what you wanted, yeah? Wanted me to get rough? Wanted me to throw you around, take what I wanted? You’ve wanted it, baby, but I never gave it to you. You’re always such a good girl. But look at you now, bunny. Throwing yourself at people just to get what you want,” he grunted, hips pistoning behind you, bones bucking into the curve of your ass. His hands slipped under your dress, palms pressing the plush pudge of your tummy, pressing down over your womb, over where he was. “Didn’t know you had it in you…”

You drooled against the tile, moaning helplessly, nails clawing behind you to try and feel him there, to make a connection. But he wasn’t making love to you– he was drilling you, like you’d asked. He was just choosing the time and place to award you with your wish. He harshly took your wrists and pinned them behind your back, using it as equal leverage to keep you up against the wall. He let out a guttural gnarl beside your ear, feeling the way you clenched around him, practically gushing. 

“God, if I knew you liked it like this, I never would’ve been so gentle. Fuck, bunny…”

You had never felt anything like this in your life. The almost rancid sweetness of liquor burning in your throat, coating the tile with your breath’s condensation. The force of his rippling muscle kept you trapped, using you hungrily, wanting you desperately, needing the warmth of your body to pay for your unintentional crime. You just moaned and moaned, fingers flexing under his grip, nails every now and then catching the soft flesh of his belly button when he thrusted deep, leaving moons behind. He could be as rough as he wanted, but he was still yours. He knew that even in the midst of the high coursing through his veins. 

Deep, deep down, Clark knew he should take the ring off. There was a tiny percentage of his consciousness that could fight off the power of the poisonous ruby around his ring finger and apologize for manhandling you, for calling you such a dirty name, for punishing you in this dirty place. He wanted to pull out of you and turn you around, kiss you softer, promise he would never hurt you. But he wasn’t hurting you– not for real. Any inkling of pain under his hands was converted to pleasure on your skin. Your heat swallowed his cock like a sword’s sheath, your eyes rolled around in their sockets as if in a dream, and his name spilled from your lips, smelling like sugar. The sober piece of him had never seen you so turned on, and it was that part, the dutiful part, that allowed the red kryptonite to propel him forward. Hard enough, hand against the wall, that he cracked the tile. Your eyes widened for a moment, in awe of the strength, before fluttering again as his force lurched your insides.

Clark took his big palm and pressed your womb harder, and the other dropped their hold on your wrists to press your cheek against the wall, halfway to squeezing you like a grape. The tresses of your hair wrapped around his forceful fingers as he drove harder, never warning you that he was going to spill over, not allowing you the courtesy of a warning. You would know when the mess painted the inside of your thighs, and you would drool and beg for more. He saw you staring at the silhouette of your movements in the mirror, a little exhibitionist under his reign. He’d give you a show.

“Clarkieee!” 

He watched your face twist, your throat tighten, your nails scraping against the tile for purchase. Your heat twitched and fluttered, constricting around him, and the shudder which ripped through your body sucked the feeling right out of him. He growled into your shoulder blades, bucking uncontrollably as thick ropes of warmth whitewashed you, bubbling and settling like a familiar blanket. You whimpered and trembled against the wall, legs weak, overstimulation ruling your flesh. 

His blood thrummed loud in his ears, and he felt the urge to keep thrusting, to make you take him again, but he wanted to look in your eyes this time. He wanted to watch you beg for more. So he made no effort to save your legs the shock of hitting the ground again, sliding out of you. He pulled his hand from the base of your cranium, but the strands had entangled him. He grumbled softly as he tugged it free, but there was a problem. 

One stubborn strand, and it all rushed away.

One stubborn strand, hooked under the ring, slipped it over his knuckle and off. It hit the porcelain floor loudly, clinking, hitting a corner of the stone on bad luck and shattering it. The heat in his body drained fast, and instant color flooded his face. Shame, embarrassment, regret, all in one wave. 

Clark rushed to lift you back up, still hard but softening by the second. You looked like a wreck. Your face was beet red from being pressed to the wall, and your legs shook like a baby calf’s. Your hair stuck to your wet mouth, eyes blissfully unfocused. God, you were completely out of it, and he’d taken advantage of you when you were like that…

“Oh my god, oh my god… baby, bunny, are you alright?”

You blinked lethargically, feeling his cradling you against his chest. You heard the stuffing of cotton, the clicking of metal fasteners. You felt something warm and tight covering you again. You pressed sloppy kisses to his jaw. “M’fine… so good…”

Clark’s breath came short and tears pricked his eyes. He held you against him like a ragdoll, hugging you, smoothing your hair back, trying to gauge your level of intoxication. “Oh, honey, my bunny, I’m so sorry… I was so rough with you, sweetheart, did I hurt you?”

“Nooo,”

“Are you sure?” He lamented, fussing over your dress. There were purple spots on your thighs, around your wrists.

“M’fiiine!” You whined, wriggling.

“We’re going home,” he whispered.

“No–”

“Baby, we’re going home.”

A ghost of that forceful past Clark shut you up and you grinned. He only frowned. 

He made sure your dress covered your hips and thighs before slipping out of the bathroom. He shoved his way through the crowd and haggled the coat check girl for your jacket, and when he climbed the stairs to the street, you were resting your pounding head on his chest and gazing up at him like a stupid little thing. There was still the imprinted pattern of fingertips on your cheek. He had never felt worse about anything. 

Clark whisked you back to the farm, the cold wind against your hot skin welcome. It was only seconds aloft, and your stomach leapt when he landed gently in his bedroom, the curtains fluttering. You whined as he set you on the bed and hurried to the bathroom. He wet a washcloth and brought it back, and he gently wiped down your arms and legs and face, so concerned about the germs and grime he must have rubbed you into. You shivered at the water. 

“Said m’fiiine.”

“You are not fine. I could’ve seriously hurt you.”

“You jus’ got rough… felt so good… c’mere, d’it again…”

His heart seemed to simultaneously flutter and sink at how your hand reached for him, ruffling his hair. He crawled over you and traced the shape of your nose, frowning deeply. He would have to tell you about the red kryptonite, about what it did to him. All this time, he had hoped to keep you safe by hiding it, but he could’ve broken your cheekbone, cracked your hip, anything. That was the complete opposite of the intention. 

“Bunny?”

“Mm?”

Your pupils were so wide, so trusting, and so drunk. You didn’t seem to be listening at all. You offered him a slow grin, your lipstick all smudged, and he just didn’t have the heart. 

“You need to sleep those drinks off.”

“Noo,” you pouted. 

“I’m going to get you some water.”

“Don’t!” you whined, and you grabbed at him in frustration. “Jus’ want you one more time… please, Clarkie…”

He’d had you drunk, but not like this. You were begging. You didn’t know how sensitive you were. He lifted your dress a bit to peek, and he knew he couldn’t. You were all puffy, too used, it would probably only make you cry. If you weren’t so drunk, he might have, but now he couldn’t manage it. 

“No, baby. You need to sleep.”

“Don’ you want me?” You frowned deeply, lost eyes shining. 

Clark sighed softly, brushing your sweaty hair away from your eyes. “Of course I do, bunny. I’m just going to give you a break, okay? If you nap, I’ll wake you up and we can go again. Okay, honey? Can you do that for me?”

The prospect of more sex seemed to work, and he huffed with relief as you carelessly rolled over, hair spilling across his pillow. You were too inebriated to know he was lying. He would lie there and watch you knock yourself out, and he would chew his lip until the morning when he would tell you about the kryptonite, and hope to God he wasn’t so rough that you couldn't forgive him. 

——͙͘͡★——

In the morning, you awoke only to lurch over the side of the bed. There was a trash can there, credit to your loving boyfriend, which caught your sick. You slumped there, eyes sticky and body sore, and you groaned weakly. 

Clark appeared instantly in the doorway, dirt smudged above his brow and white tee dinged from farm work. He must have been bailing hay. He only did that when he was upset, so he could toss something painless around. The sun was high– you knew because it seemed to burn your hungover eyes– and you heaved a bit, pale in the cheeks. 

“Oh, honey,’ he cooed softly, helping you sit up, putting the can in your lap. He gathered your hair back and handed you a glass of water, something he’d left on the nightstand. 

“God, how much did I drink?” you complained, rubbing your temples. 

“Six margaritas,” he mumbled, taking the can back when your constitution seemed stable enough. “Should’ve stopped you at lucky three.”

You sighed sleepily and worked consciously to stay upright on the bed, closing your eyes. Flashes of the night came back– the coat checker, your panties down in a bathroom, the vision of Clark pinning you like a butterfly in a box– and you flushed profusely. Clark panicked and lifted the trash can again, worried the color indicated another wave of nausea; you only chuckled hoarsely and nudged it away. “No, no… m’okay.”

Clark gazed at you like a scolded puppy, and he kissed your cheek. He scooted closer, close enough to hug you, and you chuckled again. “What is it?”

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

“Why? What happened?” you furrowed your brow, stroking his hair. He smelled like hay. 

“I… it…”

You watched him peel away from you as if he was disgusted with himself. You saw his hands wringing, his eyes avoiding yours, and you reached out to cup his cheek. “Hey…”

“Last night,” he murmured, words low with guilt. “The way I behaved, it… it wasn’t me.”

“You’re telling me,” you smirked a bit sheepishly. 

“No- no, bunny, it’s not funny. I could’ve seriously injured you. Are you in pain anywhere?” His hands came up to turn your jaw, inspecting the berry shades of his hand on your cheeks, the shadow of his rough touch along your wrists.

You laughed softly as he began to prod you. “No! No, I’m fine. Clark, baby, you look sicker than me… just tell me what’s up.”

He ran a hand over his face. “I haven’t been honest with you.”

You felt his soberness as you replied, “Okay.”

A moment passed before he continued. “That… that old class ring you put on me?”

“The red one?”

“It was a kind of kryptonite,” he admitted, peering at you with fear. It was only then that you noticed his bottom lip was a raw pink. “It… it was red kryptonite. I haven’t come in contact with it in years.”

You blinked slowly. Kryptonite… your brain was sluggish, so it took you a moment. Oh, the green stuff. “Right… um, so… so what about it?”

Clark sighed softly, “Well, the green stuff makes me sick, and the red stuff… it’s hard to explain. It’s like it releases all my inhibitions. It makes me crazy, like I’m high on drugs. I used the ring a lot when I was younger, when things were bad… I got into serious trouble, I robbed people, I hurt them. It– it makes me act on impulse, do things I’d never normally do. It makes me… rough. Mean. Taking what I want, when I want it, not caring how.”

You stared at him for a moment, trying to process it. So he wasn’t entirely himself. He was high when he took you out, swept you off your feet, screwed you in a place you would have never imagined being with him in. That was that look in his eye– a force beyond him. And you liked it. Fed into it. For a second, you wondered if there was a part of him last night that felt afraid of himself, and it made you want to puke all over again. You felt horrible.

“So… you didn’t want to be doing anything we did?”

“No, no, that’s not it. I did. I did want to take you out, to- to sleep with you… it’s just– my anger, it flies off the handle when I’m on red K. My behavior is irrational, I don’t think before I act. And I was so careless, honey. Anybody could’ve seen us. I locked you in that bathroom like an animal, and look at you, love, you’re all bruised–”

“But I’m okay! I’m really okay.”

Clark glanced at you with the softness you had undoubtedly missed in his fervor last night. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, baby,” you sighed, scooting closer to smooth the skin between his concerned eyebrows. “You were a little wild, but you didn’t hurt me. I feel fine. And… I mean, I can't remember much, but I clearly liked it, from what I do remember…”

Clark flushed beet red, and he ducked his head to your shoulder. “I feel horrible. I should’ve told you about the kryptonite.”

“I can see why you didn’t,” you assured him, “it’s embarrassing for you, I get it. It was an accident, I would've never put that ring on you if I knew.” 

“This is not your fault. It’s entirely mine. God, I think I should take you to the doctor–”

You laughed softly and brushed his fretting palm away. “I swear, Clark, I’m fine.”

“I just didn’t want you to worry. That’s why I didn’t tell you. You worry enough looking for the regular kind. But there’s so much more, so many types of kryptonite out there… red, gold, blue, black–”

“Wait, what?”

Clark winced with regret. “There’s just other kinds, they all have different effects.”

If you weren’t so hungover, you might be mad. But your head throbbed and he was just… too sweet to be angry with. 

“Oh, Clark…”

He rubbed his eyes so the pricking would slow. “I feel so guilty.”

“You couldn't help it, Clarkie,” you cooed, tugging his lip free from its sharp prison. “And even if you could, it’s okay. You didn’t hurt me. You were rough, but I liked it. I’ll say it until you believe me.”

“Are you sure?” he repeated himself.

“So sure,” you promised, kissing his shoulder. “I like when I see new sides of you. They make the regular you that much more beautiful to me.”

Clark felt like melting at your feet. He drew you into his arms, barely squeezing, back to cradling you like porcelain. He’d get over it in a few hours. He always revisited the initial fear of his strength when he got out of line– it was what made him a worthwhile hero. 

“You know, it was actually really hot,” you mumbled into his chest. 

Clark allowed himself to chuckle. “Yeah, well, I was high and you were drunk. I think we would’ve enjoyed anything.”

You grinned and tipped your head back. “Is there, like, super-weed we can smoke or something to get you like that again?”

Clark didn’t have to allow a laugh this time– it came freely. “I think you need to eat some breakfast before you make any rash decisions, bunny.”

“Kidding, kidding…”

Clark grinned and hoisted you off the bed, happy to carry you downstairs and pamper you after a night full of surprises. “No you’re not.”

“Hey– I didn’t get my morning kiss.”

Clark smirked at you as you wrapped your legs around his hips. “I’ll cut you a deal. If you brush your puke teeth, I’ll kiss you, and then I’ll see just how I can make last night up to you, yeah?”

You saw his eyes flicker. For a moment, you could’ve sworn they had glowed red. Or maybe it was just his fire coming back in a small dose, just for you. There was no vice in the world that could make you or him forget just how much you liked each other as you were in that bathroom; and there was a large part of you that was curious about trying it again. Just maybe without the uncontrollable parts.

“Put me down,” you brushed your nose against his cheek. When Clark quirked a playful brow, your stomach flipped. A glimpse of a man who could punish, if need be. “...Please.”

—

The night air was cool, but everything still felt warm.

Too warm.

Your face pressed against his chest, cheek squished against the soft fabric of his hoodie as he walked, steady and careful.

Each step was even. Controlled.

Like he was afraid you’d fall.

“…Yuta,” you murmured, voice muffled.

“Yeah?”

“You smell nice.”

He nearly stumbled.

“…It’s just detergent.”

“Nooo” you dragged out, shifting slightly in his arms..too much that he had to tighten his hold on you. “It’s you. You always smell nice.”

A pause.

“…Thanks,” he said quietly, ears and cheeks feeling warmer than they should, clearly not knowing what to do with that.

You hummed in satisfaction, fingers absentmindedly rubbing against his chest through the fabric. Not really thinking. Just… feeling.

His shoulders tensed.

“Hey—don’t move too much,” he muttered, adjusting his grip again. “You’ll fall.”

“I won’t,” you insisted, even as you leaned closer, practically melting into him. “You won’t drop me.”

“…I won’t, never” he admitted.

Your head tilted up just enough to look at him, though your eyes barely focused. “I trust you.”

That made it worse.

Yuta looked away quickly, jaw tightening just slightly. “…You’re drunk.”

“Mhm,” you agreed easily. “And honest.”

“…That’s not how that works.”

“It is,” you said, nodding like it made perfect sense.

Silence settled for a moment, broken only by his footsteps.

Then—

“I like you.”

He froze.

Not completely.. but enough that his next step faltered.

“…What?”

You frowned slightly, like he was the confusing one. “I said I like you.”

“Yeah, I— I heard you,” he stammered, grip tightening instinctively. “You’re just— you’re drunk. You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” you insisted, louder this time.

Too loud.

A couple passing by glanced over, and Yuta’s ears went red immediately.

“Hey—shh,” he said quickly, lowering his voice. “Not so loud.”

“But it’s true,” you argued, pouting slightly as you shifted again, pressing closer. Your arms slid more securely around his neck now, clinging. “I like you a lot.”

His face was burning now.

“You— you don’t have to say this right now,” he muttered, clearly flustered. “We can just— talk about it later, okay?”

“Nooo,” you whined softly, shaking your head against his shoulder. “You always avoid it.”

“I don’t avoid it!”

“You do,” you insisted, poking weakly at his chest. “Every time I get close, you act like you don’t notice.”

“That’s not—”

You shifted again, this time rubbing your face lightly against his shoulder, nuzzling into him without thinking. “You’re so warm…”

He went completely still for a second.

“…You’re making this really hard.”

You blinked slowly. “What’s hard?”

“…Walking,” he said quickly.

You giggled, completely unconvinced. “Liar.”

His grip tightened again when you shifted, your knee brushing slightly as you adjusted yourself in his arms.

“Stay still,” he said, voice a little strained now, shyer than ever. “Seriously.”

“Make me,” you mumbled, clearly not helping.

“…I am carrying you.”

“That’s not making me,” you argued, though your voice was already getting softer, heavier.

Another few steps passed in silence, though it wasn’t comfortable for him.

Because you didn’t stop.

“I like you,” you repeated, quieter this time, almost drowsy. “You’re always nice to me… even when I’m annoying.”

“You’re not annoying.”

“I am,” you insisted. “But you still take care of me.”

His steps slowed slightly.

“…Of course I do.”

“Why?” you asked, tilting your head again to try and look at him.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Your fingers curled tighter into his hoodie. “Is it because you like me too?”

That did it.

Yuta nearly stopped walking entirely.

“…You should sleep,” he said after a moment, voice softer now, but somehow more affected. “We’ll talk when you’re sober.”

You stared at him for a second longer… then smiled faintly, eyes fluttering.

“…Okay,” you whispered.

But even then, you didn’t let go.

If anything, you curled closer, face tucked into his neck now, breathing evening out as sleep slowly started to take over.

Yuta exhaled quietly, adjusting his hold one last time.

“…You’re really unfair,” he murmured under his breath.

But he didn’t put you down.

Not once.

Maybe Yuta is forgetting that drunk people are the most honest.

Oh well...

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