#must... draw... something... before end of month...

It has been a week since Neteyam proposed his courtship to you. A week since he has placed the gorgeous shell necklace intertwined with pearl beads in front of you. Of course, you accepted the necklace. A woman of any clan would be crazy not to. This was Toruk Makto’s eldest son we were talking about! The next Olo’eyktan of the Omaticaya clan!

You have been avoiding him like you have caught some kind of illness. He leaves trinkets at the front of your murai, but you appear to never be there when he delivers them. You avert your eyes whenever he looks your way, or even being ‘busy’ in the healer's pod when words get around that he has been looking for you. Truly, you don’t understand why you avoid him. The moment you catch a glimpse of his face, your fight or flight instincts kick in, and every single damn time–

You. Flight.

“Hey, are you even listening to us?” Tsireya laughs while tugging at your braid. A hiss leaves your mouth as your tail flicks, “That was unnecessary.” You frown. Kiri joins in on the laughter while twisting the other side of your braid, “Keep daydreaming, and we might just yank out your hair!”

They’ve been braiding your hair for what has felt like an eternity, and you only groan when you remember why they’re doing your hair in the first place. “Come on- what are the chances he even shows up? Can’t we just-“

Kiri snickers, “No, Y/n! We have worked too hard on your braids just for nothing to come out of it! Neteyam will show up— that skxawng is a sucker for you. Trust me, he is like a sulking baby when he realizes you avoid him.” You take personal offense and turn your head to Kiri, “It’s not on purpose! At least.. I don’t think so? I just get nervous, that’s all..” A pout appears on your face, and Tsireya plasters a smile on hers. “Mawey, Y/n. Your braids will come undone if you keep moving.”

You give her an apologetic look and turn your head back, facing the ocean. “He’s just... too calm! I never know what’s going on in his mind- I wish he were a little more like Lo’ak, he is like an eager ZukZuk by the way his tail wags whenever he sees you.” You huff, resting your chin on your hand. Tsireya blushes once you mention Lo’ak. “Ah, he is one of a kind,” smiling fondly over her lover boy. “However, you should be glad. Neteyam is a strong warrior. Strong warriors must keep masks, my father tells me this.”

“Ugh, gross! Let’s stop talking about my brothers. It makes me sick knowing people can talk about those skxawngs so sweetly!” She pretends to gag, “But I’m glad if those two ever have mates, it would be you two.” She has both of you furiously blushing from her words. You? Being.. Neteyam’s mate? M. A. T. E? Now that’s something you haven’t gotten too far to think about.  

You’re finally all dolled up with a matching shell top and a tewng that went well with Neteyam’s necklace. A few days ago, you asked Neteyam if he would meet you by the shoreside by the murai’s during sundown, and he agreed. He almost seemed eager in your opinion by the way his tail lurches.

Water brushes against your feet as you stand close to the ocean, admiring the glow of bioluminescence when waves crash. Your feet draw shapes into the wet sand before you feel a hand quickly wrapping around your waist. You almost let out a yelp until you hear them speak.

“Mawey. It is me, sevin.” he murmurs. You quickly turn around. “Neteyam.” Suddenly, you remember how handsome he is. You avoided him for a week, and you had already forgotten what a masterpiece he was. “Y/n,” he says back, thumbs smoothing over your hips.

Your lips are pressed thin, and you don’t dare to look up. Silence engulfs you two as he waits for you to speak, but you never do. A hand sneaks down to twiddle with the string of your tweng to stop the nerves in your system from rising higher, but it doesn’t seem to be helping. You're extremely nervous, and being this close to him doesn’t help– at all. Finally, you open your mouth to speak, but he beats you to it.

“I missed your scent sevin,” he says slowly, one hand now moving to your face. “You wound me- depriving me of your attention.” He hums, tilting your chin up so you look at him properly. Embarrassment floods your system. You whine quietly, and it only amuses him further. “I.. didn’t mean to.. I was just..”

“Nervous?” He finishes your sentence before you can. You nod, and he chuckles, “Oh, sevin. You are just the cutest. There is nothing for you to be nervous about.” A warmth blossoms in your chest until you realize he’s teasing you..! “Sxkawng!” you deflect, pinching his belly, and he stands straight, tail thrashing from the sudden pain.

Laughter bursts in his chest when he reaches for the place you pinched, soothing the small pain away. “I think sxkawngs are Na’vi who pinch other Na’vi before an intimate moment.” His hand snakes around your waist again, but this time he pulls you in and leans closer.

Eywa was torturing you. Truly, she was.

Blood pumps through your heart faster now, beating faster and faster. Surely, Neteyam is able to see your embarrassment. He is the one who likes seeing your reaction all the time, so there isn’t a single doubt that he is soaking up your reaction this time.

Neteyam moves the stray hairs away from your face and presses his forehead against yours. Your body tenses. This was way too intimate for your liking! Your eyes dart around for any chance of escape, and– There!

In the distance, Tsahìk is carrying herbs back to the healer's pod. Her belly is round, full of life, and glowing. Your hands become clammy as you try to gently back away. “Tsahìk is over there, I should really help her! You cannot let a pregnant lady move around so much–”

Ah. Realization sets into his body. You are trying to flee. That won’t do.

“You stay here.” He tuts, hands tightening around your waist, staring you directly into your eyes.

You gulp.

“You are mine tonight, sevin. I have not been courting you for nothing,” he murmurs, grabbing your hand and slowly trailing it down his chest. “I’m sure the Tsahìk has plenty of Na’vi to assist her side. Right now, I want you here. With me.” His lips ghost the corners of your lips, but not close enough to kiss. Your pupils expand as you squirm, and finally, you realize how real this situation was. “You wear my necklace. Are you trying to show others you are mine?” He smirks. God, he was infuriating! You wanted to just–

“Shut it, forest boy,” you huff. Your cheeks were burning! This is so embarrassing... You bite your lip, completely forgetting Neteyam was in front of you until you hear him hiss. His hands squeeze your waist, “Careful, Sevin. You seem eager.” He breathes heavily. You? Eager? What in the world was he–

Oh.

You look down to see that your hands have unconsciously moved lower righttt above his tewng while you were lost in thought. “Oh my! I’m so sorry..!” You pull your hand away, only for his hand to wrap around your wrist. “You are allowed to touch, I do not mind,” he practically purrs, moving your hand back to his ribcage.

“No more running, sevin.” His breath tickles your neck, pressing his nose against it, scenting you like you were his property. His lips trail up and kiss the column of your throat and make their way to your lips. It’s sweet, sensual, and dangerously addictive. You stand on the balls of your feet to indulge in more. Neteyam laughs and pulls away, glinting his fangs. “Greedy thing..”

You roll your eyes and press into the kiss once more. Your hands move to his hair, gripping tightly as his hands make their way, exploring your sides. After a while of messy kissing, you break away for air and Neteyam pants. “Gonna take everything I’ve been ready to give you, pretty girl?” And you nod, eagerly.

Honestly you weren't doing any better. It took you fifteen extra minutes to get to class now to avoid being in Gojo's line of sight. Behind your glasses were puffy eyes, honestly you could just throw those things away.

You barleybothered to look up from the ground. Ground, notebook, ground, notebook, coffee. Your range of vision routine that you've picked up and perfected over the two months.

You were the one who broke up with him, was it even right to be sitting in the library with his hoodie on? You haven't even washed it not wanting to lose the smell, his smell.

The pen in your hand blue, you never wrote in blue because it look atrocious behind most highlighter colors. It was a pen, nothing more nothing less. That's what you told yourself, not acknowledging the fact when you felt anxious you'd sketch portions of his face with that pen. A reminder that he's there or that he used to be there.

Since the break up you've only seen Gojo once. You saw him and luckily he never saw you.

Sat at one of the group tables in the courtyard. His frat brothers having a good time, girls crowded around them like they were gods. His normal before he was with you. You watched a one leaned in too close, hand on his shoulder drawing circles with her thumb.

He didn't pull away, right. He didn't have to, he no longer belonged to you.

You watched from afar, a few tears slipping down your cheeks with a weak smile. As long as he's happy right?

───────────────────────────────Today Nanami held a can of red bulls while Geto dragged Gojo into the library. "Sit. And act like you go to college for once."

The puppy eyed boy groaned leaning pushing his down in his arms. "Can't I just do this another day-" "No."

Nanami sat the pack of red bull down, "You're not leaving until at least five assignments-"

The library doors opened, Gojo didn't look up too busy moping. Geto watched you walk through the doors. His eyes widened discreetly nudging Nanami to look in your direction.

Damn, you almost looked as bad as Gojo.

Thank god you didn't notice them, they were in the back. Behind the old literature bookcases.

Geto awkwardly chuckled "Y'know what on a second thought... Let's leave!"

Gojo pushed his head up looking more determined than before, "No no, you're right. Five assignments then we'll leave thats the deal."

They looked at each other and sighed, hopefully they can keep you two separated.

Gojo is sad not stupid, it's been about 5 hours, two essays, 10 discussion post, and 1 lab and Geto and Nanami acting like they have a stick up their ass. Like shoved deeply up there.

They wouldn't let him leave, when his pencil broke Nanami handed a new one before he could blink. Geto got every single snack from the vending machine brushing it off because, "Think smarter not harder." Right?

It was smothering and strange. Gojo pushed his chair back standing up and stretching watching those two stiffen at the sudden movement. "I'm going to the bathroom."

"Let me-" He cut Geto off, "Alone."

Only walking past a couple of tables, he paused.

Your face smushed against your textbook and a highlighter slipping through your hands. Breathing softly, you were sleeping.

Without thinking he inched forward. Closer, and closer.

You still had on his hoodie, the one he gave you when the wind started blowing too hard. His eyes scanned your face, like he couldn't believe you were there.

But there was a hint of something softer, gentle even. He just wanted to know if you were okay. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes, the slight twitch of your fingers from too much caffeine. The messy coils on your head, noticing you missed your wash day.

His hands were wobbly, producing more sweat as they reached closer.

Satoru's touch was delicate like he was holding a rare metal. Because he was you were rare, one of a kind. His fingers trembled as he traced your face. The curve of your nose, his forth favorite spot to kiss you. You'd scrunch your nose on impact because it was always unpredictable, a random display of love.

He brushed a few frizzy spirals away from your forehead. Pressing his thumb down lightly. His third favorite spot to kiss you, your forehead. To him it was a silent vow of sweet nothings.

Saying, "I'll protect you" "I can take the weight off your shoulders"

"Let me be good to you" "I love you."

How he'd rest his against yours afterward, like he was telepathically sharing the weight of unspoken words with you. Hoping that you felt it to.

Dragging his fingers down tracing the outline of your lips. The second place on the list of kiss spots, or what they say the first loser.

He remembers your first kiss like it was yesterday. It wasn't the way he imagined it, not controlled or planned. Gojo couldn't sleep so he appeared in the library, once again taking the coffee and replacing it with his hand.

You were skeptical, but not enough to go back to your dorm. He took you to the beach, it was around midnight so it was empty and silent. The two of you talked and talked, bouncing through a million different topics.

Once you ran out the quiet took over again, it wasn't awkward it was peaceful, comfortable silence.

An inaudible staring contest, you looked into his blue eyes like you wanted to drown in them, and he looked into yours like he could see a glimpse of your soul, because he wanted to oh so badly

You both leaned in. It started slow, hesitant like what you had together was to special to ruin. Then it turned rushed, needy, desperate.

Both of you pulled away panting, then leant back in.

He cupped your cheek just like he did that night, rubbing small circles with his thumb. You moved, he froze. You snuggled into his warmth, muscle memory wins again.

Satoru's breathing picked up almost becoming ragged. And in first place your cheeks. It was always sweet and innocent. The way you giggled when he kissed the same spot repeatedly.

That time he kissed each mole on your face because you told him you've gotten new ones since you've gotten older. PDA wasn't your thing so at parties it was cheek kisses only, but it still marked his claim.

When you did it to him? God. They weren't rushed, you never did attacks of multiple. Just one maybe two, they were soft but lingered. The first time you did Gojo stood there rubbing his cheek, then vowed to never wash his face again.

Gojo had finally pulled away, his hand becoming cold. He rushed out the library, pushing the bathroom door open.

Everything was blurry, everything hurts.

He pulled out his phone texting Geto and Nanami

i saw her, i need to go. i feel sick.

They rushed out the library letting the table next to them have the overwhelming pile of snacks.

Satoru's gagging could be heard from the hallway, raising concerned looks as students walked through.

Geto dropped their bags, walking towards the stall. "Come on Satoru, drink this." He passed the water bottle towards him only to be met with refusal.

Gojo shook his head, "No, ngh. I don't deserve— need it."

"Nanami hold is head back."

"Wait stop-" Gojo refused but it was weak, he accepting the care letting the cold water get poured down his throat. They both started to lift him, "Okay come on, get up slowly..."

"Stop treating me like i'm an abandoned puppy."

"That would be a fitting description."

───────────────────────────────

It was like you broke up with him all over again, except no red bulls or muffins. Just the silence... always in a constant state of rumination.

A knock came to his door, it was light and cautious. He didn't turn, thinking it was Toji.

You peeked your head in, Geto told you he wasn't here so you could come get your things if you need. And Nanami was there to confirm, so you thought no funny business, just in and out.

But you didn't see high five they shared after they walked off.

Gojo was laid so stiff under the blanket you assumed it was the way he left his blankets when he got out of this morning.

You still walked carefully, like you'd disturb the balance he gained while you were gone.

You walked to the closet first, you need some of your shirts and sweatpants. They were still hung as neatly as before. You peeled them off of the hangers one by one.

Accidentally brushing the article of clothing next to it. It was one of his shirts, your favorite. It was his dc comic shirt, every time you wore it he'd make you pick a character so he could talk you to sleep.

He'd slip his hands underneath rubbing your sides, coaxing you to sleep with his voice. Those were the times you could care less about what you look like, because the way he'd tuck your head into his chest melted your worried before they even started.

Next the dresser, last time you were here you left your necklace and earrings. You could tell it was placed there purposefully. They laid in the middle, like a crown set on a lonely cushion. Prepped for display and viewing.

You brushed your fingers over the locket, you bought it from a pawn shop in high school for ten bucks. It was always empty and just for aesthetics.

Until you met Gojo, the once empty space was filled with a small picture, one that he didn't even know you took.

You and Gojo failed at you attempted all nighter, getting back to your dorm around 2 am. You both flopped on the bed, eyes heavy and head full of gibberish formulas.

"I don't know how you do it woman."

"I normally can go longer than this, so clearly you're the problem."

"No I put you on a normal, less caffeinated sleep schedule. There's a difference."

You snorted knowing it was true, you went to bed around a reasonable time now and saved so much money on coffee. "Im going to shower."

You stepped out the shower already missing the warmth. You started to lotion your body, slipping some of Gojo's clothes. You cracked the door open peeking out, "Toru can you-"

Gojo was sprawled across the bed, breathing lightly. You walked closer taking the faintest steps. His nose was scrunched, like he didn't know how to relax. How to give in to the deep slumber.

You leaned in kissing the bridge of his nose, watching the crinkle loosen. He looked content, at ease.

The colorless hair atop of his head was messy. You brushed stray strands out the way placing a kiss to his forehead.

You lifted a finger, just one, scared that more would wake him. Dragging a finger down caressing the plush of his lips. Holding it here for a couple of second. Feeling when he exhaled, you placed another peck onto his lips.

You shakily used your entire hand to cup his faint rosy cheeks. Dragging your thumb up and down. Breath hitching as he leant into your touch. Without thinking you pulled out your phone, snapping a vulnerable moment of the white haired boy. Removing your hand you replaced it with a kiss, your lips lingered longer than before.

Whispering, "I love you Toru."

The first time you realized you were in love with Satoru Gojo was the day he passed out while waiting for you to get out the shower.

You snapped back into reality, blinking the tears forming away. You turned away too fast, knocking over a can.

You froze and Gojo sat up, quickly. Alert and looking around for any danger. Relaxing when he saw you, then tensing again.

"WAIT–"

You speed walked out the room slamming the door behind you.

You almost made it, but every step you took Gojo's could covered two times that amount in one. He tugged at your sleeve, voice waivering. "Can we talk? Please."

So found yourself back in Gojo's room sitting on the bed next to him in silence. You fiddled with your fingers looking down at your lap.

Gojo stood up and stepped right in front of you. You looked up at him, again silent but so many words were said right now.

Eye's following him as he got lower and lower.

He's on his knees. Voice raspy and broken, "Please. Please, please, please." His head laid against your knees, placing faint kisses on it and even through the sweatpants it still burned your skin.

You still hadn't moved, just sat there staring into his eyes that displayed his devotion to you. He grabbed your cold, limp hand. Guiding it across his skin, he shivered at the impact. Bringing it to his cheek, leaning his head into your palm. It felt wet?

Gojo was crying, "Please, my love. Please. I'm so sorry, I don't know what I did but i'm so goddamn sorry. I don't know how to breathe without you."

Your voice cracked, his figure turned hazy and you felt tears sliding down your chin onto his hands that rested on your lap. "Satoru..."

Bringing your hand up to his lips, placing dazed kisses on each finger, then your palm, lastly your ring finger, again and again.

"What did I do wrong baby, hm? Tell me, tell me everything so I can fix it, change for you."

You sniffled gaining the courage to speak. You moved your hands weaving them through his white strands. "Satoru..."

"It's not you. It could never be you." You cupped his jaw wiping his tears with the pad of your thumb. "I really do love you, Toru. More than you could ever know."

Gojo whimpered at your words, his voice raw and vulnerable "My love... I know. So please stay."

"Satoru i'm doing this for you..." You ducked your head down almost embarrassed by your next words. "You need someone... more than me. I'm not what you need-"

"But you are! You're everything I need and more, how could you say that?" His eyes pooled with more tears, more than the last batch.

"Did I make you feel that way? Oh baby I-" You shook you head with a sad smile voice barley above a whisper, "No Satoru, but I can see it. The whispers, stares, and I know you don't notice but I do."

His lips part to speak but you keep going, "I-I can't compete with those girls. I know I don't look perfect or that I have the perfect body, which i'm sure you've noticed by now."

"I just don't want you feel ashamed of me. Like you have to hide me because i'm not your equal, because you settled for something less."

Gojo just looks at you, looking over every crease and curve of your face. Not in disgust, but in awe, adoration with his stupid puppy eyes.

Then he choked out a small laugh even though your words devastated him. "Why are you laughing-" He rolled his head on your knee, "For someone so smart my love, you can be so, so dense?"

"I hear the whispers and I feel the stares, they don't bother me. Because I know what I want, I know who I need."

"Standing next to you is one of my biggest accomplishments. It feels... light, comfortable, safe. Not ashamed. Most days I question why you even let me near you, breathe the same air as you."

Gojo breathes out desperate, he wanted you to feel his words. "You are the most beautiful, perfect girl I have ever had the chance to lay my eyes on." He stands up slowly, sliding his arms down to your waist rubbing softly.

"There is not a single thing that I don't love about you, you're so perfect in each in every way."

By now you were sobbing in his arms, letting him hold you. All of you.

Sniffing into his shirt, "I'm so sorry Toru." He exhaled, finally letting his shoulders relax, "I thought I was helping, I–" He shushed you, resting his chin on top of you, "You did what you thought was right in the moment. All i'll ever ask of you. Is to be honest and transparent about how you feel."

He grabbed your jaw. The two of you stared at each other through wet eyelashes and passionate eyes. He leaned in slow and careful not wanting to scare you, but you grabbed the back of his neck pulling him in quickly.

Both of your shoulders dropped, letting go of all the weight that built up over these two months. Inhaling each others burdens and worries saying "let me in".

───────────────────────────────

@kajismp3 | masterlist

this is the fastest i've ever written a pt.2 lol

how do we feel???

im tagging everyone who commented bc most requested a pt.2

@qkrwidn | @liaviva | @an1inlove13 | @hoesluvshoko | @yujishair |

A month later and there's a new groove in his arm, courtesy of a hostile's true aim. Nearing forty and he has chest candy to show for it. No warm bed to crawl into at night, no womb to fill full, a legacy blacked out by Confidential stamps. Empty.

You appear like a mirage at the grocery store, hoodie nearly hiding your entire face. It's your fault he notices really. Was too focused on how much cooking he can bear to do in the next two weeks when he hears the grunting beside him.

You, reaching for the pasta on the top shelf. Expensive stuff, gluten-free non-GMO vegan bullshit, probably pumped full of chemicals. He'll teach you better once he has the time, tell you what isn't good for the baby. It's not getting ahead of himself if he's sure it will happen, what with how he slides next to your side and plucks the blue box off the shelf.

"All yours, love." His first words to you and they're truer than you realize, if only you could take a second to look deeper. Instead, you smile politely and take the box from his hand, taking care to not brush fingers. "Thank you."

And that's it.

No shimmer of interest in your eyes, no coy look back, no added sway to your hips. Strangers are meant to help and that's all he did, forever relegated to a singular box in your mind. You continue on your path, plucking a marinara jar at the end of the aisle before turning out of sight. It's not a complication, rather, a test. Higher effort, higher reward.

He makes a note of your unit this time, a two bed one bath you split with a roommate who isn't there for weeks on end.

The 'in' appears to him in a dream, sweat-soaked and dripping in want. An orchestrated meeting, this time in an environment that can't be mistaken for anything else. No, a cafe was too platonic, a grocery store too functional. What he needs is a bar.

You barely require any coaxing. Another week at your office job, following your coworkers like a duck as they trek to a nearby happy hour. It's too packed, the floor sticky and the liquor heavy. John came early, a corner booth in the back giving him a perfect vantage point of your little group near the window. Four birds, tittering over manager woes and life stories. Your Mona Lisa smile is ever-present, eyes glazed over with the need to socialize, even if it hurts. You have nothing to contribute, no bad dates with how empty your bed looked last week.

Your bathroom break comes when your drink turns to melted ice. It's almost kismet, how your heel catches on the cracked floor. How you fall into John's arms like it was scripted. Your cold hands meet his chest, fingers digging into his deltoids as you brace yourself.

"I'm so sorry! I just..." You gesture incomprehensively, as if your sputtering is a valid explanation. John cocks an eyebrow, letting the moment drag on as your embarrassment looms. It builds and builds, in the pinch of your brow, the pitch of your voice. Just when you're about to crack, a wet sheen in your eyes, does he seal the deal.

John drops to his knees, ignores the resounding crack, and finds your heel in its trap. A sticky substance coats the floor like honey was spilled recently, trapping anyone in its web. He finds your exposed ankle bone and brushes it with a callused thumb, wiggling the material of your shoe until it unsticks. John rises slowly, brushing your shin with the same finger until he reaches your knee. You burn bright under him, practically pulsing with need.

"Don't worry about it, sweetheart." He finally replies, only when he's standing straight at attention. Your eyes go wide, and he can practically smell your cunt, wet with desire. It's been too long for her, he knows, and he's here to make it right.

"I know you." You murmur, scanning his face for an answer you can't find. All he does is raise an eyebrow. Wide eyes take in his beard, his stature, his voice, and all he can do is bite back a grin. "You handed me a pasta box the other day." You conclude, eyes dropping and cheeks warming. How silly, to remember a handsome man from a store that clearly forgot your existence. You take a step back, as if to flee to your friends, and of course he can't have that. Not when he's got you where he wants you.

"Penne." He replies. You stop. Frown, quirk your head.

"I'm sorry?" One step back and he can't have that, so he follows you, one booted step forward.

"I handed you penne."

Your smile is like the break after a storm, unrestrained and earthly. It seems he's found your meekness, where it hides behind that shield you wield.

"Penne's my favorite."

-

He almost slips up, almost hits your floor number in the elevator before you do, but you're too wrapped around him to notice. He finds your neck before your lips, to remind you that this is primal. Preordained.

(The other thirty-something women before you must've been universal mistakes, then.)

You giggle into his hold, allowing him to grab two handfuls of your ass as he crowds you against the metal bar. "John," you pant, music to his ears. You don't notice how he opens your apartment door like he's been there before, a gold key on his keyring in the same shape of your own. You don't question how he knows to turn left for your bedroom instead of right towards your roommate's.

Instead, your heels dig into his back as he lifts you around him. He ignores your protests, too focused on molding himself into you until you're made of the same stardust. Something rumbles out of your throat, but he's too busy nipping at it to hear.

Fingers squeeze his shoulders and when he opens his eyes, you're frowning at him from where you're pressed against your bedroom door. "Somethin' wrong, sweetheart?" He grumbles, annoyed his activities were delayed. A fumbling hand finds the doorknob from your perch, and you let him into your sanctuary, displeasure still etched into your features. You're keeping him away from his prize: the warmth of your thighs.

"Your beard is scratchy." You murmur, soft hands rising to groom through the very thing you're annoyed at. He smirks at that, how he's reduced you to a version of yourself you never let others see, all in the course of an hour. "Makin' you hurt, baby?" He asks gently, laying you down on the sheets he'd sniffed last week, jerking his cock to your scent. You nod with doe eyes and it's like you're no longer a woman but something pliable.

Putty in his hands. His to remake.

"Bet this little cunt's dripping." He cups the warmth between your thighs for emphasis, fingers running along the seam of your work slacks. There's nothing little about you, all wide eyes and big heart, but it does something to his core to see you blink at his words. He finds it there, carving knife splitting you open, insides dripping out into his callused hands.

You part your thighs shyly, tender under his gaze. Raw meat, his mind whispers, as if Simon were right there next to him. He takes his time, toying with zippers and buttons. Once he peels the polyester fabric off of you, there's a wet spot on the front of your sensible gray panties. He presses it with his thumb until you keen, back arching in that blouse you still somehow have on, heels dropped back at the entrance. He finds that spot over your shoulder where his cam is hidden, no conspicuous red light like in the movies to blink back at him.

Practical.

"Just need someone to take care of her, hm?" He asks, your answer irrelevant to how he runs his finger against your clothed slit. You whine again, lower this time, some place deep under your ribs. He takes pity then, pulling off your underwear with such force that you don't see him pocket them. Your fumbling fingers find the hem of your blouse and pull up, and for a moment your view is sheer darkness. John could do whatever he wants.

He waits.

Your curls are slick with want, honey on his fingers as he takes his first taste. One broad forearm bands against your belly to prevent your thrashing, the other prying your thigh open so wide it aches. But you take it well, patient little thing as he eats your slick like a meal. He can taste the hours you spent at work, and the hours before spent alone, a concoction of loneliness so strong he's nearly hit by the force of it. This will be different. You need him as much as he needs you, and it's like all of the pieces finally fit to the puzzle he couldn't see. You are his future.

Your opinions about it are, frankly, not relevant.

He wrenches one orgasm just like that, the flat of his tongue against your puffy clit. Another on his fingers, your cunt squeezing him like a vice. Probably haven't had anything up here in a while except that dildo in your drawer, poor thing.

But fucking has always been his favorite.

It's there his brain slows down. Your nipples, hardened and shiny from his spit, shine in the moonlight. Your chest heaves with the effort of doing nothing but being good for him. He starts to unbutton his jeans, but a trembling hand stops the zipper from going forward.

"I want..." You trail off, eyes swiping up and down his body. He'd be more annoyed if his cock wasn't like the heat of your palm through the fabric. Still, he barely holds back when he growls. "Spit it out."

It's too much and he knows, your eyes flashing with something new. Survival instinct, maybe. But your legs already caught in the trap and you're too desperate to gnaw it off, needing the attention even it kills you.

He breathes out once, then twice. Leans you forward until the denim of his jeans presses into your messy cunt, your hand stuck in between. He thumbs the soft skin under your eye, thinner than gossamer, before speaking.

"Tell me what you want, baby." You blink, resetting. Your hand is freed, and it flops against the bed. But your lips don't move and honestly, he needs to be in your cunt sooner rather than later. So he finds what he saw later, the bit of rot in your soul that's mirrored in his own, and digs.

"Tell Daddy what you want."

There it is. You inhale sharply and your hand twitches, but you don't slap him. In fact, he can feel the blood pulsing through you warm. Finally, your lips part. "I want you to take your shirt off. And...I want you to keep talking like that."

He grins.

The Henley is ripped off in a second, revealing the fur of his grizzled chest. You whine appreciatively, and he doesn't go so far as to puff his chest, but something in him loosens. The jeans go next, yanked down to his socks and left on the floor. Boxers are last, and he can finally grip his cock and give it the pressure he's been aching for all night.

"Look at this." Your thighs spread, knees dropping to the mattress. He taps his cock at the entrance, coating it in the wetness he's been coaxing out of you. He doesn't carry a rubber and he doesn't ask. Will put it on if you had enough thoughts in that brain to ask, but you don't and well, he's not here to spoil the fun.

His tip catches on your clit, and you moan, chin tucked to watch your own cunt betray you. "Such a little cunt, honey. How's it going to fit?" He jerks forward and catches on your entrance, feeling you suck in a breath as it all becomes real. "I think you're made to take your Daddy's cock, though." He notches in and pushes, pressing down on your stomach to remind you to keep breathing. You start nodding, as if he needs encouragement.

John's thumb finds your clit again, circling until he can sink in, inch by inch. "This mini toy cunt. Barely bigger than a pocket pussy. Should I fuck you like one?" You gasp, but he's too busy drowning in the blood rushing in his ears to hear. One paw finds your hip and tugs until you're flush against each other. "Such a slippery little thing." Your wetness squeaks as if to agrees. John starts to move his hips and all you can do is hang your mouth open, in shock at your own enjoyment. Every thrust gets closer to that spongy part of you, sparks of something dark gathering in your core.

"My perfect girl." John says, eyes on how your cunt sucks his cock in. "Say it, baby." His eyes flick up to, as if to finally acknowledge your participation. Your mouth opens, then closes. "I'm..." A brutal thrust cuts off your words as you moan, but John takes no mercy. His hand finds your jaw and turns you until all you can do is watch his cock sink in and out of you.

Another circling of your clit and you go slack in his arms. "Say it." He grunts, a little meaner this time. You take a deep breath. "I'm your good girl." He humphs, unsatisfied. Your brows furrow. His thumb leaves your clit to find your nipple, tweaking it as if in admonishment. You clench around his cock, and all you receive is a heavy pant from his chest.

"Whose good girl?" There. Just behind his pupil. There's no spark in his eye. Just a need to function. A need for compliance. The loneliness in you aches like you've been shot.

"Daddy's good girl. I'm Daddy's girl."

He smirks, thumb back on your clit to circle it until you keen. "Daddy's good girl and her little baby cunt. Isn't that right?" You'd agree, but the orgasm hits you like a train, your back bowing against the bed. The world goes white, and your eyes close so hard gravity swirls. And then you're back down, just in time to feel warmth flood your cunt. John keeps thrusting after, as if required to not waste a single drop. You're too wrung out to argue, becoming one with the mattress.

John keeps your hips tilted, watching his seed stay inside you. He doesn't pretend to mention work or the morning or anything else inane. Instead, he plants you against him so you're still in the position he needs, hips high and face tucked into the crook of his neck. He rubs at your back, encouraging you to meld further.

In the morning, he'll make you breakfast. He'll tell you to call off work with his cock in your mouth, then reward you with a thumb to that other hole. He doesn't leave for a week, then two, then three. Goes on his last mission just to see, to test, and is pleased to find you barreling into his arms at the airport. A desk job after that, a baby in your tummy by next year's end. Never tells you about the camera or the hunger in the chest, and likes when you don't mention how he knows more than he should.

But for now, he'll rub you until it takes.

-

i apologize. the worms.

Spencer could hear the irritated, tinny voice of your boyfriend on the other end, sharp and distorted with static, “I don’t care if it’s a dynamic scene.” His tone dripping with the bitter insecurity that had been poisoning your relationship for months. “Georgia? You’re seriously getting on a plane right now? I have a major presentation tomorrow, and you’re just dropping everything to fly across the country?”

You closed your eyes, a muscle jumping in your jaw as you rubbed your forehead with two fingers. “I’m not dropping everything for fun, Liam,” you whispered fiercely, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to anchor it. “It’s a serial case. A child went missing three hours ago, lives are at stake. I have to go.”

“Right, because you’re the big, important federal agent,” he shot back, the words cutting through your cell loud enough for Spencer to flinch on your behalf. “Must be nice to just pack up and play being the hero while I’m stuck putting in the real hours here. You always do this. You love throwing your little badge in my face, don’t you? You love making me look like the small oe.”

“That’s unfair Liam, you know it-”

“Whatever.” The line cut out with a sharp, aggressive beep.

You slowly lowered the phone, your chest heaving as you fought to swallow the lump of humiliation rising in your throat. You took a sharp, steadying breath, blinking hard against the hot sting behind your eyelids, and turned around. Your eyes immediately finding Spencer’s. HE froze like a deer caught in high beams. A deep, mortified crimson flooded in his neck and cheeks, and he immediately dropped his gaze to the files in his arms, fumbling with them so blindly that three loose crime scene photos slid out and drifted onto the carpet. 

“Here.” You said, sweeping down to collect the photos, handing them back to him as he pointedly avoided your eyes. 

“Are you… okay?” He asked, hesitantly, as if he was utterly devastated that he’d been caught witnessing your pain. 

“Fine,” you breathed, forcing a weak smile before moving past him towards the briefing room. His eyes followed you for a moment, regarding the tension in your shoulders, the usual bounce in your step gone.

“The unsub is targeting victims in high density suburban areas,” Hotch explained, his voice even, and clinical as his marker squeaked across the whiteboard, drawing harsh red circles around the outer ring of Atlanta.

Spencer tried to focus on the geographic profiling. He really did. He stared at the map, his mind usually capable of processing data at lightning speed, but his thoughts kept drifting to you, sitting rigidly in the chair next to him. Your notebook open to a blank page, you hadn’t written a single word. Instead, you were pressing the tip of your pen into the paper so hard the metal nib threatened to punch right through the sheets. Your breathing was shallow, your shoulders squared as if you were braced for impact. 

“.. and you two on victimology.” Hotch gestured between you and Spencer, flipping a page on the easel, entirely blind to the sudden, suffocating tension between his two youngest agents. 

“Right,” Spencer said, his voice cracking slightly on the syllable, pitching a fraction too high before he forcefully cleared his throat. He pulled his leather satchel tightly against his lap like a shield. “Given the compressed cooling off periods, it’s highly probable the unsub is experiencing a severe psychological stressor. Statistically, thirty-eight percent of these offenders act out due to a perceived loss of control in their domestic or professional life, turning to violence to overcompensate for their own felt inadequacy.”

He risked a sideways glance at you. You didn’t turn your head, but Spencer saw the way your fingers were locked around your pen, and the anxious way your foot bounced against the carpeted floor, your jaw clenched hard. Spencer felt an immediate, sickening pang of guilt. Stupid, he thought to himself, his stomach twisting. You just profiled her life right in front of the whole team.

An hour into the flight, the dark cabin of the BAU jet felt less like a sanctuary and more like a pressure cooker. The rest of the tram had succumbed to the heavy exhaustion of the midnight call out, nodding off under thin blankets.

You sat with your knees pulled loosely toward your chest in the leather armchair, staring out the oval window into the pitch black abyss of the night sky. The dim overhead reading light caught the stark, tired lines etched around your eyes, and the faint tremor in your bottom lip that you were trying desperately to bite down. Across the small table, Spencer was shifting restlessly, he pulled at the hem of the sweater, and spun a pen between his fingers until it flew out of his hand and clattered to the floor. He left it there.

“You know,” he started, his voice barely a murmur, pitched beneath the low roar of the jet engines. “Statistically speaking, couples who support each other’s career trajectories show a seventy-four percent higher rate of long term relationship satisfaction.”

You let out a faint sigh, one so quiet that he almost missed it. You kept your eyes fixed on the distant, glittering lights of a city miles below. You licked your bottom lip, and ran your teeth over the plush flesh before you answered. “S’that right, Spence?”

“Yes,” he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows onto his knees. There was a subtle shift in his posture, the nervous twitching stopped, replaced by a quiet focus. “It’s just… a partner shouldn’t view your success as their failure. In sociology, we look at reciprocal validation. A secure attachment style allows for individual growth without breeding resentment. If someone truly values you, your achievements shouldn’t make them feel diminished.”

You finally turned your head, your eyes were bright with a volatile mix of unshed tears and sudden, defensive anger. The walls came slamming down so hard, Spencer could practically hear them click into place. “I don’t need a psychological profile on my personal life, Reid. I’m fine.”

Spencer swallowed hard, the sudden surge of confidence evaporating instantly. He shrank back against the leather seat, his shoulders slumping as he raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Right. Sorry. I just… I noticed the phone call and I-”

“Don’t,” you cut him off, closing your eyes and turning back to the window, pulling your jacket tighter around your shoulders, effectively cutting the thread between you. 

By the afternoon, the temporary command post in the Georgia precinct was a chaotic maze of ringing phones, shouting detectives and frantic energy. The unsub had taken another victim, and the window for a live recovery was shrinking to zero. 

You and Spencer were crammed into a corner desk, isolated from the noise but entirely trapped by each other. The desk was small, buried under a mountain of medical records, school photos, and employment histories. Because of the tight space, your movements were forced into an intimate dance. Every time you reached for a file, your fingers brushed against his. Every time he leaned over to look at a map, his shoulder pressed against yours, the head of his body radiating through his shirt. The attraction that had been simmering between you for months was suddenly heavy, thick, and impossible to ignore.

“Look at the laceration patterns on the third victim,” you muttered, your voice raspy from lack of sleep. You leaned in closer, your forearm resting against his as you pointed a shaky finger at a graphic crime scene photo. “It’s not random, he’s targeting the-”

Spencer didn’t look at the photo. He was looking at the side of your face. From this close, he could see the faint violet shadows beneath your eyes, the way your teeth were nervously worrying your lower lip until it was raw. The manic energy of the bullpen seemed to fade into a dull roar. He took a slow, deep breath. 

“Spence-”

“He shouldn’t speak to you that way,” Spencer said. His voice was quiet, steady and devastatingly clear.

You froze, your finger remained pinned to the glossy photograph. Slowly, almost mechanically, you turned your head to face him. “What?”

“Liam,” Spencer said, he didn't blink, his brown eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “I know it’s not my place. I know I’m just your colleague, and I know I don’t possess the social intelligence to navigate this perfectly. But I hear how he talks to you. I see how you shrink when his name appears on your screen. You are one of the most brilliant, fiercely dedicated people I have ever met. You deserve someone who looks at you with absolute awe. Not someone who punishes you for being extraordinary.”

A wave of raw vulnerability crashed over you, and because it hurt too much to feel it, you turned it into anger. Your eyes narrowed, your heart slamming against your ribs as you pushed back. “You think you know everything because you have a high IQ? You think a couple of textbooks give you the right to judge my life, Reid? You don’t know anything about my relationship. You don’t know him, and you don’t know me outside of this job.”

“I know how to read behavioural patterns.” He countered, “and his pattern is to erode your confidence until you think you need him.” 

You shoved your chair backward, drawing a brief, curious glance from a nearby detective. You stood, grabbing the photograph in front of Spencer. “This little boy is missing. Maybe use your big brain to find him instead.” You snapped, shoving the photo into his chest before storming away. Spencer inhaled shakily, the photo crinkling between his fingers as he watched you wrench open the door, your boots thudding along the linoleum as you disappeared from sight. 

The breakthrough happened in a flash of frantic radio chatter. The unsub’s location had been pinged at an abandoned textile mill on the edge of town, and he had the latest victim with him. The sirens were also wailing outside the precinct as the team scrambled. Driven by pure, unadulterated frustration, and a desperate need to channel your anger into something productive, you grabbed your jacket and holstered your weapon, checking the chamber with an aggressive click. You moved toward the door like a hurricane, your vision tunneled on the exit. 

Suddenly, a lanky arm extended across the doorway, blocking your path.

“Move, Reid,” you breathed, your chest heaving as you glared up at him.

“No,” Spencer said, his voice ringing with a stubborn authority that caught you off guard. He didn’t drop his arm, instead, he stepped fully into your path, his eyes scanning your frantic expression. “Look at your heart rate. You’re hyperventilating, you’re emotional, and you’re compromised by your fight with Liam. You are trying to rush into a high risk tactical situation to prove a point to someone who isn’t even in this state.

“I am rushing into a high risk tactical situation to save a little boy from a deranged psychopath!” you yelled, your voice cracking as you stepped closer, your hand shoving at his chest. “You don’t get to tell me when I am fit for duty.”

“Not like this!” Spencer fired back, his own voice rising, a rare flash of raw, defensive anger breaking through. He grabbed your wrists, his grip strong as he held you back from pushing past him. “You’re running on anger, if you go in there with this blind tunnel vision, you’re going to get yourself killed and I am not- I can't let that happen!”

“Hey!”

Hotch’s voice cut through the air like a gunshot. He stepped into the hallway, his dark eyes instantly locking onto Spencer’s hands on your wrists, and the furious, tear streaked expression on your face. “Let go of her, Reid.” He said calmly, his voice low and dangerous. 

Spencer immediately let go of your wrists, stepping back half a pace, though his eyes remained on your face, anger fading into concern. “Just… checking tactical readiness.” He managed, his throat tight. 

Hotch looked between the two of you, his gaze lingering on the heavy, suffocating friction vibrating in the space between you. “Reid, get to the SUV.” Hotch’s eyes moved to him, Spencer nodded reluctantly, his jaw tight as he turned to move out. “Take a breath, pull it together, and get your gear.” He said, his voice lightening just a fraction as his eyes moved back to you.

“Yes, sir.” You muttered, your voice shaking as you moved past him, the adrenaline still roaring in your ears.

By the time you reached the perimeter of the abandoned warehouse, the atmosphere was lethal. Flashing blue lights cut through the heavy Georgia humidity. You stood by the trunk of the SUV, the echo of the fight with Spencer still vibrating in your skull. Your hands were shaking so violently that you couldn’t get the velcro straps on the left side of your tactical vest to align. You cursed under your breath, yanking at the fabric, entirely unhinged by the day’s accumulated trauma. 

“Let me,” Spencer’s voice came from right behind you. Before you could lash out, he stepped directly into your space. His hands were warm, large, and entirely steady as he reached out and took the tangled straps from your fumbling fingers. 

“I can do it myself,” you snapped, the frustration of the argument, the terror for the missing boy, and the suffocating weight of his protection boiling over. “Stop trying to fix everything, Spencer! Stop trying to fix me!”

Spencer didn’t flinch, he didn't pull back. Instead, he gripped the front of your vest, anchoring you in place and smoothly pulled the side straps tight, securing the armour against your chest with a harsh rip of the velcro. His hands lingered on your waist, his thumbs pressing firmly into your hips, holding you steady as he leaned down. 

“I don’t want to fix you,” he said, his voice low, intimate amidst the chaos of wailing sirens. “I just want you to realise your own worth.”

Your breath hitched, your anger dying in your throat as you stared up at him, your chest rising and falling hard against his hands. Before you could speak, Hotch’s voice barked through the earpiece: “Move in. Now.”

The unsub was in cuffs, the victim was in an ambulance, and the adrenaline had washed out of your system and down the drain along with the dirt and sweat of the day, leaving behind a hollow, aching fatigue that settled deep into your bones. Back at the dismal local hotel, the clock on the bedside table glowed a harsh, green 2:14am. You sat on the edge of the tightly tucked sheets, your hair damp from your shower, dressed in a fresh tank and pyjama shorts. You were staring down at your phone, there were three missed calls from Liam, along with a text that read: Glad to know where your priorities lie.

You stared at the glowing screen, waiting for the familiar, sickening twist of guilt to hit your stomach. But it didn’t come. Instead, all you felt was a profound, liberating emptiness. And then, you thought of Spencer.

You thought of the way he had stood his ground in the doorway, the desperate strength in his grip when he held your wrists, the absolute certainty in his voice when he told you he wouldn’t let you get killed. You had been cruel to him, using your own fear as a weapon and struck out at the only person who was actually looking at you. Really looking at you. A sudden, sharp need to see him pulled you to your feet. You didn’t care that it was two in the morning, you needed to apologise, you needed to look him in the eye and tell him he was right. You crossed the small, carpeted room, and pulled the deadbolt back, yanking the door open. 

You stopped dead in your tracks, your breath catching sharply in your throat. Spencer was standing right there in the dimly lit hallway. His right hand was suspended in the air, his knuckles curled into a loose fist, hovering inches from the wood. He had changed from his button down into a soft, loose fitting hoodie, and pyjama pants. His brown hair was completely disheveled where he'd been running his fingers through it in agitation. He looked wired, restless, and entirely consumed by whatever thoughts had dragged him to your door. For a second, the quiet of the hotel corridor was suffocating. The polite boundaries of the office, the professional distance, the careful phrasing, it all felt incredibly fragile, stretched to a breaking point between you. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out as his hand slowly lowered, his eyes softening as they locked onto yours. The weight of the day, the text from Liam, the sheer exhaustion, it all cracked open. “Spence, I’m so sorry for what I said, I shouldn't have snapped at you, you were just-”

“I’m not here for an apology,” Spencer cut you off. You swallowed, stepping back to allow him to cross the threshold to your room. He pushed the door behind him with a click, cutting off the hallway and shutting the two of you in the shadows cast by the flickering orange lamp.

“Spence-”

“I’ve spent the last six hours trying to rationalise why I should stay in my room and mind my own business,” he said, the words coming out fast, driven by a raw, unvarnished honesty. “I tried to tell myself it’s your life, it’s your relationship, it’s none of my concern. But it is. Because I have to sit there and watch you let someone pull you apart when all I want to do is the exact opposite.” 

Your heart hammered violently against your ribs, the air in your lungs turning to fire. “What?” You asked, the word rushing out of you breathily. 

“I don’t want to comment on Liam, and I really don’t want to come between you, but you deserve-” he paused, his eyes softening, resembling something doe-like as his chest rose and fell faster. “You deserve better, I… I could be better.” He swallowed as the words rang through your ears, he stepped forwards into your space, his eyes locked onto his expressive hands as he rambled. “I want to be the one who actually values the mind you have. I have spent months keeping my mouth shut. Months watching you go home to someone who treats your brilliance like a threat. Do you have any idea what it’s like to sit two feet away from you every single day, knowing exactly how many variables have to align for a human mind to be as extraordinary as yours, only to watch him treat you like you’re disposable? Like you’re a burden?” He shook his head, a lock of disheveled brown hair falling across his forehead. His eyes were wide, dark, and utterly consumed by you. 

“I tried to convince myself that I was just analyzing the dynamic. I tried to tell myself that my heart rate spikes when you walk into the room because of a localised adrenaline response. But it’s not,” he confessed, the words pouring out of him in a desperate, breathless rush, his hands twitching at his sides as if he was physically fighting the urge to grab you. “It’s because I’m completely, entirely losing my mind over you. Every time he hurts you, every time he makes you feel small, I just think about how I could do it better. How I could love you better. I know I’m awkward, I know I don’t always say the right things, and I know I don’t fit whatever standard he’s supposed to be meeting, but I would never, ever make you feel like you have to apologise for who you are.” 

Your breath left your chest in a shaky rush as he stepped forwards again, eliminating the final fraction of space between you, his breath warm against your lips. 

“Tell me to go, tell me to stay,” he whispered, his voice fracturing with pure, unfiltered desperation, “but I don’t want to respect a boundary that’s destroying you anymore.” He swallowed, his eyes dropping to your mouth. “I just want you.”

You met him as he closed the remaining distance, his long fingers tangling fiercely into your hair, his grip firm as he tilted your face up. His lips met yours as your hands curled against his hoodie, it wasn’t gentle, or polite. It was a collision of months of buried tension, stolen glances, and desperate, unconfessed attraction. The kiss was hard, breathless and demanding, shattering every rule and boundary you had both spent months hiding behind.

The heat in the room was instantaneous, a sudden, heavy friction that made the cheap hotel room feel entirely too small. Spencer’s mouth was urgent against yours, his lips parting your own with a fierce, hungry desperation. But even as the wave of emotion swept over him, his touch carried an undeniable reverence. His hands shifted from your hair down to your shirt, his long fingers trembling down your waist, His breath hitched as he gently slid his hands underneath the fabric, his lips trailing down the column of your neck to the hollow of your throat. You let out a soft gasp, the sound vibrating against his skin as your hands clawed at his hoodie, pulling the hem up. Spencer didn’t rush you. His brown eyes locking onto yours in the dim light as if silently asking, checking, ensuring you were entirely with him. He pulled the shirt over your head, tossing it aside before his palms rested against the bare skin of your waist. His hands were warm, pressing gently into your hips to guide you back until the back of your knees hit the mattress. 

“Spence-” you breathed against his jaw, your fingers tangling in the waist of his pants as you sank backwards. He followed you down without breaking contact for a second, his lean frame settling over you, his knees bridging yours. The weight of him was a grounding reality that shattered every last lingering thought of the case, the precinct, and the toxic messages sitting on your nightstand. With a shaky breath, Spencer reached down, his fingers shedding the rest of his clothes in quick, impatient movements, easing you out of yours with an intensity that remained deeply focused on you. When he leaned back down, the skin on skin friction drew a sharp intake of breath from both of you. Spencer rested his forearms on either side of your head, looking down at you. His eyes were dark with passion, but there was a softness in them, a gentle, unwavering adoration that was purely him. 

“Just you and me,” he murmured against your neck softly, his voice thick with emotion as his thumb gently traced your cheekbone. “I’ve got you.”

Before you could answer, his mouth met yours again, deep and breathless, his hands sliding down to weave his fingers firmly through yours as he pressed close, sinking into the bed. His hips rolled against you as your legs bracketed his thighs, your free hand moving to the back of his neck, your fingers twirling in his hair. His hand wrapped around your hip, pressing you to him as he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him until you were sitting on his lap. He didn’t break the kiss, as he repositioned you both, his fingers tracing up your side, feather light against your bare skin. It came to rest on the side of your neck, his long fingers twirling into your hair as his other hand placed yours on his chest, before moving to your hip to guide you as you grinded against him. His hand was firm yet gentle at your waist, his cock straining against the thin fabric separating the two of you. 

You gasped against his mouth as his hand guided your movements, his fingers pressed into the flesh of your hip as his tongue traced your lower lip. Your tongue brushed his as you deepened the kiss, feeling his muscles tense underneath you at the added intensity. “Come here,” he murmured against your lips, pulling your hip towards him. 

You smiled against his mouth, exhaling out a soft laugh. “I am here, Spence,” you whispered, catching his lip between yours again. He smiled into the kiss, as he dropped his other hand to your other hip, pulling your hips upwards. 

“No,” he encouraged your hips again, dropping his head against the pillow, and lifting one finger to his mouth, his eyes shining with mischief. “Here.” 

Your teeth caught your bottom lip as your mouth curved involuntarily, your eyes flicking between his. “Oh really?” He nodded, the same adorable, playful smile on his lips as he tapped his finger against his mouth again. You laughed softly as he let his hands fall against the mattress, giving you space to crawl over him. His hands moved straight to your hips as you settled over his face, your thighs settling either side of his head, his head lifting, his tongue moving out before you were even settled. The contact had your head tip back even through the soft cotton of your underwear, his hands tight on your hips as he pulled you down against his mouth. His soft fingers slid underneath the fabric around your hips, not to move them down, just to anchor you against him as his tongue moved over the damp fabric. He let a moan escape his lips as his mouth closed over your clit, the fabric pressing against you as the vibrations rippled through your body. One hand moved into his hair as his fingers moved down, pulling the fabric aside to press his tongue against the sensitive skin. 

“Spence-” you sighed, your eyes closing as your hips rolled, his tongue dragging through your folds before his mouth closed around your clit. The pressure of his tongue was firm, each movement was calculated, like he knew exactly what pattern to trace to make your stomach tighten. Your hand fumbled back over his stomach, leaning back until you reached his briefs. His movements stalled for a split second as your fingers skimmed over his cock, a soft gasp falling from his lips before he resumed. Another soft moan vibrated in his chest as you slipped your hand underneath the waistband and wrapped your hand around his length, his hands tightening around your hips. 

You set a slow pace with your hand, moving it up and down his length with a small twist of your wrist. The pressure of your palm against him made his head spin, his eyes squeezing shut. “God…” He whispered, your hand tightening on his hair before letting go to crawl back down his body. He smiled, keeping his eyes closed as your lips pressed into his skin beneath his neck, then at his collarbone, then his chest, continuing your path down with soft kisses. Spencer shivered under your touch, not used to being the center of such attention. The way your lips pressed against him had him breathless, leaving a trail of fire in their wake as you made your way down his stomach, pressing a final kiss to his hip, just above the waistband of his briefs as your fingers curled around the elastic. His eyes dropped to yours, his eyes wide watching as his cock sprang free when you pulled the fabric down, and you wrapped your hand around the base, dragging your tongue across the flushed tip. 

“Oh my god..” He gasped, his head dropping back against the pillow, before bringing it back up as if he didn’t want to miss a second. His jaw hung open as he watched your lips wrap around him, your tongue pressing flat against the underside of his cock. The hum that vibrated in your throat sent shivers up his spine, making him twitch in your mouth. You closed your eyes as your head moved, dragging your spit-slicked lips down his length, pausing as the tip hit the back of your throat, before hollowing your cheeks as you brought your head back up. Spencer’s hand moved as he let out a hiss through his teeth, brushing your hair back behind your ear as your tongue swirled around the head. His hand stayed by your jaw, cupping your face as your head bobbed, watching his cock disappear into the wet heat of your mouth. His tongue moved out to wet his bottom lip as his stomach tensed, involuntarily bucking his hips upwards causing his cock to slide further into your mouth. “Fuck… sorry..” he gasped, his chest heaving. You lowered your head more, swallowing around him as you took him deeper, his head fell backwards, his heart pounding in his ears, his fingers grasping at the sheets as he let out a choked moan.

You pulled off with a wet pop, and crawled back over him, his hand moving to the back of your head, the other grabbing your hip as you straddled him. His brown eyes locked onto yours, his pupils blown, his lips parted around heavy breaths as his head clouded any thoughts other than you, and the way you looked above him. You planted one hand by his neck on the mattress, his head turning to press his lips against your wrist as you reached the other between you, wrapping your hand around him to drag the sensitive head of his cock through the slick folds before sinking down slowly. His hand tightened on your hip, his head fell back against the pillow as his cock buried inside you. A strangled noise left his throat as you rested your hand against his chest, your chest heaving as you adjusted to the sensation, before rolling your hips slowly. 

His fingers skimmed up your waist, opening his eyes again as he watched your face, the way your hair framed your face, the way your hips rolled against his. The soft moans that fell from your mouth as you moved were like music to his ears as his hand settled on your ribs, his eyes wide as his other hand tangled in your hair to pull you down against him. Your mouth met his in a frenzied kiss as your bare chest pressed his. His feet planted against the mattress as he thrust upwards to meet yours, your brows furrowing as you moaned against his mouth. Your body melted against his as you wrapped your hand around the back of his head, your skin sliding against him with every movement. The pace picked up, his thighs meeting yours in a cacophony of smacking skin, muffled moans and heavy breathing. 

Your back hit the mattress as Spencer flipped you, his weight settling over you, warm and solid. There was a firmer rhythm to the way he moved, less overthinking and more intuitive focus. His fingers found yours, intertwining with them and pinning them against the pillow by your head, your other arm thrown around the back of his neck to keep him close. When he broke away from the kiss, his forehead rested against yours, his chest heaving as he searched your face. “Okay?” he murmured, his breath warm on your lips, his voice full of gentle concern. 

You nodded, lifting a leg to hook over his hip, his hand tightened on yours at your confirmation, his mouth dropping to your neck, his teeth gently grazing your skin as he inhaled deeply. His skin was searing against yours, the non-existent space between you growing slick with sweat, his free hand finding your thigh to keep it around his waist, each purposeful roll of his hips had your back arching in complete bliss. “Fuck… Spencer..” You rasped against his ear, your soft, breathy voice sending a shiver up his spine, making his cock pulse inside you. 

Your stomach clenched, his breath hot against your neck as his rhythm slowed, deep thrusts that had your head spinning as you reached your free hand between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit to rub tight circles. The extra stimulation had you clenching around him already, his hips faltering for a moment as you grew tighter around his cock. 

“God...” He breathed, his teeth gently grazing your shoulder as he tried to hold on, his hand tightened on yours as if the feeling could stop the fire taking over his body, the nerve ending feeling like they were about to explode. “You're gonna- god..” he whined.

You moaned louder, your nails digging into his shoulder. The way your fingers circled your clit and the deep rhythm of his thrusts had your stomach tensing, clenching around him as your thighs tightened around his waist. “Spence...” You moaned, your back arching as your release washed over you. 

His eyes squeezed closed, his hips rolling deep as he groaned loudly, the sensation of you fluttering around his cock, your nails biting into the skin of his shoulder, the way you were moaning directly into his ear. It was all too much. Spencer’s eyes squeezed closed, his forehead pressing against yours as his hand pressed yours harder into the mattress. His hips stalled, burying deep as the shockwaves of his orgasm took over his body, your name leaving his lips in a low, breathy whisper. He stayed until his body loosened, until your palm pressed flat against his shoulder, his fingers releasing yours. He lifted his head, opening his eyes to meet yours, shining with a mix of satisfaction and adoration.

He shifted, carefully rolling onto the mattress to lay on his side, one arm propping up his head as he reached for yours with the other, resting over your stomach under the tangled white sheets. The green light from the bedside clock painted soft angles across his face as he stared at you with a soft wonder that made your chest ache in the best possible way. His thumb moved slowly, tracing gentle, lazy circles over the back of your knuckles. 

“I used to think…” Spencer started softly, his voice a quiet whisper in the dark. He paused, a faint, familiar furrow appearing between his brows before he smoothed it out. “Statistically, the probability of finding someone who… who truly aligns with you, intellectually and emotionally, is incredibly low. Less than zero-point-one percent.”

A small, tired smile crept over your face. You squeezed his hand, pulling his knuckles up to press a soft kiss against them. “And now?”

Spencer leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, his breath lingering against your skin. “Now I think statistics are entirely inadequate.”

You let out a soft laugh, resting your head in the dip between his neck and shoulder. Everything faded into the background, and for the first time in months, your mind felt completely still. Spencer wrapped his arm securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His chin rested lightly on top of your head, his fingers remaining tightly intertwined with yours under the blankets.  You closed your eyes, breathing in the warm scent of his soap, and lingering cologne, and let yourself drift off, soothed by the gentle trace of his fingers along your spine.

"Eh," you shrug, gear rustling with the movement, "it is what it is." You reply before bringing the rim of your canteen to your lips, lips brushing against stainless steel when you add: "Loved how he whimpered whenever I gave him a handy, though."

As cool water floods your parched throat, Ghost chokes on air next to you on the tattered couch.

"Whot?!" His tawny eyes widen comically, eye holes stretching as his brows shoot up. He pounds at his buff chest like a gorilla, still catching his breath as he sputters.

"Aw, calm down, Simon," you chuckle as you scoot closer and reach over to pat his back. "I'm just a simple woman with needs and desires underneath this uniform and bloody gear, y'know?"

And just like that—Ghost is absolutely reeling; if not from the snippet about your subby ex, but definitely because of the way you casually dropped his name for the very first time.

Perhaps that's why he ends up letting your hands wander and eventually unbuckle his belt before slipping into his combat pants to pull out his cock.

The way you pull your tac glove off with your teeth before spitting on his ruddy tip leaves him breathless and panting like a touch-starved dog.

"Cap–tain," he croaks out, nearly squeaks, gloved fingers digging into the brittle leather of the couch as you work his rock hard cock in you supple hand.

Fucking hell. Now he understands why your ex was whimpering for you. He gets it, really. Truly.

"That's it, Lieutenant," you coo into his ear, nose nuzzling into the cloth of his mask until a shudder runs down his spine. "Knew you'd be good for me."

He grits his teeth, jaw clenching and grinding with the force as his face flushes, "Fuck—hah... fuck."

His back is sweating, thigh muscles trembling as the inevitable builds up hot and heavy in his lower gut, balls drawing up tight.

You can feel it, too. The way his prick throbs and his breathing turns shallow. Your eyes go heavy-lidded as you drink up all his sweet telltale signs, lips tingling with the sudden urge to taste his lips. Perhaps next time.

"You gonna cum for me, baby?"

Ghost can practically hear the smug smirk in your voice, and that's all it takes.

His balls throb, pumping the biggest load he's ever straight from his twitching slit. He groans so lewdly, it almost sounds like he's in pain, and you're quick to point and jerk his cock to the floor so his cum splatters all over the floor; painting the dark wood with his white spunk.

You're in awe at the sheer amount of it; pussy pulsing between your thighs at the obvious effect you have on him.

And he just keeps cumming; body shaking as he breathes raggedly, muttering curses under his breath while your talented hands keeps milking him for every drop and twitch and whimper.

Putty in your hands.

"My, my, Lieutenant," you click your tongue, eyes crinkling with amusement and delight at the sight, "s' that all for me, huh?"

Your movements slow, and Ghost doesn’t know if he should be thankful or keep chasing after your touch. Nodding meekly, he slumps against the backrest, leather groaning under the impact.

"Affirmative, ma'am," he rasps, utterly boneless while his pale cock goes limp in your hold.

"You know," you start like it's merely an afterthought while tucking him back into his pants before anyone can catch you in this compromising position, "I think I already like the sounds you make better than my ex-husband's."