as some of you may notice, there is a substantial amount of content missing from this blog. for more information on how I lost literally hundreds of thousands of words of my own writing, please refer to this post. ♡
if you’d like something specific for a character who’s requests are closed (see the character’s individual masterlist to check), please feel free to drop me a message regarding commissioned works!!
Jack Abbot (coming soon...)
Mel King (coming soon...)
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･☙❧
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･☙❧
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓎥
Ellen Ripley
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓎥
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆩♛𓆪
Jon Snow
Brienne of Tarth
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆩♛𓆪
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･✧
Thranduil
Frodo Baggins
Samwise Gamgee
Aragorn
Legolas
Eomer
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･✧
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･➷
Daryl Dixon
Negan
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･➷
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⌖
Spencer Reid
Aaron Hotchner
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⌖
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･✎
Gale Boetticher
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･✎
—☆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
J. Daniel Atlas
—☆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
♡────────────────────♡ ♡───Retired Works (from when I was a minor)───♡
thank you soso much Anon!! ♡ so sorry for being so late replying to this, I have a terrible habit of never checking my asks/this blog in general bc I so rarely post on here anymore and have dedicated side blogs for other things I write but even there I'm not super active 🫣
unfortunately I do not have any Ripley news for you, but I have returned to say that content for an entirely new show/two completely new "types" of characters will be posted here very soon and I am posting this to cement it and force myself to actually post the writing once I've done it 😀👍🏻
spencer reid who always lets you take that one window seat, even though it's his favourite spot on the jet.
spencer reid who will make as little noise as possible to ensure you are able to sleep.
spencer reid who stops breathing when you inevitably end up leaning on him.
spencer reid who will shift, carefully, in his seat, disregarding his own comfort so you can rest your head on his shoulder.
spencer reid who, when asked, continues to tell the team you aren't a couple, and that he is just being polite to a coworker in need.
spencer reid who starts packing a blanket for you in his go-bag.
spencer reid who offers to read aloud to you one evening when your headphones die. the human voice, he says, is proven to be as soothing, if not more so, than music.
spencer reid who realises after two weeks that you've been lying about your headphones dying on almost every flight, but continues to read to you anyways.
spencer reid who has been reminding himself that you aren't a couple more than he has been reminding the team.
spencer reid who makes you coffee when you wake up: triple shot, two sugars, six ounces of warm milk. he has never asked how you take your coffee, but he gets it right every time.
spencer reid who keeps a notebook full of potential date ideas. each one comes with its own list of pros and cons, as well as the statistical likelihood of you saying yes.
spencer reid who is always too afraid to ask.
spencer reid who views your friendship as the most important thing in his life; something fragile, and something he cannot risk ruining with the devastating weight of his feelings.
spencer reid who is content to live with the constant ache of wanting more, who will savour these fleeting moments thirty thousand feet in the air, and who will continue to sacrifice his comfort, and the space inside of his bag, for the sake of yours. because these moments, however brief, mean everything to him. you mean everything to him, even if he cannot yet find the courage to tell you.
these hoes are not ready for the tidal wave of fanfiction that will flood tumblr's every crevice when this new Einstein show drops. Matthew Gray Gubler playing an eccentric misunderstood genius with a unique fashion sense and is unconventionally involved with the law?
Do people have any idea how disheartening it is to spend hours/days/weeks writing something, already being anxious about putting it out there because this is your work—something you’ve poured your heart into to make it enjoyable—and then to be accused of it being AI?
Like it genuinely wants to make you stop writing because that’s how easy something you’ve written gets written off by someone if it’s a certain way, or has too many words etc.
I’ve literally been writing fanfiction since I WAS 12.
honestly this is part of the reason I've lost a lot of motivation to write/post on here or my sideblogs bc just using punctuation like '-' or ';' gets accusations of AI flying instead of assuming people simply having an understanding of grammatical tools.
more to the point - VERY few people manage to make any kind of money by posting works here unless they write commissions, so if people are using AI to write for them, then posting it, they're doing it for...what? followers? on a social media platform that quite literally is only still standing due to fandom content? a social media platform with its most popular accounts essentially just being people who are funny and appeal to the masses for being quotable/memeable? people using AI to, for example, write actual books for them that they then get published, "makes sense" (it doesn't and is stupid) bc they're doing so to effectively cheat at getting actual money; what's the point of using AI to write content for you, just to post it on fucking TUMBLR?
this phenomenon has never made sense to me. I've seen comments on other platforms that are clearly AI generated, or dating profiles in which people have very obviously used AI to make themselves (ironically) sound more interesting, but I've never seen any writing on here that I've read and thought "this is AI 🙄" bc there is categorically next to nothing to gain from using it here, so why would I ever suspect it, let alone accuse someone in a scenario where I don't typically assume it's commonplace?
Idk, maybe I'm in the minority w this opinion bc I'm not as regular in reading fanfiction here as I have been, so maybe it has become a bigger issue in more recent months and I've simply not seen it but regardless, I cannot fathom why anyone would choose to use it to gain literally nothing
A/N: guess who’s back and on her period so deeply attracted to paternal Spencer Reid again
—————————————————————————
♡ now let me first clarify, the love Spencer feels for any child of his is in no way dependent on the gender of the child; he will love any Reid Jr of any gender equally, but there are some specific scenarios to go over depending on whether he’s initially raising a perceived miniature of you or of himself
♡ regardless of gender, when that baby is born, Spencer feels the centre of his gravity shift. the very world that surrounds him now orbits the tiny bundle of limbs that fits in just his two hands
“Shh, shh, sweet boy.” Spencer whispers to the baby crying against his chest as he paces your hospital room, gently rocking him. “I know, I know you have so much to share with us, and we can’t wait to hear every single syllable.” He reassures, rubbing the gentlest of circles in his son’s back to further soothe him.
“I know you’re frustrated that you can’t talk to us yet, but I promise, you’ll learn.” Spencer commits a quiet oath to the baby still fussing in his hold, who slowly begins to settle, the longer he’s spoken to. The thought that your son is comforted by the sound of Spencer’s voice brings a trembling smile to his lips.
“And we’ll learn, too. We’ll learn you, and we’ll love you, always.” He murmurs, leaning down to place a soft kiss on your little son’s scrunched eyebrows.
—————————————————————————
Spencer sits down at your hospital bedside with a huff, your tiny daughter bundled against his chest with her head tucked into the crook of his neck. “Hospital lights are neither conducive to your recovery or to pleasing our angel. While her vision is incredibly restricted at this stage of her development, she is sensitive and vulnerable to all stimuli.” His voice is soft for the baby’s benefit, but firm in the sentiment he’s delivering.
In response to her father’s voice, your little girl lets out the tiniest gurgle.
“Precisely.” Spencer nods, as though she had voiced her very own astute argument. “And, furthermore, should the staff disallow my dimming of the lights in this ward and you suffer any even-temporary negative impact to your sight, sweet girl, Daddy is going to sue this hospital and the electrical company that wired the building.” Spencer coos his legal threat, kissing his daughter’s cheek so that her eyes can remain protected in the shadow of the crook of his neck.
♡ there’s absolutely no stopping him from monitoring the baby’s every milestone with microscopic obsession. first gurgle, first smile, first laugh - all of it recorded to the microsecond and written down in a notebook (one of many that will culminate over the baby’s childhood) that someday, Spencer intends to go over with your child
♡ he does not abide by enforcing gendered stereotypes on your child; should they prefer pink, tea parties, monster trucks, dressup - he is there in full force
♡ consider: Spencer trying to maneuver his newborn-deer limbs into a princess dress that was not at all made with his proportions in mind and explaining the history of the first recorded tea parties while your little one struggles to place a tiara on his head
♡ consider: Spencer finding the perfect toys pertaining to your little one’s unique interests (a plush praying mantis, a handbuilt trainset, a plastic replica of a historically significant tea set, every comic book pertaining to the favourite superhero)
♡ whatever the wholesome interest of his child, Spencer will encourage it with every available means
♡ no Reid Jr will ever lack for love or attention; their every observation will be treated as fantastic, every discovery never-before-seen
♡ having grown up the outcasted child himself, Spencer will never allow his child to worry about whether their own interests are “acceptable” or “cool”
♡ and if your child ever shows an interest in chess? oh, they’ll have the best tutor in the world
♡ due to his own childhood, Spencer has a lot of understandable worries pertaining to any of his children’s socialisation; as empathetic and nurturing as he can be to his child, he can never wholly trust that the world (or, in a much smaller scale: other children) will be as kind
♡ so you can imagine he has never experienced higher levels of stress than on your child’s first day at daycare
♡ naturally, Spencer spent several weeks researching and comparing data and reviews pertaining to every local daycare centre to calculate the safest (in his words: most hygienic and mentally stimulating without being overwhelming) option for your child
♡ he suffered multiple sleepless nights on the days leading up to your child’s first day at daycare, plagued with anxieties regarding how other children would treat them. whether they would be kind, gentle enough, friendly - everything he had craved other children would be towards him when he had been a child himself, and everything he was consequently deprived of
“It would be morally incomprehensible and a breach of every child and their family’s privacy for me to request Garcia hack the daycare’s security system and livestream it to a tablet I may or may not have purchased for that specific and entirely hypothetical purpose.” He mutters to himself as you watch your little girl toddle over to a group of other small children in the daycare to introduce herself and the prized teddy bear (named Einstein) she clutches under her little arm.
“I didn’t ask.” You remark with fond, quiet amusement.
“It was an internal enquiry.” Spencer sniffles, vision beginning to blur as he watches your little girl sit - in the signature clumsy way that she simply drops to the floor - prompting his hands to twitch at his sides with the urge to run to her and steady her back.
—————————————————————————
“I had suspected the probability of befriending Susan Winters to be high: her mothers have been married seven years and are well respected members of the local council, both pioneering more ecological benefits for the area. They only post pictures on their social medias with Susan’s face blurred, so are aware of child protective measures, and-“ Spencer is rambling with your son held to his hip, having begun to receive the requested debrief pertaining to his first day, in which he had made reference to his new friend.
“Spencer,” You never interrupt his rambles, but feel the need to interject on this occasion. “-tell me you didn’t conduct background checks on every family involved in this daycare.”
Sensing you teetering on the edge of disapproval, Spencer bashfully ducks his head. “Only his class.” He murmurs, lifting one hand to straighten your son’s glasses.
♡ every time your child resembles you - either in action, expression, any idiosyncrasy - Spencer is flooded with the deepest and most profound love; the desperate desire to gather you and them in his arms and keep you safe from all harm
♡ but every time your child resembles him, his throat and chest will tighten, moved in feeling love for things that had belonged to him (perhaps even things he had been insecure about or ridiculed for) and now belong to the child born of the love shared between you
♡ and every night, he refuses to fall asleep without first kissing you goodnight. you don’t know it, but that kiss is a silent “thank you” he presses to your lips for the life you have given him, that he never truly believed he would be lucky enough to have
The issue I have with writers doing a "plus-size reader being insecure, so sex is the solution" trope is that it just sexualizes us. Insecurity can also stem from sexualization, just like it can from rejection. Plus-size people face objectification every day, and you're a part of it. It's also so unrealistic; if I'm feeling insecure about my body, the last thing I'd want is someone groping my naked body. Imagine if you were really thirsty and instead of someone giving water, they spit in your face and say, "Well, it's a liquid." That's what y'all are doing with those fic tropes. You're saying, "Oh, you have insecurities? Here's a fic about you getting your puss ate." Also, 99% of these authors who write plus-size characters like that are not plus-size themselves. So, instead of doing research or even talking to a bigger person, they write a crappy, half-assed fic that they think is so different. They praise themselves like they're fucking Liberace. I can give you a quick outline of these fics.
•reader tries on dress
•reader is insecure
•character comes in
•reader cries
•character and reader have sex.
You're like everyone else who treats us like we are not more than our bodies, you're just doing it in a performative way. You're not different, nothing you're doing is new, and if I'm being honest every insecurity->sex fic I've seen has been fucking trash.
boosting this and adding as a petite girly: same rule applies for petite/x short!reader content - NOT EVERY SHORT PERSON IS BUILT LIKE A CHILD. not every petite person is stick thin. not every petite person is flat-chested. not every petite person is completely devoid of curves. not every short person is insecure about “being short”, but being TREATED as though they’re incapable; not every short person IS EVEN INSECURE about being short at all! I am tired of almost every “x short!reader” assuming I’m debilitatingly insecure/bratty when anyone mentions my height or it causes some kind of inconvenience for me!
sometimes, people aren’t insecure about fundamental facts of themselves - sometimes they want to be ROMANTICISED, NOT SEXUALISED, and it is important to note that distinction.
I know the problem is nowhere near as severe as plus sized content bc despite not being a plus sized person myself (so not in the habit of actively seeking out that content bc it doesn’t apply to me as the reader), even I’ve noticed the exact tropes op’s talking about in this bc they are everywhere, and I wanted to add that this is a consistent problem across the board of people who are incapable of expanding beyond their own personal experiences for some reason.
if you write fanfiction, you are capable of writing the experience of a character who is not yourself. if you are going to take on the task of writing from a perspective different than your own, THE LEAST you can do is consider beyond their most basic cliché’s imaginable.
I know it’s not new, but I thought I’d make a post on it!
If a user messages you and says they “reported you” and asks you to send a friend request to this guy “elituckertumblrr” on Discord, it means they got hacked! Please don’t message him </3
Personally, I’d try to find other accounts of theirs (that aren’t on Tumblr) and let them know about it. But if you ask and they do know they were hacked, then obviously don’t harass them about it and just move on, cause likely they know what next steps to take.
BUT if you do message Eli Tucker on Discord, he’ll ask for your username, DOB, and country. Then he’ll ask for you to change your email to some Outlook email. DO NOT DO IT. That’s how they get access to your account.
For next steps, Tumblr suggests you to report the account for “spam”.
But yeah! Please stay safe online and be weary on who messages you <3
For further reading on how to protect your account (written by Tumblr Staff):
A/N: challenged myself to write something about him that’s just good. just happy. he deserves nothing more ♡
2.9k words
Adam x she/her!reader
The first moments of life are something few remember, and he is no exception. It is with gratitude that he recognises he has forgotten the confusion and pain of waking in the world alone in a body too big for how infantile he had felt. Pieces remained: the name of his creator, the smell of fire, the sensation of falling into water, but beyond that those memories are what most would consider to be lost to childhood; the irony of which was all the more lost to him.
Instead, Adam’s first true memory is of the first beautiful sight his eyes had ever beheld: the moon. Her face had been a guiding light through the first darkness he had found himself in with open eyes. Her glow had cast a path for him through the trees, granting him passage in a world unknown. And unlike everything else he had ever known, she had stayed with him. Even on the cloudiest of nights, Adam would feel her presence above him. The moon, without any sentience as far as he could discern, had become his constant, for she did not turn her back on him; he understood that during the day, she was simply resting to spend another night watching over him. Some evenings, Adam regarded this with guilt stirring in him. He did not request anything of her, yet she remained there. Her reflections showing in water that he learned to drink, curving around the berries he learned to eat. To Adam, the moon was his first understanding of what a lady is: a being beyond his reach and comprehension in her loveliness, yet her nurturing knew no bounds despite his form that turned men from or against him. Her face held no disgust or disdain towards him, and for this it was her face he found himself giving his first smiles too, when he had been practising them for those who may not ever stand his presence long enough to witness them. Still, he thought, if the moon could watch him for as long as she had, someone else would learn to. Someday.
He held hope in her.
The sun had been far less kind. Its heat burned, its light exposed. Its warmth had been a gift long forgotten until Adam stood upon the ice and felt it through tear tracks. Perhaps the moon had sent such warmth, for she was not capable of doing so herself, he had surmised. A sunrise, a symbol of rebirth at the end of his trail of vengeance, was the reprieve only a kind being would deliver to him. The sun had granted a more pleasant journey home than the fire that had burned in his veins on his journey there. Home, which had once been a foreign concept that he was not privy to, was to become an abandoned mountaintop shack. Overlooking a small town of people he could watch and enjoy as seasons passed. Having learned to remain hidden long ago, it was not difficult for him to partake in nightly travels once more, sticking to the shadows and alleyways as he explored. From a tailor’s window, he better learned how to craft clothes that would fit his form; from a bakers and butchers windowsills alike, he better refined his tastes for foods he enjoyed rather than simply tolerated (his first taste of a steak and ale pie had him tipping his gravy-dripping chin to the sky to smile up at her amongst the stars, that she might share the pleasantness of this new discovery); from the trees edge that opened to a stream where children played, he learned what amusement was to be found in silly games of catch, tag, hide and seek. More than once, he had covered his own eyes and counted under his breath, then remained behind the tree where he hid and attempted to spot each of the children in their hiding places before the one who was sent to find them. Never crossing into their lines of sight, of course. He knew better than to attempt such a thing. But through this, he rediscovered what it was to feel simple joy blossom in his chest.
The town would hold festivals and dances sometimes. Seasonal events, Adam had concluded from overhearing the people’s conversations regarding them. They would dress well and dance jovially in the square, with lanterns and feasts, and he found great pleasure in the music they played. He learned to dance by watching, and wondered if the stars that surrounded the moon were dancing with her, too. In the years that passed, Adam grew accustomed to the town’s schedule, where people would be at particular times of the day, and he would dress well on the same days they did in the clothes he had fashioned for himself that were somewhat clumsy by comparison, but better than the tatters he had been adorned in before.
There was one such event in the town that held particular interest to Adam, in which the people - particularly the children - would wear masks and costumes to knock on the doors of houses, at which time they would be gifted sweet treats. All Hallows’ Eve, he had heard the townspeople call it. Pumpkins and turnips would have faces carved into them that intrigued Adam to no end. In amongst painted faces and masked miniature monsters of pretend, he began to wonder if perhaps, he could create something of himself in such an event. He had overhead parents tell their children tales of mythical fiends to frighten them into behaving well, and considered how he could form a narrative of his own. And so, by the next Hallows’ Eve, he had a plan in motion.
Positioned at the treeline by the stream in his finest handmade attire (for his form would surely horrify enough without the need for his clothing to do so as well, he had thought), he placed his own pumpkin. There was a somewhat humiliating pile of pumpkin corpses forming outside his mountaintop cabin due to the failed attempts of fine-tuning his own strength in the delicate task of carving, but eventually he had managed to illuminate the friendliest smile his own hands and blade could conjure. The night was dark enough for Adam to remain concealed so long as he did not step out beyond the treeline, and there, he waited. Some hours passed before the children ventured to this side of the town with their pillowcases of treats already claimed. One by one, they stopped each other and began to point at the sole pumpkin on the other side of the stream, for none had ever seen one placed there before. Adam held his breath and glanced up at the sky for reassurance, where she glowed so prettily above him and reaffirmed his stance.
An adult joined the children then, a lady in a dress which was orange for the autumnal festivities. A beautiful lady, of course, as all ladies were. The children pointed again to the lone pumpkin, and the lady smiled with the same intrigue sparkling in her eyes that the children possessed. Taking the hands of two most hesitant looking children, the lady led the group over to the stream and knelt at its edge; the body of water laid between them and the treeline as though impossible to cross, when all knew it was merely a few inches in depth.
“Does a fiend of Hallows’ Eve dwell in the forest?” You called out with unmistakable fondness in your voice, giggling as the children’s reactions ranged from shocked gasps to beratements insisting that you should not tempt such devilry.
This was it, Adam thought to himself. Mustering every ounce of courage he had ever possessed, he cleared his throat.
“No fiends reside here. I protect the town from that which dwells in the forest.” He recited one of the lines he had been rehearsing, his voice loud and focussed on remaining unwavering.
The entire group’s eyes widened, even yours, and Adam waited. For revulsion, the anticipated rejection, the screams and runnings of those terrified to their very cores.
Naturally, the children were all frightened, but to his surprise, your smile only grew.
“Not a foe, but a friend, then! A guardian against the fiends.” You concluded, and Adam felt a splutter in the rate of his deadened heart’s pace.
“Yes. A friend.” Adam spoke again, cursing that his tone dared to soften despite his resolution to pantomime a creature of far greater strength than he felt he had.
“See, children? There is nothing to fear! A friend lives in the forest, and his pumpkin smiles for us! He is here to show you that no dangers from the forest will ever harm you.” The smile blessed each child’s face after another, encouraging them until they all shared your contentment in this newfound truth, and began to smile themselves.
“Have you slain werewolves?” One of the children spoke up, a question directed at the treeline.
Behind the tree, Adam felt the first threads of success and lowered himself to a seated position, now that he knew he would need to so urgently flee a scene of mobs and torches.
“Yes. Ghouls and goblins alike.” He answered, and was shocked to feel himself smiling into the darkness of the forest's shadows as the children shared another gasp, this time in wonder.
For the next few minutes of unparalleled bliss, the children begged for tales and confirmations of the fiends that Adam - the friend of the town - had saved them from without their knowing. In their minds, he resembled a hero, and that was an entirely unfamiliar notion. The beautiful lady knelt on the grass with the children bore an expression of fondness and wonder, which Adam did not understand. The whimsical nature of children left room for him to be something magical, but the tarnished perspectives of adults aged by the world left no such space for any truth beyond the cynical. Yet you allowed yourself to linger in what you must have known to be folly.
As the children began to tire into the growing night, you sent each of them the short distances to their homes until only you remained. Rising from the stream’s edge, you surprised Adam further by lifting your dress above your ankles and stepping through it, only lowering your dress once more when grass returned beneath your shoes.
“Town’s friend.” You greeted him, but your tone was no longer one of pretend for the children’s amusement. Instead, only fondness remained.
“Do you have a name?” You had asked the shadows where his voice had come from, and his breath caught in his throat.
“…Adam.” His voice was quieter now, hesitant, uncertain.
“Adam.” You repeated, your smile growing again in a way that made eternally frostbitten fingertips twitch with the urge to trace the shape of your lips. “Thank you for entertaining the children this night, and protecting them on any other.” Your gratitude was sincere beyond that which he had ever received, and for a moment, he knew not how to respond. “To them, you may remain a mystery in your appearance, but I wondered if I might thank you more traditionally.” Your offer was genuine too in its intention, this Adam knew, but he felt what novels had described as nervous butterflies beginning to churn in his gut.
“I am not…fit to be gazed upon by a lady.” He had answered, voice notably shakier than it had been at any other time tonight.
Despite himself, Adam was lifting his trembling limbs from the grass. Remaining hidden in the darkness that existed behind the trees, but standing to his true height. The moon illuminated your face, guiding his eyes to memorise your every feature from this new vantage point, but for the very first time Adam needed no assistance from her in seeing that which would heal him most.
“I think what is fit to be gazed upon by a lady, is to be decided by a lady. No lady can make such a decision in advance of seeing that which claims to be unfit for her eyes.” You presented a game of wits that delighted Adam to no end.
His heart hammered like a living thing. Something so simple as a few words exchanged with you made him feel truly alive for the first time in all his miserable existence.
“My lady, I…” Adam cleared his throat again, bowing his head in shame that you could not witness. “I do not wish to frighten you.”
For a moment, you considered this in careful silence. It was obvious this friend of the town had founded reservations in being perceived, hence his efforts, but this only served to strengthen your resolve in bridging that which existed between you in the same way you had stepped through the stream to reach him.
“If I swear to close my eyes and keep them closed until you grant me, would this suffice?” You carefully adjusted your offer to better suit the personified mystery enshrouded in shadow before you, and he needed no time to deliberate that which was so easily outweighed by the sincere yearning that fuelled his very being.
“Yes.” No one syllable had ever sounded gruffer falling from Adam’s mouth, and it fell without conscious thought.
Satisfied, you simply closed your eyes, and the shadows held him for but a moment. Testing whether you would truly trust him enough by voice alone to momentarily sacrifice your vision for his comfort. When your eyelids showed no signs of fluttering, Adam dared to step out from the treeline and into the moonlight with you. His footsteps were audible, branches crunching under heavy footfall, alerting you of his movement. Somewhat uncertainly, you held out a hand to him as if to shake his in a formal greeting he had never before been given. Adam’s own hand swallowed yours entirely, long fingers trembling as they curled around yours infinitesimally; terrified to harm the delicate bird that was your hold. But you did not shake his hand. No, you took it upon yourself to surprise him further.
Your other hand lifted to his arm, that you could better find now that one of his hands held yours, and you used this to better navigate him in front of you. All without opening your eyes, you rose to your tiptoes, and on an instinct Adam did not know he possessed, he lowered himself until his back was almost painfully hunched, but he felt no such pain. The warmth of lips pressed to a stitch of his cheek, and all air escaped his lungs in one shaken exhalation. His towering form nearly crumbled, was on the brink of collapse, but he was frozen in place. So afraid that you would run, now that you had felt something as grotesque as one of his stitches. In his panicked delirium, Adam bound himself to the belief that if he never dared to breathe or move again, he could exist in this one moment for eternity. Even if that eternity meant only a few more seconds in your closeness.
It was not until your own breath could no longer be felt against his scarred cheek that Adam realised his own eyes had closed, and you had lowered yourself to your own standing height.
“Thank you for granting the town your company, Adam.” Your words sounded a thousand miles away, hundreds of feet below the surface of the water that drowned him, as far away as a dream.
“It is my hope that you are not cursed to only appear on All Hallows’ Eve. Should you be so inclined to visit again tomorrow night, I will wait for you by the stream.” Another offer, but one that felt eerily closer to a promise; an oath that was less a secret and more a blessing.
“…Tomorrow, my lady.” How the words found their way past Adam’s lips, he will never know, but he managed to force his eyes open at the precise moment you turned away from him and crossed the stream.
He remained fixed in place where he stood, a statue of crumbling stone carved in your honour. Watching until you disappeared from sight in your own home, noting that you did not look back because you had not received his permission to gaze upon his countenance. Yet still, you had wished to spend more time in his company. So soon as the following night. Adam breathed in deeply, certain he could trace the sweetness of you lingering in the air. His limbs had not found it in themselves to recollect how to move just yet, but he had remembered the simpler motion of blinking, and tilting his head back to gaze up at the sky. There she was, the light that had guided him along the path that led to your smile, your voice, your tenderness. To the first trace of companionship. The stars around her seemed to blink down at him in congratulatory applause. For the briefest moment, Adam allowed himself to linger on the mere possibility that perhaps, by the next time the townspeople danced in the square, he may have someone to dance with himself.
That was far from the first time Adam had smiled up at the moon, but it was the first time he had done so bashfully.
i love how, as a community, not only did we all agree that spencer reid is a munch but we also unanimously agreed that it turns him on so much that he cums in his pants every time.
— or the one where Spencer comes home for the first time after Millburn, swamped with fear and self-loathing, lost in ways he has never felt before, and all that he really knows is that he needs to remember how it feels to be safe, how it is for things to feel right again. [Spencer Reid x fem!reader]
Word count: 11.1K. Proof-read.
Content warning: Where am I supposed to even start? (18+ MDNI) ANGST + SMUT. SECOND-PERSON POV. No use of Y/N. Established relationship, mentions of injuries, religious metaphors, oral (fem!receiving), unprotected p-in-v sex, just the sweetest, most tooth-rotting and fluffy smut I have ever written, inner monologues with pessimistic undertones + self-loathing, happy/hopeful ending, canon deviation if you squint.
Author’s Note: This has been in the works for almost three months and was loosely inspired by a tweet of mine after one of my rewatches of Green Light/Red Light. There is a lot I can say about it, but mainly, it has felt quite cathartic to actually have finished it. I’m really proud of it... If I don’t think about it too much. Anyway, I hope whoever takes time to read it likes it and that it doesn’t take me three months to post something new. And maybe that I learn how to keep things less word-y by then. P.S. Yes, Jeff Buckley’s version of Hallelujah was the namesake for this fic and I don’t regret it. #decontextualisationisanart
The first time that you’d ever found yourself tucked away in the solace of Spencer’s bedroom, your bare body completely wrapped in dark grey linen sheets that smelled of lavender and sandalwood, you hadn’t been prepared to bare your soul quite as much as you’d ended up doing.
It had come quickly enough, had been entirely too easy, that it felt like you’d done so all your life — loving Spencer, trusting him, allowing yourself to be loved by him.
With his right arm wrapped around your waist, his fingertips drawing absentminded circles on your lower back, while he used his left hand to tuck stray hairs away from your face with a tenderness that almost ached, you’re so entirely blissed out, your bare body adorned with the evidence of your lovemaking, that you almost miss his question. You have to blink twice before it even registers.
Have you ever been in love before?
You’re momentarily taken aback, both because of the nature of it, of what it means and what it comes with, but also because of how he asks it. Quiet enough for it not to disturb the comfortable silence engulfing you, yet an edge persists in how he stresses each syllable, as if he desperately wants to know the answer.
The moonlight reflecting across his skin and turning him into a breathtaking, living masterpiece is what casts him visible enough for you to notice there’s nothing demanding about how he observes you back, nothing that begs to take what you’re not ready to give. What’s there, instead, behind his bright, kind eyes and his faintly present, fond smile, is an earnestness that’s enough to tear you apart and put you back together because of one truth alone — the fact that Spencer continues to want to know more about you, that he’s not looking to let you go now that you’ve finally been naked in his arms, months into your relationship.
It’s not that you believed he would, but then again, you’ve only ever hurt yourself because of your wishful thinking before he came around. Part of you was constantly ready to have the other shoe drop. Now that there wasn’t a reason to feel that way, you’re bound not to know how to react.
Initially, you’re not sure how to respond, how to explain whatever there is to explain. That you’d been here before, spasming inside arms that never held you tightly enough, breathless from drowning in feelings that never seemed to be reciprocated. Would that count as ever having been in love? You’re not sure. Not anymore. Not now that there’s Spencer.
It didn’t matter that those three syllables hadn’t yet been uttered by either of you, not when you could feel they were true enough for both of you. It was only a matter of time until it happened. You’d be glad to be the braver of the two and do it first. You almost do it then, thinking the answer is fitting enough for his question, true enough of a confession.
But something holds you back, like it always has. Something calls for you to wait (for what, you’re not sure of.) And when Spencer tries to apologise without having any reason to, your only option seems to be to say it without actually saying it.
You shake your head, moving closer to him if possible. If I have been, you shrug, I’m not entirely sure it was love. Not in a way that mattered.
Spencer’s arm twitches around your hip as he attempts to hold you tighter. He doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t really have to. You can tell from his furrowed brow that his silence is an invitation for you to go on.
You ponder how to. There’s not a lot you can say about never having known true reciprocity.
There’s a… uhm, there’s a quote I read once, you swallow hard, toying with the frayed edge of his blankets between you. You know Roland Barthes? You’re not sure why you ask, because if there’s anyone who understood your obscure literary references, it’s him. When he merely hums (despite clearly having more than enough facts about him ready to share with you), interest further piqued, you continue. Am I in love? Yes, since I’m waiting. The other one never waits. The lover’s fatal identity is precisely: I am the one who waits. You clear your throat softly, trying to ignore the burning sensation bubbling up in it. I never really knew why I’ve always seemed to resonate with it but I do. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve done my part waiting. Perhaps for longer than I can admit. Maybe I just… Maybe it’s always been a part of me. I just don’t know if it was ever in a way that mattered.
It’s a tender admittance, delicate even in the harshness that it carries. To have spent so much of your life questioning whether you’ve ever really fallen in love, whether you’ve ever known how it feels to be loved in return is a prison of its own making. It’s no badge of honour, it’s not something to be proud of. For the longest time, it was just something that simply was. You’d tried to ignore it and you’d paid it its due share of attention alike. No option was wiser, no feelings towards the truth of the matter were enough to exorcise it.
But that was then. Before Spencer. Before his gentle touch, before his earnest appreciation, before you’d known how your name sounded coming from the mouth of a person who uttered it like a prayer of some kind, both inside the haven of his bedroom and outside of it.
You’re not exactly avoiding his gaze when his voice breaks through the startling silence your words left in their wake. You’re not hiding from him, not really. No, in reality, you’re just silently praying you’ve not just managed to ruin the most wonderful thing you’ve had happen to you by being too honest, by opening yourself up too much, too soon, too detrimentally. You knew it’d happen, could guess that it’d do so after he’d mapped each inch of your body with no barriers of clothing stopping him, after you’d exposed yourself to him in the most devastatingly sincere way possible.
Knowing it’d happen doesn’t mean you didn’t know it’d hurt, too, though. How much it’d hurt.
You’re terrified of looking into his eyes and seeing anything but affection in them, that quiet doting that has turned you into mush every day you’d known him. Once you’re too close to shying away from the cradle of his arms, he follows your movements, anyway. Cages you kindly as he hovers above you, not quite ready to have you escape from his arms or his questions yet, if ever.
It’s through a low whisper that he presses on, wanting to know whether you think you’re still waiting. There’s only one answer to that, and it’s as tangible a reality as his heart beating against yours where your chests touch, as his warm, golden eyes gaze back into yours. It’s an answer he already knows, you’re sure of it. Of course he does. It’s Spencer. Hasn’t that always been the case?
For once, you find yourself feeling glad that someone does. That it’s Spencer who does.
I think I am, you decide, fingertips tracing the outline of his bicep delicately, your eyes following the path they travel until they come to rest over his pounding heart. I am, you reaffirm, refusing to bite back the loving smile creeping on your lips, but this time, this time… I think it’s worth it.
A beat passes where both of you marvel at each other, where Spencer’s body settles fully on top of yours, and your fist wraps around his wrist as his hand comes to cup your face, his lips meeting yours with breathtakingly tender affection. You melt underneath him, inside his arms, giving in to everything he is and everything he offers you, until you’re once again a mess of tangled limbs, fervent exhales, and burning flesh.
It’s much later into the night when you’re settled against his side, almost fully passed out thanks to the return of the dull but pleasant ache of your muscles and the rhythmic back and forth of his fingertips brushing your hair over your shoulder. Still, you manage to capture his words in your half-asleep state, and you’re back to feeling like you are glowing from the inside out.
You’ll never have to worry about the waiting being worth it. Not ever again. I’ll make sure of it, if only you let me.
It aches, how Spencer seems to christen you with that promise, how his lips press against your forehead and remain there, how he tightens his arms around you as if you’re his lifeline and he’s scared you’ll vanish into thin air. It aches because even now that you’re almost unconscious, you know well enough Spencer means what he’s telling you. You can feel as much. It aches because for once, you find your armour loosening and because for once, it doesn’t seem to scare you, and it doesn’t stop you from pulling him closer in return.
It’s that same promise that still replays inside your head when you’re back in his apartment a week later, slipping out of his en-suite in a white, worn-out jumper of his from his Caltech days that’s oversized on you, enough to cover the biker shorts you’re wearing underneath almost entirely. Spencer was sweet enough to let you borrow it for the night after you’d been caught in a sudden downpour on your way there, just like he was sweet enough to ask you to stay over for the night. He’d only just made it back from a horrible case in Texas (the details of which you’d not been privy to, insistent as he’d always been about that), as well as a disappointing meeting with his mother’s doctor that followed after. He’d excitedly told you about studies and medicine trials he’d looked for in the hopes of helping her out with her Alzheimer’s diagnosis, only for all of it to end up going south so far in his pursuit. Your heart broke for him in more ways than one each and every time he did as you hoped there was anything you could do to help him, even more when he’d tell you that your being there for him was enough.
You’d argue the opposite, except his eyes light up the moment you near his bed and he looks up from his book, already freeing his right hand to invite you on his lap.
You oblige immediately, feeling all warm and tingly at the sight of him in a grey jumper and pair of dark plaid pyjama pants, glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. You try to ignore the fluttering of your heart as he buries his hand underneath his jumper on your waist, try not to feel too light-headed at the thought of his promise, try not to get too carried away at the prospect of him loving you the way you are completely sure you do him.
But it’s all in vain, and you only realise that after you lift your head from where you were peppering small kisses on his neck, when he answers your murmured question on what he’s been reading.
Noticing it’s nothing other than Barthes’ A Lover’s Discourse once he holds it between you, the book you’d mentioned last time you were there, the light-headedness only intensifies. It’s as certain as it’s all-consuming and you’re teetering past the point of no return, agreeing that there are countless of reasons it has made a home in you. That he has made a home in you.
You momentarily ponder whether this is your chance to ask him the same question he’d asked you last week, whether you’re ready to hear what he’d have to say. Something holds you back from it, and as always, you hate that it does, but the alternative you settle on is good enough for right then and there. Mindlessly playing with the curls on the nape of his neck, you decide you want to know if he has a favourite passage himself, and Spencer’s quick to flick through the pages he’s scribbled on the margins of until he finds it.
Dream of total union: everyone says this dream is impossible, and yet it persists. I do not abandon it. “On the Athenian steles, instead of the heroicization of death, scenes of farewell in which one of the spouses takes leave of the other, hand in hand, at the end of a contract which only a third force can break, thus it is mourning which achieves its expression here … I am no longer myself without you.” It is in represented mourning that we find the proof of my dream; I can believe in it, since it is mortal (the only impossible thing is immortality).
Your breath had been caught inside your throat as you followed every word of his, and if it hadn’t been for your name slipping past his lips after he’d finished his recitation, you’d still be looking at him all dazed. The breathlessness doesn’t cease to exist when you break the thundering silence, wanting to know why that passage was the one which resonated with him.
Like you, I’m not entirely sure, but I think—Well, I know that I’ve spent most of my life trying to live up to other people’s expectations as much as I have my own. And there was a time when I started to wonder if being in the FBI was what I really wanted, if—I don’t know—if it was who I really am. The more that I thought about it, the more I realised that there was just… something incredibly right about devoting myself to this job. I am who I am because of it, because I chose to do it. There’s no me without it. I’ve always imagined love to be the same way. The smile on his face as he brings both of your hands between you and holds them together is softer than any you’d seen on his lips before. You don’t hesitate to intertwine your fingers with his, squeezing them tight, as he continues. To be completely honest with you, I’ve never—You know I haven’t had much luck when it comes to love—I hadn’t really known it… But whenever I thought about how it’d feel like, I always came back to that feeling of rightness, the fact that there shouldn’t be one without the other. I believe there isn’t.
It’s as startling a revelation as yours had been a week ago, as deep and truthful a bearing of his soul as you’d wish for in return. Like you did a week ago, he’s saying everything without actually saying everything. The only difference is that Spencer doesn’t try to shy away from the certainty the way you did, doesn’t try to look away from you while you process all that he’s told you.
He has never thought of himself to be brave, not particularly. You beg to disagree, more keen to prove it to him than ever before in the time you’ve known him.
Yeah, you lean in, nuzzling slightly against your intertwined hands, I think I believe that, too. Spencer’s response comes in a huffed chuckle where his chin rests on top of your head, and although that You think so? that follows is clearly his way of teasing you, you recognise the tint travelling from his neck to his ears for what it is — him worrying that he’s somehow, still, gone too far, too soon.
Eyes locked with his now, you cradle his face with the delicacy one should hold the most precious thing they know, and thumb his glasses back in place properly. Your mouth is a breath away from his when you finally murmur, I am certain that I do.
It’s the way that Spencer follows your lead next, when his lips start moving against yours slowly and deliberately, that sends all your fears to be washed away into the night with the rain that’s pouring violently outside the window. It’s in the way that you hug him closer, tighter, and he sighs and melts into your embrace, that you understand he’s right about love being a dream of a total union, that there really can’t be one without the other.
There’s nothing that separates you from Spencer nor Spencer from you. You feel as much in every sigh of his you swallow, every soft sound of yours that he smiles at despite struggling not to stop kissing you, every temporary mark your touch leaves behind on each other’s skin as you rid one another of your clothes.
When all’s said and done, when he’s once again on top of you, and your sweet giggles at the foggy state of his glasses (he surely can’t see you any better with them like that than without them, so the decision to fold them and place them on the bedside table is an easy one) morph into the dreamiest of moans as your heat welcomes his thickness. He moves against you with a need that’s both calm and overpowering alike, rocking you both, pulses mixing, as you merge entirely. You yearn for it, yield to it, and it’s the realest proof of your mortality that either of you has ever known. It’s no longer a promise, it’s a fulfilment. There’s no escaping this union, there’s no possibility of separation, not when you know what coming together like this feels like.
At least, there shouldn’t be. That’s what Spencer said. You keep telling yourself that, even if the irony of your having not seen him since that night isn’t lost on you now.
It wasn’t his fault, not initially. He’d got called in on a case before dawn managed to break, and you, ever so attuned to the reality that he can easily be taken away from you, had woken up and watched the scene unfold, not as fazed as you should’ve been in hindsight.
How could you have known what was about to come, though? How could that still blissed out version of you that Spencer had kissed goodbye with utter adoration, promised that he wouldn’t be away from for too long, responded to the final calling of his name with an acknowledgment far too certain and incapable to be dismissed, know that it’d be three months since you’d hear and see from him again?
You’d still been lost, terrified by the mere existence of your ignorance, as you made it to the BAU offices in Quantico, where Spencer’s boss and colleague, Emily Prentiss, had asked to see you. It hadn’t been the first time you’d met her but it had been the first time you’d ever been to his workplace, called there by someone other than him, nevertheless.
For all your fears and uncertainty when you’d sat opposite her, you still couldn’t have believed what you’d be told by her, just how much, how hard your world would crumble in seconds — because Spencer, in his quest to do the right thing, to be brave for him and the person he loved most in this world, had initially found himself jailed in Mexico, before being extradited to the US.
There wasn’t much that Emily could do to console you as you struggled to process what you’d been told, both because she’d also been struggling to grasp the facts herself, and because there was no time to be lost when Spencer’s future, his life, was at stake. All that she could do and that she made sure to do was to reassure you that whatever was happening, Spencer was innocent, and that everything he did was an attempt to save his mother.
There wasn’t much that anyone could do to help you, much less yourself. All you wanted, all you needed, was for Spencer to come back. Not just to you, but to his mother, to his team, to the world that he belonged in. That’s all you kept asking for — that and a way to get in touch with him, to see him. If not initially, then after you’d been told that he’d been sent to prison to serve a sentence. A sentence that could keep him away from you, from his mother, from his team, from the real world for twenty five years.
Only he didn’t let you.
At first, you thought you’d been mistaken when you’d heard it. That surely, Emily must have meant it was a temporary thing. But Spencer didn’t budge, not once. You couldn’t understand why. There wasn’t a single minute of those 91 days spent away from him where you could stop wondering why. Emily had tried her best to ease your worries, had done everything she could to assure you that they would get him out of there, that he’d be alright. And you appreciated her, her effort alone was remarkable, but nothing about what was happening was enough to make you believe her.
The only person who could make you believe that it was all going to be alright was the one person you couldn’t see or even talk to. Because he chose to have that happen. And you? You were left with no choice but to wait. For what, you weren’t sure. You couldn’t be. Because in doing the right thing, Spencer had gone back on his promise to you, that you’d never have to wonder if the wait was worth it anymore. And the worst part was that you didn’t hate him for it, didn’t allow yourself to care about it as much as you cared about him. That was his only fault — not letting you wait for him in a way that you knew was worth it.
That was the selfish part of this reality. You were mourning the only true union you’d ever known and your version of its farewell was losing the fight against time each day you spent without him. There was nothing hopeful about the mortality of your love for Spencer anymore. For all that you knew, your waiting for him would prove to be fatal and it wouldn’t matter. Not to you.
That’s what you’d forced yourself to think, at least. You’d done a good enough job, however constant the struggle and the uncertainty, the wait remaining worthy through what Emily did share with you when she managed to, including any updates on Diana’s well-being. Through those, your need to feel close enough to Spencer, keeping one of the parts you cherished most about him alive, was somehow satisfied, twisted as it may have sounded to anyone else. Emily, thankfully, understood it well enough. She was even fond of it, you were almost sure noticing how she responded to how genuine your affection for Spencer and anything and anyone he loved was.
But even those few updates on Diana became scarce, and it had almost been three days since Emily had last texted you, and that was when you started to question just how much of a good job you’d done keeping your feelings and thoughts at bay. Because it’d been 92 days without any word from Spencer, 92 excruciating days of losing sleep over not knowing how bad things were for him, if he’s actually as alright as he can be under the circumstances, or if you’d ever see him again. Because what if he spent the next 25 years of his life rotting in prison for something he didn’t do, surrounded by people who are nothing like him? Or what if he gets out of there and you never get to know because he doesn’t want you to? Because he doesn’t want you anymore?
There were so many possibilities you’d ruined yourself over and the worst part of your spiral is that you’d somehow found yourself climbing the stairs to Spencer’s apartment almost without realising it. If you’d been able to rationalise your thoughts, you’d conclude it happened because the handful of times you’d spent at his apartment were the safest you’d felt in a while. Undoubtedly, there must be some psychological study that could back up that claim. Spencer would know if there was. He’d explain which part of the brain was responsible for that feeling of safety with his characteristic eagerness while you’d smile and make the physical about the emotional like you always did, admitting to yourself and to him that whatever your body has translated into a feeling, he was the cause of. That’s when he’d preen and get flustered and have no other choice but to kiss you because it’s you and your words and what you feel for him that caused that.
But Spencer wasn’t here to do all that. And with each step further into his apartment that you take, it only becomes clearer to you that you’d made a mistake coming here. That seeing his cluttered stacks of books, and his pile of manila case folders and notes, and his favourite half-empty mug that he always leaves unattended on the kitchen table would do little to ease the pain his absence has caused. That standing in the middle of the space that still smells like old paper, sandalwood, and coffee — like him — didn’t feel right, didn’t feel good when it was stained with the aftermath of the loss of him and not of constancy of his presence.
Maybe Spencer was wrong in more ways than one after all. You were much more faint-hearted than he thought now that you had no one to believe in you, that you had to go back to knowing how it feels to exist in this world without him.
Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the copy of A Lover’s Discourse he’d read you from that very last night you saw him, the one he’d scribbled his thoughts down on and underlined passages on for you to flip through that next morning after he’d left. Moist appears behind your eyelids almost immediately, has you thinking that maybe not taking it with you after you left was not a mistake after all. Or if it would’ve been, it’s one you’re willing to make now. You’re certainly about to.
Until the small yet startling sound of the front door closing breaks the silence that surrounds you and stops you from it. You’re sure you’d already shut it after you’d entered. You’re sure no one had managed to follow you and creep up on you this way. You’re sure that even at the minuscule chance you’d left it half-open, it’s not the wind that closed it. You’re sure there’s only one possible answer as to what had just happened—
And as you turn around, still frozen in your spot by the couch and the coffee table, you find out that you’re right.
That it’s no one other than Spencer that’s standing just barely past the threshold, keys still in hand, eyes wide and lips parted in shock that completely matches your own, both of you unable to comprehend that you’re not in the presence of a ghost of a life long past.
Because Spencer’s in front of you, inches apart after three months of inexplicable agony on your part, and inexpressible pain on his, and he’s not at all how you remember him. Of course, you’re not an idiot. You didn’t expect him to stay the same, not under any circumstances, especially not under those he had to endure. You try to silently remind yourself of that as you process that he’s here, he’s back, and he’s alright — in the sense that he’s alive and breathing and in front of you.
But there’s something so intimidating about the way his figure looms by the entrance, the way his eyes are heavy and empty of that usual glint which was as evident up close as it was from a distance, the way he can’t seem to register he’s home. It’s paradoxical how heavy he seems when he’s lost enough weight that his suit jacket sags at his shoulders, when the outline of his face looks sharper and more defined even behind his scruffy jawline.
Once he speaks, though, once your name falls from his lips in that quiet, unmistakeably gentle tone, every last bit of denial and trepidation vanishes, and you’re once again wounded in your breathlessness. “H—You—Hi.”
“Hi—“ Your croak, fighting hard to keep your composure. You don’t move from your spot but he does, almost striding to close the remaining distance between you — until you inadvertently back into the couch, nails digging into your palms.
Spencer’s face falls when you flinch, although he doesn’t blame you for it, can’t say he’s surprised that’s your reaction. It’s more than called for, he’s selfless enough to admit that. There hasn’t been one day that he had to spend in that tiny, muggy cell when he didn’t think of you, didn’t long to see you, didn’t want to explain himself to you. His selflessness was what kept him from asking you to come to him, ensured you stayed far away from a world you didn’t belong in, and now he was paying the price for it. Willingly or not.
In a (uncharacteristic to him) masochistic sense, he craves it. Craves the hostility, craves the anger that’s undoubtedly burning up inside you, craves any indication you might snap at him, put him in his place for what he put you through. Maybe it’s because he’s come to know so much of it in prison, has become so used to co-habiting with the monsters he’d chased away all his life, that he feels like he’s become one and the same with them. He’d let you do it, no doubt about it. But he knows you’re not built that way, knows you’d never treat him the way he’s been treated, knows that what he’s carrying inside his soul and what his body’s now marked with is not your burden to bear. However vehemently you’d deny that claim.
It’s amidst this remarkable conscious battle, this return to his older, kinder self that your presence elicits, that his hands clench and unclench tightly, stained with the need to reach out to you. As much as that’s your first instinct — to keep yourself from taking up too much space, to offer him any distance that he might need — Spencer knows in a deeper, more profound way than he ever has before, it’s not his. He doesn’t want space and he doesn’t want solitude. He wants you. Close, too close, inches apart. Exactly how you used to be.
It’s true that Spencer has spent the past three months not knowing what to do in more ways than one, but this, right now, was a whole other thing all-together. You’re a whole other thing all-together. And he’s known that since the moment he first laid eyes on you, but a changed man’s conscience is a frightful thing, violent in its power. Because you’ve always been consolatory in your beauty, mending parts of his he’s always thought werebroken by default, and you’d done so by just existing.
Standing in front of him, in the middle of his home once more, looking like nothing short of an angel, he reconciles with his mortality again in the only way that matters. Understands exactly why you don’t know what to do, either. Feels safe because of it, because of you. There’s no without. Not unless—
“I can go, if you—“
Of course, you opt for the choice to leave. Because it is a choice, and sometimes, it is what is needed.
Spencer disagrees. He has always disagreed, has made that known to you as often as he could. It’s a leap of faith he’s been more than glad to take for your sake as well as his.
“No.” He swallows hard, inhales sharply. He doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t try to move from his place in the middle of the hall, the distance between you still aching. “I mean—“ Right, stepping back from the need. As always. Ever the sacrificial lamb. Especially now, now he’s the shell of the man you once knew and fell in love with.“If you want to, that’s—you can—“ Your gaze finally softens, and for a brief moment, after months of feeling cold, Spencer feels like he is burning up from the inside out. His hands stop trembling. You are here — you could go, you could leave, but right now, you are here.
Is that enough? He doesn’t have it in him to think it over now. He has already decided.
Spencer has spent a lot of time choosing sacrifice. Years and years of betraying, of lessening, of shrinking himself down for people who weren’t ever meant to get it. He didn’t really mind, not then. But it was different now, everything was different now. Now that there is no without again. Maybe that is the reason why selfishness comes so easy to him, so clearly for once, right then and there—
“But I want you to stay.”
It is only half the truth.
Spencer curses himself — You are better than that. You have always been better than that. You are not the only one who knows it anymore. You have not been for a long time. It’s the truth she’s always wanted from you. It’s the truth she deserves. — and, just the way that selfishness made its return, so does brutal honesty.
“I need you to stay.”
His words fail to register properly at first, but once they do, they’re all you require to remain where you are. If you were honest with yourself, you couldn’t have imagined leaving him even if he asked you to. You needed to stay, needed to be with him, needed so much from him after those three months you’d both endured.
Where were either of you to even begin?
“You—Yeah, okay, yeah—“ You nod, your feet moving before you could even process it as you head for the kitchen, “I can—Maybe I can get you something—“
You have barely made it past him when you feel his hand brush against your wrist, fingertips briefly wrapping around it until you halt. Before you know it, Spencer’s right in front of you, chests almost touching.
It takes a mere second of you looking at each other, gazing desperately between each other’s eyes, until your lips meet. Initially, both of you startle at the touch, neither of you daring to move either to deepen the kiss or to break apart from it. But Spencer loses that battle first, finds his hands moving on their own accord, takes your face in them, and opens his mouth to start kissing you properly with eager passion.
Like every time before, you melt into it, become light and pliable under his touch. You let him kiss you as he wishes to, open your mouth just the way he needs, but still don’t dare touch him.
When the inside of his palm grazes your cheekbone, the rough indentation of a scar you’d never felt before through his touch meeting your soft skin, you break. Tears form and fall from your eyes, alerting Spencer to your fragile state in an instant.
“Hey, hey—“ He exhales, overcome with worry, pulling away enough so he can look at you properly, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—“
“No, no! It’s okay, I don’t—I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry…”
“Don’t apologise,“ Spencer’s words are pained while he thumbs at your cheeks, wiping away your tears. It takes him a moment to notice it’s the fact he’s touching you that makes you shudder. It shouldn’t have been hard to discern, and the version of him three months ago wouldn’t have failed you that way, and he’s so terribly sorry. “It’s not okay, you’re crying, I shouldn’t have—“
“Please,” You paw at his shoulders, still scared to fully touch him. Silently, you’re begging for him to understand that you need him to hold you, terrified as you are of leaning in to it. “Please, I didn’t mean to—I just can’t believe you’re here…”
A sad smile appears on his lips, one that carries more meaning than words could adequately say. “I am here,” he mutters, coiling a strand of hair behind your ear. “I am here and I’m so sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am.”
You want to tell him that he doesn’t have to be sorry, you really do, but you allow yourself to be the selfish one now. “I thought I’d lost you,” You don’t sound angry as much as you sound devastated, the fact he’s there still not enough to make the pain of that what-if go away, “I didn’t know if you were—“ A sob rises from the depths of your throat, slips past your lips. “I thought you didn’t want to see me anymore, you didn’t let me come see you—”
“Of course, I wanted to see you,” He understands he’s hurt you with his decision, knows you’re entirely right to hold it against him. He refused to have you believe it was because he didn’t want to see you. “Every single day, I did. But not if it had to be like that. Not by letting you in on that world. Not for mine or anyone’s sake.”
The sentiment, however fitting to his character it was, didn’t move you at this time. “You didn’t belong there, either.”
Spencer’s heart aches at how you still look at him and see the person he was before he went and screwed everything up. He’d betrayed your trust and hurt you by pushing you away, and still, you loved him. He wonders if you still would if you knew everything that happened to him in prison. If you knew he wasn’t the same man you’d fallen in love with anymore, the man who was once deserving enough of you.
Right.
“We should probably talk—”
“No, we shouldn’t.”
He sighs. Says your name pointedly because he knows deep down you agree, yet you don’t budge.
“We shouldn’t talk, not if you don’t want to talk.”
Again, it’s not surprising how fiercely you defend him for who he is, for not trusting words easily in times of adversity. You’re admirable in your need to understand him, but he’s gotten quite good at that, too. “But you want to talk.”
It’s true. There are so many things you want to know — if his mom is safe and sound, if the scar across his palm is the only physical mark he still carries with him from his imprisonment, if he remembers his promise to you right before everything went up in flames.
You are willing to let that need gnaw away at your insides, however. At least for now.
Because Spencer’s in front of you again, and his hands are cradling your face, and goodness, all you truly want is to be one with him again.
It’s a breathless admission but it’s firm and honest when it slips from your mouth, your gaze unwavering. “I want whatever you want.”
Spencer gulps. His fingers twitch where they rest on your jawline. He can’t deny he’s glad to hear you say that and mean it. Leaning in, he rest his forehead against yours, and inhales deeply.
You’re barely able to plead before he relents and you’re back to kissing each other with a passion of a thousand burning suns. The emptiness inside you is filled with it and you’re desperate to cling onto it lest he’s going to disappear again.
His hands travel from your neck to your waist and back again the whole time you stumble towards his bedroom, gripping his jacket for dear life.
You’re so hesitant to touch him and it’s not lost on him. If anything, it only fuels his self-loathing immeasurably. It shouldn’t be like this, you shouldn’t be afraid to touch him. He’s the one who should feel like this. Stained with cruel depravity, carrying memories that’ll haunt him for the rest of his life, the mere pressing of his hands on your body is an act of murder. A murder of innocence, of what little good he’s known in this world. If he’s ever wondered whether the abyss has swallowed him whole, it’s now more than ever.
He guides your hands to his lapel, holding them there, and you flinch, the reaction enough to break the kiss.
“We really don’t have to—”
You’re all starry-eyed as you look at him, comforted by the realisation that in spite of everything, the Spencer you know is still standing in front of you. “If it’s what you want, it’s what I want. What I need.”
“Then I need you to be able to touch me, angel.”
You’re struggling not to tear up again at the term of endearment, chest tightening undeniably because of the emptiness that had settled there for far too long. Another apology gets caught inside your throat but Spencer makes sure it doesn’t have time to fall from your lips. There’s no need for it, he understands everything all too well. Still, he’d be damned if he couldn’t feel your touch now. He needed it, needed you, needed everything you were willing to give him.
He doesn’t rush you as you discard his jacket, doesn’t mind how careful you are loosening his tie. On the contrary, he basks in it — in your gentle care, the delicacy of your touch. It helps anchor him to the present, proves to him he doesn’t need to be at war with what he’s known and who he’s been away from you.
If it wasn’t for the small but heavy gasp you’d tried to suppress as you unbuttoned his shirt, met with his still evidently bruised skin, he’d still be stuck in his reverie. He imagines the warm, orange lamplight filling the bedroom from his living room is rather unforgiving, can’t even begin to hide what’s been done to him. He wishes he didn’t have to smile sadly at you, didn’t have to be undressed by you while soothing your worries. You’ve worried enough about him as it is.
“It’s alright, I’m okay.” He smoothens your furrowed brow with his thumb, traces the curve of your profile until he meets your pulse point. Fast but steady. “They’re not as bad as they look.” Knowing you don’t believe him doesn’t stop him from continuing to try, effortlessly noble as he is, lips skimming across your forehead for good measure.
It only gets worse when his shirt’s finally off, and your hand trembles as it runs over the part of his forearm covered by gauze. That injury is far too recent, will definitely take a long time to heal. Maybe that’s why he allows you to pay more attention to it.
Not for too long. Just until you can look at him again, until he knows you feel assured enough to return to the moment.
Only he’s left breathless when you start kissing his bare chest and murmuring apologies against his skin, instead. You intentionally shy away from his bruises and it’s enough to ruin him. Decidedly enough, he tilts your face up by your chin. Breathes quietly, “Lay down for me?” You’re quick to comply and he’s quicker to kiss you tenderly. It’s almost a reward.
Your shoes are kicked off haphazardly before he comes to kneel on top of you, hands already reaching for the hem of your sweater—until he pauses before he’s even begun.
“What’s wrong?”
You’re lost as you try to understand what’s behind the way he stares down between your eyes and his hands. There’s something heavy behind his hesitance to respond. Clearly heavy enough to make him question everything about the moment all over again. You won’t allow that.
You take your hands in his the way he did just moments before, snapping him back into action. Your consent is a sweet whisper on his mouth as you sit up to accommodate him — You can take it off, Spencer. Please.
It’s that explicit sound of your eagerness he seeks as he continues to undress you, the keenness of your arching into him as he kisses down your exposed front once your sweater’s thrown to the floor, too, and your trousers are pooling at your ankles.
His mouth is excruciatingly precise where it latches onto, returning to curves and dips and marks he’s mapped and doted on before, though you’re not sure the ferventness of his touch can be compared to any of them. Every pressing of his mouth on your body is deliberate, bearing enough devotion to leave you breathless, unable to look away from him.
“Are you okay?” He’s back to facing you when you’re left clad in your underwear, palm resting where your heart pounds.
He’s not satisfied when you only nod in return, but he’s content not to immediately seek a verbal response from you, if only because of how beautiful you look underneath him, adorned in white lace, warm and pulsating with affection and need.
He says your name quietly, watches you quite literally blossom because of it as if he’s the sun and you’re a flower deprived of its light for far too long. One cannot get used to being loved this way, Spencer knows it better now. He hopes he never does.
“I’m alright, yeah.” It’s true enough in that you’re more alright than you’ve been in a long time and you honestly don’t know how to deal with it.
“You’re too quiet for me to believe that, angel.”
“I don’t know what to say…” But you’re not willing to mull over that right now, “I’ve just… I’ve missed you so much, Spencer.”
“I know. So have I, honey. You have no idea how much.” His hand finds its way to your back right as you begin to card your fingers through his hair. It’s enough an invitation for him to unclasp your bra, though he doesn’t try to remove it yet. “I’ll never be able to tell you how sorry I am—“
“I don’t want you to do that.” You insist before you’re back to pleading with him, “Please, don’t do that. Please just—“
He shushes you with a kiss, knowing he needs to return to loving you just as much as you do.
Spencer lost three months of his life locked inside a prison cell for a crime he didn’t commit. 92 days, 2,208 hours, 132,480 minutes, 7,948,800 seconds away from you. And yet, there’s no rush to how he kisses down your chest, how his hands pull the lacy fabric of your bra off of your body until it lies forgotten on the mattress, how he cradles your body as if he gets to hold you for the first time.
“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever known,” He confesses, words muffled in between kisses and licks and nips of your sensitive skin. Your breathing picks up as he alternates between taking each of your nipples in his mouth, his hands steadying you against the mattress by your hips as you lightly tug at his curls. The feeling causes him to sigh as he travels further down your body, litters your skin with more endearments, easing you into pliancy with his praise, “So soft, so warm, so beautiful… You’re everything.”
A strangled cry falls unabashedly from your lips, edged with need as his face hovers where you’re most sensitive only momentarily before you visibly react. You’re burning there already, and this is a sight able to make your stomach flip and your heart feel ready to burst alone, but you’re too desperate to feel him to submit to that need.
Spencer respects your willingness to give far too much to put into words, but he knows well enough it works the other way around, too. That’s why it’s easy for him to plead with you, as he settles between your thighs, “Let me do this? Please?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck — How could you deny him this? How could you deny him anything?
“Spencer—You don’t have to—“
“Mhh, that’s beside the point.” His lips ghost over your knee, his eyes kind and imploring as he looks up at you, “I know that I want to. If you want it as well. So… May I?”
It’s not new, how persistent Spencer is in knowing you’re earnestly receptive to his every offering. He wants you alert, fully immersed in the moment, but never at the expense of your comfort. You could swear, though, that there’s more that’s implicit in his call for your agreement. You’re desperate to know just exactly what that is, hope he’ll offer you the honest truth when you inevitably try to pick apart his behaviour.
But not now.
“Yes. Yes, you may.”
It’s barely an exhale but Spencer’s so completely focused in everything about you that he couldn’t miss it if he tried. Newfound warmth pools inside your stomach, and further down, down where you need him, when his lips find the back of your knee before they travel further up, christening you with expressions of gratitude.
Your heart’s at your throat as your hips rise instinctively, accommodating him in dragging the material of your underwear down your legs. He’s glowing, the light emerging from the other room and outlining his bare shoulders transforming him into the most heavenly sight. It’s an overpowering scene unfolding — he and those honey gold eyes you’d happily drown in if you could, his gaze unwavering, his lips dancing across your sensitive skin, leaving your body no choice but to surrender completely. Gladly, without hesitance.
Bare and trembling with anticipatory desire, you watch him watch you for a luscious beat, eyes growing darker the moment he spreads you open. He inhaled deeply, mouths something intelligible you can’t quite catch, before he comes to hover above you once more, taking you by surprise (though it’s not unpleasant, not at all.)
The silence becomes overbearing, much too powerful, but you have no time to break it because he leans in and kisses you, this time with a softness so raw it could make you cry.
“I love you.” You melt underneath him as he speaks, hands caressing your sides lightly, “I know I’ve never told you so enough before, but that’s going to change now. I’ll make sure of it. Is that okay with you?”
You know he knows the answer to that. Still, you wish he’d let you say it back before he returns between your thighs.
“You’re perfect, do you know that?”
You’re ready to quip back at him, challenge him with what he already knows as a man of science — that perfection is a man-made myth, something that doesn’t exist in life — but he’s already using his index and ring finger to force your folds apart, gliding them against your wetness and then against your exposed clit. He circles it tentatively, just enough to get you to part your legs for him even more. He succeeds at it and he rewards you with a fond smile and a kiss just shy of where you’re aching.
There’s nothing holy about what follows, the way that Spencer’s tongue works against your clit, how he actually moans now that he’s back to loving you in every way he can. It’s violently blissful, the epitome of sublime, how he devours you like he’s starving for you, like you’re an oasis he’s been praying to find.
“Oh my God, Spencer—“
His fingers dig into the plush of your thighs, keeping you where he needs you as you cry out for him. He’s immovable, lapping at your centre with fervent passion, drawing halos with the flat of his tongue, meeting your every buck and twitch as your arch onto him. Ecstasy builds up for the both of you, goosebumps travelling across your bodies as you shudder from the violent bliss.
Your gaze is hazy with tears, mouth agape as you mewl and whine, clinging onto the bedsheets next to you until you reach for his curls. You feel him nod, pushing further against you as you tug at them desperately, the act enough to make him build his rhythm up, promising your unravelling.
“Goodness, Spencer—“ His tongue is a wicked thing, glorious in its dexterity, spectacular in its precision. He delves further as you keen, peers up from between your thighs as he sucks with clear avarice at your clit. “Fuck, that’s—“ You tremble and gasp, entranced by the sight of his mouth moving fervently against you. He’s gentle and unrestrained all at once, something to be marvelled at (though you’re certain he’d claim that’s all you right then and there), and you can’t hold that truth out on him, “Feels so good, so perfect, oh my—“
You find the strength to escape the daze you’re in, push a lock of hair back from his sweaty forehead. Abandoning one of your thighs for your hand, he leans into your palm, forces his eyes shut only for a fraction of a second to bask in your touch. Then, he holds your hands together on your stomach, a grip soft yet firm at the same time.
Momentum builds, your nerves starting to crystallise as you start to tense. The promise of pleasure has indisputably made a home in you, leaving you helpless as your head lands back on the pillow with a tiny thump. You know that Spencer knows what he’s about to do to you, it’s unmissable and he’s decidedly attuned to that fact.
“You’re—Spencer, if you don’t stop—I’m going to—“
His acknowledgement is gruff, almost inaudible exactly because he’s set on having you give yourself to him no matter what. He latches onto your core and you turn into a weightless thing, feeling ready to float, only Spencer’s not willing to let you. Never again is he going to let you slip through his fingers. There’s unmistakable hunger behind the way he looks at you, a silent pact sealed between you as your brow furrows and your teeth sink into your bottom lip, hands squeezing his in yours.
It’s not that, however, that breaks you, has you choke on his name as his tongue drives you to abandon. It’s the tender brush of his thumb where your pulse throbs under his touch, the glassiness of his eyes that makes the hazel turn into molten gold, lovingly as they look at you the whole time that you spasm underneath him. He anchors you down, to the moment, to the bed, to his lavish affection because he’s not done showing you how sorry he is, how much he’s missed you, how much he loves you quite yet. He eases only slightly, just enough so that you get to chase your climax with the freedom that you need, lets you guide his licks and swirls as you wish even in your most vulnerable state.
Love blossoms in his chest, brings him back to the first time he discovered you were the answer to a prayer he never intended to make, but he’s oh, so glad happened. He takes everything you give him, can’t get enough of savouring your taste as its waves gush into his mouth.
He only lets up on his hold of your hands when you’ve decidedly had enough, when you need to breathe properly again, but that doesn’t mean he’s set to leave you cold. His mouth maps the inside of your thigh, fingers stroking you gently as you begin to relax.
You can barely feel and see him through the blissful haze, though the evidence of all he’s done to you surely extends beyond your sex — inside your thighs where his scruff has burned you, against your hips where his fingertips have left their temporary imprint. You’re flushed, still trembling when you actually make out his figure where he’s standing by the bed, discarding his trousers and his boxers so you’re both even in your nakedness.
You swallow hard when you notice there’s gauze wrapped around his thigh as well, and that he also limps when he has to make his way back to you. You’re much too eager as you pull him down so he’s on top of you again, hugging him by his neck while he returns to soothing your muscles with his touch.
“‘s okay, I’m right here, everything’s okay,” He affirms repeatedly, kissing your temple as you fully come to. Leaning back so he can stare at you, at the beauty that you are in such aftermaths, your hair falling down your shoulders and your mouth half-open, he can’t hold back his smile. He doesn’t want to. “Ready?”
Of course, you are. You’ve already guided him where he belongs, leg slightly propped around his waist as you cradle his face in your hands. You take a moment, then breathe, “Whenever you are.” The pads of your thumbs run across the apples of his cheeks, feeling their sculpted-like edges, before you pull him in for a small kiss. “Just want to look at you when you…”
He nods as you trail off, doesn’t need you to ask twice for something like this, something he needs equally as much. “Of course, angel. Of course,” He promises, settling between your legs, forehead resting against yours. Vulnerability oozes from every part of him as he watches your hand travel down his front, stroke his skin delicately. “Oh, my sweet girl,” He sighs against your mouth when you take him in your hand, pumping him slowly. Jesus Christ, he wants to cry because of how much he’s missed you. He’s grateful for his restraint, though he’s not quite sure how it still exists as he fucks your hand and you lean forward to pepper kisses along his jawline. It lasts for a moment, until he only slightly twitches, leading him to guide your hand back to his chest, right against his heart. He brushes a few strands of hair behind your ear, lets the moonlight trace your skin unrestrictedly.
Like this, under your tender touch, your yearning gaze that’s full of love and devotion, the promise of your union, the safety that Spencer’s known ever since you came into his life returns. And he’s more than ready to give in to it, give in to you, confess and repent, body and soul, praise a God he doesn’t believe in just because there’s you.
He lines the tip of his cock at your entrance and heaves along with you as you tighten your legs around his hips. Eyes locked with yours, he asks one last time, “Are you sure?”
“Always.” You confess, yielding to him completely.
Everything becomes what it should be once again as he pushes inside you, carefully and slowly, submitting you both to completion. He’s barely breathing as your walls stretch to accommodate him, arms trembling where they rest on either side of your face. You’re no better, mesmerised by the sight of him above you, parted lips and eyes sparkling with tears as your chests rise and fall in tandem.
A soft whimper escapes him as he bottoms out inside you, and it’s then you pull him closer against you if humanly possible. “Hey,” You call as your cores meet, breath hitching as he focuses on you. Ever curious and attentive, affection butterflies in your chest because he’s Spencer and because you love him and because nothing matters other than that. “I’m right here, yeah?” You trace his bottom lip with your knuckles, allow him to kiss them softly as you whisper, “We’re alright, we’re here. You’re safe, Spencer.”
Right then, the tears which pooled inside his eyes start to fall freely down his face. There’s nothing rueful about this moment. On the contrary, it’s because his chest is heavy with contentment now that he’s back to safety, to peace that he cries, lets himself be. Recognition is evident in the way he looks at you, the way he kisses you, as he begins to move inside of you. Gently, slowly, just enough to remind himself and you of that promise.
Together, just like that, you return to the closeness that you’ve known and chosen all that time ago. Deliberately, on purpose. With an arm around his waist, you encourage that first thrust that engulfs him in your warmth. A delicate whine escapes you, makes itself known, followed by a soft moan on his part. Easing into that precious back and forth like no time has passed, you both soften impossibly in each other’s arms, dissolving into a pliancy that feels almost pious.
Your walls are slick with warm as they tighten around him, welcoming him back, and he’s unable to think straight. All that he knows is that he’s looking at you, that he’s back to being one with you, and he’s feverish because of it. Feverish with love, with need, with gratitude.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” His lips find the crook of your neck, your name a murmured sigh as he starts to pick up his pace the more vocal you become in response to his movements, “You feel so good, fuck, I’ve missed you so much.”
You preen under his kisses and his words, the unabashed praise he’s christening you with as your lips meet his ear, “Fuck me, Spencer, that’s perfect—” It lands as a moan, mouth grazing the birthmark on his jawline, a soft spot for him, as he settles deeper and deeper inside of you with every thrust, “Oh my fucking God, I love you—”
It’s those words that make him snap, right as one of your arms tightens around him, nails digging into his skin, and he loses all sense of self as he fucks you with an intensity that burns. There’s no him without you, nor is there a you without him — he can hear it in the obscene sounds both of you are making as you merge, he can feel it in how you clench and unclench around him, he can smell it in the air surrounding you that reeks of your signature vanilla perfume, sweat, and sex.
He’s relentless as he grinds deeper and deeper still, until he meets that spot, right where you’re all fuzzy and soft and begging to be felt. Leaning back, he knows it’s not enough for him to feel this, he needs to see it, too. He always does.
“Spencer—” You gasp, mouth inches apart from his, hips rising and falling exquisitely as he steadies you around him.
“I know, honey, I know,” He soothes, pounding into you faster and faster, “Right there, yeah? That’s it, isn’t it?” Once again, he’s indeed right. You’re nothing but a mess underneath him, giving and taking and being rendered speechless the more that he continues to open you up, “I’ve got you, angel, I’m here. I’m right here, yeah? I’m all yours. You don’t have to wait for anything anymore, yeah? Look at me, I’ve got you—”
You tremble and whimper as you meet his gaze, recognising the need his voice is stained with because you feel it, too. It’s everywhere and you’ll be damned if you don’t look at him in the eye when it inevitably takes over you both, when there’s no hiding from it, when there’s no turning back from it.
“Please, Spencer, pleasepleaseplease—” You’re begging for something you know you’ll get, regardless, but you can’t refrain from voicing it. It’s been far too long since you last did and you need him to know this is exactly what you want, that it’ll always be exactly what you want. You and him, united beyond comprehension, in every possible sense of the word.
Spencer curses in return, reaches blindly for your right hand with his left where it rests against the pillow, squeezes it tight. Groaning deeply, he feels the ricochet of pleasure travelling up his spine and he slurs your name out, “I’ve got you, I’m right there with you, I’ve got you—”
He’s barely able to hold himself back, grateful he doesn’t need to, because the moment his promises echo in the dead of night alongside a few more rolls of his hips, you begin to spasm relentlessly, coming undone for him. You arch desperately, pushing and pulling as he fucks you through it, overwhelmed by the pleasure taking over your entire body, crawling inside every part of you as you flutter around him.
Spencer follows mere moments later, burying himself deep inside you as you pull him close, looking at him with a devotion so earnest it borderlines on reverent. He swears his heart stops when you return those soothing murmurs at him, cry out softly that you’re there, urge him to let go for you, even in your misty, blissed out state. It’s exactly the same way he looks back at you, too, as he plunges low and spills himself inside you, filling you. He’s hot, searing almost, and you want to cry because of how right it feels.
You’re surrounded by love, by tenderness, utterly spent. You have succumbed entirely to a trance it takes a while to recover from but you wouldn’t have it any other way. Spencer’s face buried against the crook of your neck, his fingertips absentmindedly tracing your back where it’s still slightly lifted off of the mattress, while your free hand runs through his unruly curls, and you’re nuzzling your face against your intertwined hands next to you, kissing his much larger one wherever you can.
He’s first to come to, though he doesn’t quite move from where he’s settled on top of you. His lips latch onto your chest without following a specific path, his mind set on coaxing you back to consciousness as gently and kindly as possible. His heart aches when he sees you nuzzling against the bandaged spot on his forearm, apologetic for harm you’d never be responsible for. You had a tendency to do that.
“Shhh, shhh, you’re alright. Stay still for me, honey.” He whispers, lips pressed sweetly against your cheek. His chest tightens at your tiny whimper once he removes himself from inside of you, his cock softening and his essence running down your thighs just slightly. The way you try to cling onto him is almost enough to keep him there. Almost. “I’ll be right back, yeah?”
It takes him a moment to make good on his promise, and of course, you haven’t made good on yours. Impossibly stubborn as you always are, you’re lying down on your stomach when he returns from the bathroom, hugging his pillow to your chest.
Once you notice the damp cloth in his hands, you scoot back, features softening as you watch him climb back on the bed. Your legs part for him, a dreamlike sigh slipping past your lips at the feeling of the warm cloth washing away the evidence of what had just happened between you.
You settle against his shoulder, eyes focusing on the bandaged spots on his forearm and his thigh. When he finishes up his work, the words spill before you could notice, “Do you need to change those?”
He blinks down at you, momentarily confused before he realises what you’re referring to. He shakes his head, “They’re fine.”
“Right.” Is he, though? You ponder, watching as he rises from the bed, hobbles back inside the bathroom, and leaves you confused as to what you’re supposed to do. Are you supposed to stay here? Are you supposed to leave? If you stay, then you’ll inevitably have to talk — about everything. Frankly, you’re terrified of that, albeit not as much as Spencer must be. If you leave, you’re not quite sure you’ll be able to return, if only for fear Spencer wouldn’t want you to. But then what was all this for?
You’ve waited long enough with your thoughts, it seems, because when your eyes snap into focus next, Spencer’s next to you again. He’s debating whether it’s a good idea to touch you, to bring you closer to him. You don’t let him do so for long, crawling back inside his arms.
You break the stifling silence first, do it by calling him out using his words from before, “You’re the one being much too quiet now.”
He chuckles, the sound a huff of air breathed through his nose. It’s enough to make butterflies erupt in your stomach.
“Yeah, guess I’m the one who doesn’t know what to say now.”
“How uncharacteristic…” You tilt your head back, observing him as he stares at the ceiling while absentmindedly stroking your hair, a faint hint of a smile against his lips. “Do you want me to go?”
He doesn’t miss a beat as he answers, “That’s the last thing I want.”
While that’s good to know, and it’s enough to make heat rise from your neck to your face, it’s still not quite enough. It doesn’t help you understand what you’re supposed to do with yourself and with him. “I think the last thing you want is to talk.”
He looks down at you then, coils a strand of hair behind your ear. Resting his hand at the nape of your neck, he sighs, “We’ll talk. I promise we will.”
When he blanks, the only thing you can do is nod faintly. Because the truth is that you’ve always been understanding to a fault and you’ve never known anyone who deserves that dignity more than Spencer. “Just not tonight?”
He purses his lips and silently thanks whatever force has brought you into his life, whether that be a God he doesn’t quite believe in, the universe, or the good he’s done in a past life he’s being rewarded for in this one. Pressing his forehead against yours, noses brushing together, Spencer vows that no matter how much everything that happened may have changed him, he will remain deserving of you, spend the entirety of the rest of his life making up for lost time, making sure the wait is worth it, if only because there can’t be him without you, not anymore, not ever. “Just not tonight.”
It’s a promise you’re sure is worth any wait there might be, a settlement you’re more than willing to make. Because like this, with Spencer’s arms wrapped tightly around you and his lips softly pressed against yours, you are back to feeling safe again, back to knowing all that there’s to know, back to feeling mortal enough to suffer any blow that can be proved prove fatal, back to understanding there truly can’t be you without him.
visual is for vibes only, reader’s appearance is nondescript!
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader
summary: during your maternity leave, you pay a surprise visit to the team
warnings: brief mentions of new-parent anxieties and hypothetical death, daughter’s name is natalie
word count: 1.8k
a/n: this ended up being a little more hotch-centric than i wanted it to be, but enjoy girl dad spencer anyways!
You’d had your baby.
Ten weeks of sleepless nights, soft lullabies and a love deeper than anything you’d ever known. You couldn’t be happier.
Spencer had insisted on taking his full paternity leave, determined to spend every moment that he could with the baby. He wanted to be there for every sound and move she made.
Returning to the BAU hadn’t been as seamless for him as he’d hoped. He’d always been able to compartmentalise, but now, every child-related case hit a little too close to home. Every missing kid made him picture Natalie’s face. Every grieving parent reminded him of how much he had to lose.
He was constantly on edge now, always thinking ten steps ahead and not just for the case, but to protect the life he’d built with you.
Natalie Anne Reid.
Anne had been his choice - after Lucy Maude Montgomery’s ‘Anne of Green Gables’.
He wanted his daughter to grow up to be brave and curious and kind. Assertive. Imaginative. Intelligent, like her father. He wanted the world for his Natalie.
He’d been back at work for just two weeks when the team’s curiosity hit his breaking point. No number of pictures or phone calls was satisfying their hunger for time with you both.
Which led to this morning, when you’d bundled up your daughter and accompanied Spencer to the BAU for the first time since she was born.
“Knock, knock,” you called with a smile as you stepped through the double doors of the BAU, cradling a swaddled Natalie to your chest and Spencer trailing behind you.
Morgan and Prentiss’s heads snapped up from their desks in perfect unison at the sound of your voice.
Morgan’s eyes locked onto the bundle in your arms, and a grin spread across his face, “Is this her?”
“This is her,” you replied fondly, adjusting your baby girl so he could see her tiny face peeking out, already grinning up at her new admirers.
Morgan’s smile grew even wider, “Garcia!”
The squeak of Penelope’s swivel chair echoed from across the bullpen, and you saw her duck her head out of her office, “Yes, angel, baby, love of my life?”
“Baby’s here.” he smiled softly.
“Oh my God!” she squealed, launching from her chair as soon as her eyes landed on you and the newest addition to your family.
A chorus of coos erupted around you as Garcia rushed over, eyes already shining with tears as she looked down at Natalie.
“She’s perfect,” she whispered, hands clasped over her heart, “I mean, I knew she would be, but look at her little face! She’s an angel.”
You laughed softly, feeling Spencer step just a little closer behind you, his hand brushing against the small of your back in quiet support.
He’d gotten ridiculously protective since you’d given birth and was hardly even letting you walk to the kitchen for a glass of water without hovering nearby, just in case.
Normally, you loved the attention. But this wasn’t pampering. This was anxiety. Deep-rooted and persistent.
You’d always been the one driving yourself mad when it came to your health, but lately, it felt like the two of you had switched places.
You were calm. Logical, even.
And Spencer? He’d practically wrapped your entire apartment, including Natalie, in metaphorical bubble wrap and literal baby-proofers.
No one had even gotten close enough to try kissing your baby. And at ten weeks, she was more than safe to be around people. But Spencer had all but nailed a ‘No Entry’ sign to her vicinity.
“She’s adorable,” Spencer affirmed, a little breathless as he watched Garcia ogle Natalie. His fingers twitched at his side, the instinct to hover almost overpowering.
You reached for his hand without looking, and he laced his fingers with yours automatically, grounding himself in the warmth of your touch.
Garcia swayed on the balls of her feet,, her eyes locked onto your daughter like she was the eighth wonder of the world.
She gasped suddenly, eyes wide, “She smiled at me!”
“Did you see that? I think she smiled!” she looked between you and Spencer excitedly.
“She’s been doing that more lately,” Spencer said, a proud smile blooming on his face.
“It’s not actually reflexive anymore. At about six to twelve weeks, social smiling becomes more intentional. Natalie’s ahead of schedule, of course.”
You gave him a knowing look, smiling amusedly, “Of course.”
He didn’t notice your teasing, too wrapped up in watching his daughter as he continued his ramble.
“She recognises voices now,” Spencer added, his voice excited, “She knows Garcia’s. And Y/N’s. And mine.”
Desperate to see her excel, he’d gone as far as to record himself reading several storybooks, ones Natalie couldn’t yet understand, just so she could hear his voice at night.
He blinked hard, clearing his throat. He still couldn’t believe she was real, “Especially mine.”
At that, you squeezed his hand. You knew he’d been reading every book, journal and case study on infant development since the day you found out you were pregnant.
But none of them had prepared him for what it would actually feel like to have his girl in his arms, and his life.
Down the hallway, blissfully unaware of all the hullabaloo, in the break room, was Hotch, pouring himself a, not un-rare, second cup of coffee.
He’d been up since before sunrise, working through the latest case files and trying not to think about how quiet the office felt with Reid still only half-present and you completely absent.
An excitable laughter interrupted his train of thought.
He paused halfway through stirring his coffee, frowning slightly at the sound. It wasn’t often the bullpen erupted like that, especially not this early in the morning.
Mug in hand, he stepped out, expecting maybe a surprise birthday or some inappropriate joke from Morgan. But when he turned the corner, he stopped short.
There you were, baby in your arms and swarmed by the rest of the team, who could barely contain their excitement.
His footsteps slowed.
“You brought her in,” he said, eyes slightly wide at the sight of you, back at the BAU so soon.
“Just for today,” you nodded, “Didn’t think it was fair for her to go any longer without meeting the team.”
Hotch stepped closer.
Whilst Reid moved to the side of you both with the others, to give you some space, he stayed nearby, eyes never quite leaving you. You felt him ease up a bit when Hotch’s gaze settled on Natalie.
“She’s beautiful,” Hotch said, a small smile tugging at his lips, “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” you replied, swallowing around the unexpected lump in your throat.
You shifted Natalie again, more to centre yourself than anything. Her little hand peeked out of the blanket, curling softly against your chest.
“Hotch,” you said, carefully. His eyes met yours, sharpening almost immediately.
“There’s something I wanted to ask.”
Hotch paused, setting his still-steaming mug on the nearest desk, “Of course,” he nodded, folding his arms across his chest.
“We’ve… I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” you began, glancing back at Spencer briefly. “You know, our jobs are so high-risk, and we wanted to know there’d be someone there for her, if, God forbid, something ever happened to us.”
You took a steadying breath to stop yourself from rambling.
“Hotch, I want you to be Natalie’s godfather.”
At your words, a mix of emotions flickered across Hotch's face. Surprise, honour, and a pain that he was trying very hard to hide. You saw right through him.
His eyes remain fixed on the baby in your arms, and a moment passed, in which the weight of your request settled.
“Are you sure?" he asked gently, like he was scared you would take back the offer if his voice held too much grit.
You nodded, blinking back tears, “You’ve taken care of me all these years in the field . Made me feel so and safe loved here… Hotch, there’s no one I’d trust more.”
Hotch looked up at you, his usually unreadable face softening. Your words seem to hit a nerve in him and, for a moment, he struggled to speak.
“I...I'd be honored to.” he finally managed, voice uneasy.
Stuttering.
SSA Aaron Hotchner. Your boss. Your mentor. The man who had never been seen blinking in front of the team was tearing up over your daughter.
Your heart nearly burst.
Hotch looked down at Natalie again. His knuckles gently brushed against her cheek. She mewled, smacking her lips in her sleep.
You noticed the way his gaze lingered on her in a sort of dumbstruck awe, softer than it had ever been, “Would you… would you like to hold her, Hotch?”
He looked up, caught off guard, but the answer was written all over his face.
“I would,” he said, with a small, genuine smile. He was already smitten with your girl.
You didn’t even have to say anything. Hotch took Natalie into his arms with a natural ease. He supported her tiny head, one large hand nearly enveloping her entirely. She let out a soft huff, cuddling closer to his chest.
“Thank you,” you whispered, as you wrapped your arms around him, tears slipping down your cheeks now.
He held you there for a moment, Natalie still in the crook of his arm. He seemed to hesitate briefly, almost like he was scared you’d disappear, and Natalie along with you.
“You don't need to thank me," Hotch said, holding you a little tighter and his voice choked up.
“I do. Not just for this.” you said quietly, letting your head rest against his shoulder.
Your words weighed a ton.
He swallowed hard, his free arm tightening around you further, until you were sure he’d snap you in two. He was shielding you, handling you with just as much care as he would your daughter.
Hotch knew the struggle you’d been through to get here. The battles you’d fought in your own mind. The fear of things never changing. Now, you were glowing.
He couldn’t help but feel proud of you.
His eyes drifted to Reid across the room, your now husband, animatedly telling the others how Natalie had grabbed his finger for the first time. How, not to brag, but she’d done it earlier than 78% of babies in her age bracket.
Hotch smiled. The two of you truly were perfect parents.
He took a quiet moment to gather himself, then said, with more love in his voice than you’d ever heard:
“I’d do anything for you. You know that.”
It was then that the rest of the team came bundling over again.
You quickly wiped your eyes, just as Garcia dramatically announced that she was going to die if she didn’t have Natalie in her arms in the next two seconds.
Hotch let out the smallest chuckle, carefully transferring Natalie to her next set of loving arms.
And, in that moment, you couldn’t be more grateful for the honorary family that you’d found in the BAU.
. After the events of the Nostromo, you and Ripley wanted to get away from it all, using the money she got from suing the company she bought some land and a ranch for you to spend the rest of your lives together in peace.
.Only uses pine soap, it's one of her signature scents, along with any musky vanilla smell she can gets her hands on. She knows it drives you crazyyyyy…
.You give her riding lessons because you are forever a horse girl and she wants to be apart of that. She has an Ardennais horse and a German Shepherd and Jonesy is the man of the house… obviously.
.She always has her nose in a book when she’s not working on the ranch, sometimes she’ll be oblivious to what you’re doing because she’s so engrossed in her silly little books.
.Picks flowers for you every so often, she likes to put them in your hair. :)
.Hugeeeee hat collection!!! even though she only wears one, it has stars embroidered on it courtesy of you.
.Scuffed brown boots are her go to choice of footwear, even when you’re going out someplace nice, even in the house.
.Pretends to be annoyed when you steal her hat but deep down thinks it’s adorable.
.BIGGG whisky drinker, i mean after the horrors you would be the same.
.Gets sunburn almost every day but she persists because she likes doing all the farm work for you.
.She WILL be running you both a bath every night, it helps with the nightmares but she also wants an excuse to be close to you. Your ranch has a very old tub but it has charm.
.She won’t stop kissing your head until you fall asleep peacefully in her arms. <333
did a double take on “You give her riding lessons” bc I thought this was a diversion from our stonetop canon gf wife boyfriend lore but quickly realised I was being whorish 🫶🏻😔
tiktok gifted me a higher education than any academic establishment on the day it taught me that the ”aaaaaaaaaaaaaah” part of Toxic by Britney Spears was made entirely for post-prison childless-dilf Spencer Reid, approximately 13 years prior to his existence. case in point: ♡ ♡ ♡
Summary: Spencer cannot stop fantasizing about you
Request: A fic where Spencer’s crush on BAU!Reader is so intense and he’s having all these sex dreams about her and his main dream for him is to go down on her. He wants nothing more than to go down on her and taste her and worship her.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader
Category: Smut
Content Warnings: (18+, minors DNI) Spencer is a bit of a pervert, sex fantasies and dreams, there was only one bed, male masturbation, description of oral (fem receiving) and fingering, coming untouched
Word count: 1.9k
Masterlist
It had to be your scent.
Floral, sweet and absolutely mesmerizing.
For weeks Spencer had been trying to figure out what it was about you that slowly drove him mad. He even looked at the latest research about physical attraction, only to come to the conclusion that the two of you apparently were a perfect match.
Only you didn’t know that yet.
So Spencer had no choice but to indulge in his fantasies about you to soothe his yearning for your nearness.
It all began a few weeks ago, just a couple of days after you had started working at the BAU. Spencer stood behind you at your desk, leaning over your shoulder to read over the case report you had just finished.
He had every intention of giving you constructive feedback but his mind went completely blank once he noticed your scent. It wasn’t some perfume, Spencer was sure about that. It was like your neck emanated some sorcerous haze that rendered him completely speechless.
Lucky for him, you hadn’t noticed how dumbfounded he suddenly felt around you.
Later that night, when Spencer was fast asleep in his bed, you visited him in his dream. He noticed your sweet smell before he saw you, waiting for him completely bare, ready to be devoured. There was no hesitation, no holding back before Spencer fell to his knees to worship every part of you.
He woke up painfully hard the next morning, a desperate sigh escaping his lips when he realized it was only a dream. Spencer felt bad to taint you like that but he couldn’t help but touch himself to the thought of you.
With closed eyes he let his mind flood with your images. The way your chest vibrated when you laughed, the way you looked at him with wide eyes when he explained something to you.
A determined hand pulled down the waistband of his pajama pants to free his aching cock. Wrapping his fingers around it, he began moving slowly. A different memory of you appeared inside his head with every stroke.
He thought about when he watched you stretch your arms over your head at your desk and a small patch of skin became visible just beneath the hem of your blouse. Then, the memory of your scent hit him like a train.
Desperately, Spencer let his thumb swipe over the leaking tip of his hardness before speeding up his strokes. Biting down on his lips, he held back his desperate whines.
He imagined how your skin would smell when he’d kiss down your body. How it would intensify the closer he got to your core. He thought about you spreading your legs for him and how your honeyed wetness would taste on his tongue.
That was what threw him over the edge. With a pathetic whimper he came, spilling his essence over his hand and stomach. The cool shower that followed was not enough to wash away the guilt he felt for doing something so sinful while thinking about the purest thing he’d ever seen - you.
However, it was nothing compared to how mortified he was when he actually saw you that day. His cheeks were blooming bright pink and he could barely stutter ‘good morning’ once he laid eyes on you. Only focussing back on his job allowed him to take his mind off you for a couple of hours.
Over the following weeks, Spencer felt like he was going insane anytime he stood too close to you.
It was the same every time. He sensed your wonderful smell and he was a goner for the rest of the day, already knowing what would happen once he fell asleep that night. The dreams of you became more vivid each time, so much so that Spencer had trouble telling fantasy apart from reality whenever he woke up the next morning.
When he woke up today, he could have sworn he could still taste you. Lively was the memory of the way your silken folds felt under his tongue and how enchanting your heady aroma was. Only it was not a memory, it was just his mind playing tricks on him.
Over the past few weeks Spencer had learned to act normal around you despite the peccable thoughts he had whenever he was alone. That was until the two of you were told to share a room on the current case.
When you noticed that there was only one bed in the room, you let out a breathy laugh, “Of course.”
Spencer avoided your eyes when you turned to him and you noticed how his cheeks turned pink. “I uh…,” he stuttered. “Uhm I could ask someone to switch rooms?”
“I’m okay with this if you are,” you told him. “There’s enough room for the both of us.”
Spencer, however, was not okay with it but had no intention of letting you know that. Not because he didn’t crave your nearness but because he was certain it would be his downfall. After clearing his throat, he tried as best as he could to get his composure back and nod.
It was already late and both of you were exhausted after working on a very tiring case all day. Spencer was the first one to take a shower and settle down on one side of the bed, a book in his hands, pretending to read until you’d find your home under the covers, too.
When you stepped out of the bathroom in nothing but flimsy pajama shorts and a white tank top, Spencer’s brain almost short-circuited. It was so bad, he couldn’t even hide his staring. The natural curve of your breasts was visible under the fabric of your shirt, a view Spencer had only imagined so far.
When he felt too much blood rushing down to his center, he quickly averted his eyes back to the book in his hands, hoping you hadn’t noticed his staring.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?”
Your words brought Spencer back to reality. He found your eyes and raised his eyebrows.
“Seeing each other like that, I mean,” you clarified. “It’s very different from our usual work attire.”
Spencer looked down at his washed-out Caltech shirt. “Yeah, that’s true.”
He tried not to look at you when you slid beneath the covers right beside him but he couldn’t help but watch the way your body moved from the corners of his eyes. You turned off the nightlight on your side of the bed before laying down.
“You can keep reading if you want, I don’t mind,” you whispered as you closed your eyes.
“No, I’m really tired,” Spencer said as he turned off the lights on his side and put the book down. “Good night.”
Once he had laid down, he felt wide awake though. As he listened to your steady breathing, your scent filled the room and began clouding Spencer’s brain. Minutes passed as he just laid there, contemplating how inappropriate it would be for him to make a move. He thought about rolling to his side, wrapping you into his arms and kissing your neck. To keep his indecent thoughts at bay, he forced himself not to take this fantasy any further.
Finally, his body started feeling heavy and sleep began dulling his senses, relieving him from the torture that was reality. That was until he felt your fingertips gently brushing over his arm, a sensation that almost shocked him.
“Are you still awake?” He heard your hushed voice.
“Yes.”
You turned and slid closer to him until your face was mere inches away from his. There was little light in the room but it was enough for Spencer to notice the smirk on your face.
“I can’t sleep,” you said. “I can’t turn my mind off.”
Spencer cleared his throat. “Because of the case? Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, it’s not the case,” you purred. “I just can’t stop thinking about how much I want to kiss you.”
Before he could ask any more questions, he felt your mouth against his. It was as if a dam broke when he felt your nearness, there was no more holding back. Spencer pulled you closer, his hands on your back pressing you into him, not allowing any distance between the two of you.
His lips were greedy and demanding, kissing you like he was starving. In a way, he was. When a whimper escaped your throat, he saw it as an invitation to deepen the kiss. His tongue met yours, tasting you for the first time as you two melted into each other.
It wasn’t enough, though.
Spencer turned you on your back and hovered over you as he began kissing and nipping down your neck, taking in your sweet smell.
“You’re mesmerizing,” he breathed against your pulse point before licking along your neck. “I can’t get enough.”
Hurriedly his hands grabbed the hem of your shirt and you moved with him as he pulled it over your head. His palms were on your breasts before your back could touch the mattress again. His mouth followed his fingers, caressing your chest and hardened peaks until the sounds of your pleasure filled the room.
“Please, Spencer,” you moaned. “I need you.”
There was no need to explain any further what you needed, he understood. Slowly, Spencer kissed down your stomach before licking along the seam of your shorts. Then, he sat up and slid the fabric down your thighs before you spread them for him.
He wished there was more light so he could see all the glory your body had to offer but he had to rely on his other senses to explore you. Spencer lay down between your legs and began kissing your inner thighs while breathing in your infatuating scent.
The mewls falling from your lips once he licked over your slit with a flattened tongue were driving him insane. But it was nothing compared to finally tasting your heady dew on his tongue. With the utmost care he kissed and licked over your folds, tasting every bit of you while imprinting your uniqueness into his brain.
Spencer barely noticed how painfully hard he was as he rocked his hips against the mattress ever so slightly. Tasting you and feeling you writhe beneath him was the best sensation he had ever experienced.
When he let two of his fingers gently glide into you, Spencer was sure he just entered heaven. The way you enveloped his fingers while releasing even more of your honeyed wetness was absolutely magnificent.
When you began pulsing around his fingers while crying out his name, Spencer couldn’t help but indulge in this sensation with you. He released himself into his pajama pants while grinding against the mattress.
Spencer's eyes shot open while a sigh left his lips. The morning sun was already coming through the curtains of the hotel room window. You were asleep, your back turned to Spencer. He looked at you, wondering how he had just laid between your legs, and now you were lying fully clothed an arm's length away from him.
He thought back to moments ago. What he first thought was a memory began to blur and fade away. Slowly he realized that none of it had been real.
It was yet another dream.
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