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stranger-fanfiction-n-things · 17 days ago

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not a mask, but a reflection | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Waldorf!Reader Category: idk hurt/comfort?? flangst? something like that, I'm sorry I truly don't know how to categorize this Summary: The BAU ladies insist on a makeover for Spencer, so you decide to indulge them by promising to take him shopping. It doesn't go as either of you expected, but it allows a chance for the two of you to form a deeper bond. Content: reader’s outfit is described, reader is based on Blair Waldorf in background, and personality– so you're rich!! and fashionable!! And snarky, but in a ride or die sunshine x sunshine protector kind of way, early season 2 glasses!Spencer crushing on reader, implied autistic Spencer, brief mention of his bullying, lots of dialogue!!! especially about fashion advice (PSA to wear whatever you want!!) Word count: 2.8k A/N: I'm back on my Blair Waldorf-reader agenda. I'm mainly writing these because of my own crackship, but I tried very hard not to describe any specific appearance stuff for the reader (aside from what ur wearing) so it’s as immersive and universal as possible! Styling in film and TV fascinates me and I wanted to explore Spencer’s character through clothes. ALSO! I incorporate a Blair Waldorf quote into the conversation that goes “Fashion is the most powerful art there is. It’s movement, design, and architecture all in one. It shows the world who we are and who we’d like to be.” pls know I didn't come up with it, the Gossip Girl writers did. It's from S4E13 specifically.

Saturdays are usually meant for curling up on his couch to read his favorite books, or marathon obscure foreign films. Alone, always alone, Spencer Reid has grown used to the feeling; accepted it, enjoyed it, even. He wouldn’t have survived all these years if he didn't appreciate his own company, after all.

However, today is different. He’s expecting company, which is unusual enough, but he’s expecting you of all people. And it’s for such a silly thing too— a makeover. Something straight out of a cliche high school movie. It had started at work, during a case, a passing comment made by one of the people being interviewed. Something about looking like he’s playing dress up, spoken so softly he’d been willing to pretend to ignore it.

But you heard it, had snapped at the man in annoyance about respect and propriety. At the jet, you had snapped at him about wearing clothes that fit better, and of course Morgan and JJ had to get involved, and Garcia squealed about a makeover over the phone. He hadn’t expected you to accept; when you did, he considered several ways to get out of it: pretend to have a date (implausible), pretend to get sick, just don’t show up. But then you said you’ll meet him at his apartment and his world seemed to come crashing down.

“I need to see what I'm working with before I dive headfirst into this,” was your reply when he protested. It makes sense, of course, but he's not happy about accepting you into his space. It's curated for him and his comfort, and he dreads the idea of casting your shrewd, critical gaze over his design choices. If he's less of a coward, he would admit that a small part of him desires your approval. Craves it, needs it, so much it makes his skin crawl.

So that’s why his Saturday morning is spent cleaning; straightening books, hiding the case files strewn about. He doesn’t want to give you any ammunition to tease him with. Having to undergo a makeover is embarrassing enough.

It reeks of bleach when he opens the door for you. The wrinkle of your nose has no business being so cute when it's obviously done to express disgust.

“What is that smell?”

“Hello to you too,” he can't keep the sarcasm from his tone as he steps aside.

You saunter in heels even though this is meant to be a casual get together. They click against his hardwood floors until you reach his rug, the thick fabric dulling out the noise. “Did you bleach your entire place?”

His expression is sheepish as he closes the door, “I figured I'd clean.”

“You sure you're not hiding a murdered body in here?” you walk straight into the middle of his apartment and look around. He winces as he waits for your verdict.

“I’m not, I just - you’re so -”

“I’m so?”

“Particular.” I don’t want to disappoint you, but he clamps his mouth shut before the words escape. Having you come in for a makeover already isn’t doing anything for his confidence. In fact, it just confirms his suspicions. Something is wrong with him, despite all the attempts at propriety and flattery otherwise. The BAU sees it, you see it, and you’re here to fix it. He swallows the lump in his throat, and with it, his pride and the tiny hint of resentment.

You are trying to help, he reminds himself.

Maybe it’s his hopeless optimism, maybe it’s desperation to seem normal for once, but it’s enough to surrender to your knowledgeable hands.

He lets his eyes take you in, allows himself a moment to linger on the details of your ensemble. The picture of coordination, as usual; shoes and bag the same shade of rich brown, the barrettes in your hair matching the pale blue trimming along the edges of the sundress you’re wearing. This is you dressed down, he knows, but somehow you manage to outdress him.

“I’m not even going to ask what you mean by that,” your eyes roll, before landing to one of the doors in his apartment, “Where’s your bedroom?”

He sputters, “My - uh, why?”

“I’m assuming that’s where you keep your clothes?” You look at him like he’s dumb, and he turns bright pink. “I told you, I can’t take you shopping before I see what you already own.”

He can’t believe he fully didn’t realize it meant letting you into his bedroom. But then again, his brain has the tendency to turn to mush when he’s speaking with you. “Right,” he nods, scrambling to his bedroom. All of his anxieties about his living room and the overwhelming amount of books seem distant now; you hadn’t even commented on them. Instead, this new one arises, bubbles in his stomach. Showing you his bedroom is so much more intimate. The space he sleeps in, where he’s most vulnerable.

A space no other woman has ever even seen.

He feels your presence behind him, smells the distinct loveliness of the perfume you like to call your signature scent. Of course you don’t ask for permission. He’s found quickly that you’re used to taking and having what you want, used to the world yielding to you instead of the other way around.

Your heels make sharp taps against the floor. Combined with your perfume, it’s already obvious that you’re making your mark in his room, his haven. He imagines the fragrance will linger when you leave, and it makes his ears burn with a longing that knocks the wind from his chest. The door remains open, and he’s thankful that he isn’t completely caged in his bedroom with you.

“Here’s my, uh, where I keep my clothes.” he hastily opens his closet, relief flooding his body as he sees it’s not that messy. Everything is ironed and pressed, although some of his sweaters are haphazardly piled together. He hopes he won’t have to show you the mess that is his sock drawer.

You step up beside him, bare arm brushing against his. Brows furrowed in concentration as you rifle through his clothes. He steps back to give you more room to work with, although it’s more for his sake than yours. Your proximity is making him a little dizzy. He finds himself slumping on his bed, watching your movements. You’re approaching the task at hand with the same meticulous acuity as you would in a crime scene. Focused. Detail oriented, even when doing something so insignificant.

He’s not sure what to expect. He’s bought his clothes based on what he sees other men wear, relying on his observation skills, and the clothing guidelines given by HR to deduce what is considered appropriate. His father wore dress shirts a lot, back when his family was still intact. Hotch and Morgan wear suits, but those have always felt too formal to use on a daily basis. He opts for cardigans and sweater vests to keep him warm instead, because they’re softer, less restrictive. They remind him of Diana, the things she would wear back when she could still teach. He hopes you don’t make him get rid of them.

“You wear a lot of light browns,” your voice lifts him out of his anxious stupor, “You have to give that up.”

He frowns in confusion, “What’s wrong with wearing light brown?”

“You’re too pale, they make you look even more sickly. But if you must wear brown, lean into this shade instead,” you hold up a dark brown blazer that he actually really likes. He smiles, happy that it got your seal of approval. You turn to him, eyes narrowed, “And your dress shirts are too big, look at where the shoulder seam falls.”

He blinks in surprise as your hand comes to touch an inch past the edge of his shoulder, pinching the fabric, “It should be up here. You’re too slim for an oversized look, it just swamps your frame. If you’re going to be wearing them, they have to fit you better.”

He nods, feeling a little out of his depth, “How do you know all of this?”

“Years of consuming Cosmopolitan and Vogue.” You turn back to the closet, he frowns slightly. The words mean nothing to him, and he flinches when he hears you sigh.

“Fashion magazines?” you prompt, glancing back over your shoulder.

“Ah,” He nods, lips pursed, “I can't say those are on my reading lists.”

“Obviously not, otherwise you'd know not to wear,” You gesture at his entire ensemble, nose wrinkling once again, “This.”

It doesn’t really occur to him what the problem is as he looks down at his checked button down. “It’s a nice shirt.” he says, although he can see your point now; it’s too big.

“Reid, you look like you’re about to start proselytizing about our lord and saviour Jesus Christ.” you say, stepping away from his wardrobe and stopping in front of him.

Your teasing makes his cheeks burn. Or maybe it’s your sudden closeness, your hands at his buttons, “Um, what–” he’s stiff, memories rushing of being held down, clothes forcibly ripped—

“Relax,” you step back after undoing the top button. The annoyed scoff surprisingly gives him some comfort, reminds him it’s you, he’s here with you, “There, that’s better. Don’t button it up all the way.”

“Why not?”

“I told you, it makes you look like you’re cosplaying a minister.” He shifts under your gaze, feeling exposed, even though he’s fully dressed. But that’s exactly what you’re judging, after all, his clothes. There’s nowhere to hide. “Why are you so tense, Reid? It’s not going to make you look like a fool, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Why? Where does he even begin? The fact that he’s never had a woman in his room before, and it’s making him feel like he’s about to implode? His memories of being stripped naked for all the school to see, humiliated, fueling the irrational fear of letting go of his clothes, the things he’s comfortable wearing. And for what? In order to be fashionable? To seem normal, to be fixed?

He settles for a half truth, the words mumbled and embarrassed, “I like my clothes.”

To his surprise, your eyes soften, “Okay. And?”

“I like how I dress.”

“You don’t want to change your style?”

He looks down and shakes his head, feeling a little silly. How can he explain it to someone like you, who probably would have been one of his tormentors when he was back in school? It’s sick, this desire to be close to you, to be accepted by you as though being in your orbit would lessen his eccentricity. He thought he’d left it behind in high school, had grown out of it, but it’s there, recognizable and refusing to let him rest.

“You know you didn’t have to say yes to this,” the bed dips as you sit beside him, “It was a silly thing the girls and I thought would be fun, but if it’s making you uncomfortable, I’ll stop and we could just, I dunno, go for ice cream instead.”

“No, I - I do, I just… don’t want to change completely.” It's almost pathetic how something as simple as clothes is making him spiral, “I like how I dress, even if you guys make fun of it. It’s comfortable. I get really cold hands, and the sweaters help, and - and the satchel is convenient even if you say it clashes with my outfits or whatever.”

Your hand rests on his forearm, and his rambling halts immediately.

“Then I won’t stop you from wearing grandpa-chic,” the lightness in your voice makes him smile, “This is why I wanted to see what you had. I wasn’t about to start from scratch, and there’s obviously a reason you gravitated towards these pieces. I wouldn’t force you into something you hate, that sort of defeats my fashion philosophy.”

“Your fashion philosophy?” He's smiling now as he listens to you.

“I believe that the whole point of fashion and clothing is to help reflect what you are on the inside, not mask it.” You reply, hand finding his own. He allows it, finding something warm and soothing in the touch of your hand, silencing the usual urge to pull away in fear of germs. “And, anyway, I think your clothes make you look really intellectual, so if you like them, you have the pieces in your closet already, it’s just a matter of styling them better.”

You squeeze his hand, but he could have sworn you did it to his actual heart.

He watches as you return to his closet again, rummaging through the clothes. You hold up a white button down and a navy blue cardigan, head tilted to the side, teeth worrying the plushness of your lower lip, “Like this; this is a nice combination, and it’ll work better with your complexion. Try it on.” they’re tossed over to him, landing on his lap.

You’re turning away from him, still going through his clothes—allowing him privacy. He appreciates that. He scrambles out of his current clothes, his skin prickling as he thinks about the fact that he’s in a room with a woman alone, getting undressed. No. You’re a friend and a coworker doing him a favor, he should get his head out of the gutter. Hurriedly, he puts the suggested ensemble on.

“Uh, it’s — you can turn around.”

He holds his breath as your eyes rove over his figure, still with the same sharpness he’s used to, but blunted by the small smile playing across your lips. “Yeah, that’s better. Navy’s a great color for you.” you have a stack of his shirts in your hand, all of them patterned and printed, “I’m sorry, but these… have to go. Or at least don’t wear them to work. The prints are ugly, no offense.”

He chuckles, taking the shirts from you, “Not wearing ugly prints to work anymore, got it.”

“Yeah, keep the funky patterns on your ties.” you reach up, brushing lint and dust off the cardigan, “Your shirts should remain plain, solid colors; you have a lot of nice sweater vests and cardigans, it’ll be easier to match them together if your shirts are in more basic colors.”

Committing your words to memory is easy enough. Rules. He likes rules, but they need to make sense to him, otherwise their arbitrariness will simply frustrate him. “Why?”

“Why what?”

So far, you’re being so receptive to his questions, it might actually make him cry. It’s a new feeling, being the one who’s floundering. Not being the smartest, most knowledgeable person. How exciting, he decides, getting to learn in an area he’s never been able to fully understand on his own. He clarifies, “Why can’t I match the cardigans and sweaters to, uh, colorful shirts?”

It’s a while before you answer, moving around to wind a tie across his neck. Your words are thoughtful when you speak, “It’s a visual balance. Too many colors and patterns can look heavy and distracting— which is okay, you know, but time and place is always something to consider when you’re dressing up. And you’re going to work, so it’s better to err on the side of caution and wear things that are more… sleek.” Your hands are deft as they tighten the tie, tucking it into the cardigan. “So now that I know what sorts of clothes you like to wear, it’s a matter of finding the right color combinations and cuts that fit your body. Here, see for yourself.”

You push him forward until he’s in front of his mirror, and indeed he does look… better. Still himself, still familiar, but the contrast of the navy cardigan against his pale skin somehow brings out more warmth from his cheeks and makes his hair seem less dull. Visual balance, you said. “Like art,” he murmurs.

“Exactly,” your smile is proud, peeking from behind his shoulder, “Fashion is the most powerful art there is. It’s movement, design, and architecture all in one. It shows the world who we are and who we’d like to be… and this is showing the world that you’re one attractive nerd.”

He laughs at that. There’s a lightness in his chest as he realizes he doesn’t have to change everything. “I think I get it.” he replies, meeting your eyes in the mirror.

“Of course you do, you’re a genius.” A slap on the back, one filled with warm intimacy, “Now, I did promise the team a makeover, so now that I know what sort of stuff you need, we can finally go shopping… and we need to do something with your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” he asks, but he’s smiling and so are you.

THERE WILL BE A PART TWO! Also, tagging everyone who expressed interest in Waldorf!Reader @mggslover @libraprincessfairy @lillaberry @lokisswiftie

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stranger-fanfiction-n-things · 17 days ago

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derision as prelude to desire | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Waldorf!Reader

Category: smut 18+ MDNI, fluff if you squint

Summary: Spencer Reid’s new coworker is mean but one night doing overtime together leads to the two of them bonding.

Content: glasses!Spencer, workplace rivals if you squint, Spencer Reid vs technology, reader is kind of mean and based on Blair Waldorf (in background, looks, and personality), Spencer is petty, his mind is in the GUTTER, use of eye drops, making out, sub!Spencer, fingering, oral (male receiving), whining and begging glasses!Spencer. Let’s pretend the BAU doesn’t have any CCTV cameras for this one m’kay thanks

Word count: 3.6k

A/N: This is an ITCH in my brain, like I’ve been thinking about a Spencer Reid x Blair Waldorf crackship since August last year it’s actually concerning. One of my favorite ship dynamics is loser boy x popular girl, so it makes sense. Still in second person to make it immersive. This isn’t a crossover, so there will be no spoilers for Gossip Girl. The reader's personality, looks and background are just based on Blair. Let me know if you want to read more of this dynamic because I have so many ideas for it oh my god. I hope you enjoy it!

Spencer Reid often muses on the series of events that had brought you from the streets of the Upper East Side to work in Quantico, Virginia. It would be easy to ask, of course, or even have Penelope do a quick background check on you, but he’s made a game of it instead, piecing together what he knows of your history, filling in the blanks of what would have gone wrong, what decisions you would have taken, in order to leave the privileged life you led and enter public service.

As far as he had been concerned, you don’t belong anywhere near the FBI, let alone the BAU. Spoiled, rich, with a mean streak he is all too familiar with from his time in school.

He had been so sure you wouldn’t fit in when you first joined the team. You had been, and continue to be, perfectly made, every single hair shiny and curled just so, heels always so shiny and matching whatever designer bag you have slung over your shoulder. Everything about you screams high maintenance, and his profiler instincts point to several things: uncooperative, wants everything handed to you, ditzy.

But then you had shown your cards, had proved his assessment so wrong and he could never forgive you for the sting of that defeat.

It doesn’t help that you seem to enjoy riling him up as well. Every case is an opportunity to one up him, an attempt to claim his spot and it’s unfair. You already have everything, yet you still refuse to yield the title of team genius to him, the one thing he can cling to, the thing he knows is his.

He is still glowering today, four months into your employment, passive aggressively hitting the keys on his keyboard. He’s a slow typist, and he’d agreed to write Morgan’s reports for him this week, a favor between friends he’s now beginning to regret. You are the only one keeping him company. The rest of the team has already left hours ago, but you’re typing away at your desk, fingers flying through the keyboard without even a glance. His own skills seem laughable in comparison, going at the keys one by one, with the speed of an old grandparent squinting over a typewriter instead of a man in his twenties.

“Take a picture, Reid, it’ll last longer.”

He blinks, forcing his eyes back to the monitor. “You’re so original.” he mutters, pushing his glasses up to nestle on top of his head. He rubs his eyes, already despising the glare of the screen.

“Aw, what, the genius can’t handle a little blue light?”

He doesn’t bother with a response, blinking at the screen instead. The sooner he can get this done, the sooner he can leave. Sounds of tapping keys fill the air again, but he stops after a few moments again, rubbing at his eyes. He hears a sigh, and then your voice again, haughty but somehow concerned.

“You’re not supposed to rub your eyes, it makes it worse.”

“I know,” he grumbles, “I don’t need you lecturing me about the importance of eye health.”

“It seems like you do, since you’re still doing it.” you reply derisively. He’d be rolling his eyes if he isn’t too busy rubbing them.

“Here,” you say, “Catch.”

Confused, he lifts his head, only to flinch as something hurls right at him. “What-” it hits his desk, then bounces off.

“Oh, look what you’ve done, genius.”

“You threw it at me.” his lips are pulled into a tight line of disapproval, “A head’s up would have been nice.”

“I did, genius, I said catch. You just have the reflexes of an eighty year old.” your voice is tinged with annoyance.

To his surprise, you’re up and walking to his desk, heels echoing in the empty bullpen. He watches as you gingerly kneel on the ground, bending down, and his eyes grow wide. The image of you bent down like this is surprisingly enticing, your skirt straining against the soft curve of your hips, hair falling down your shoulders like a curtain of the night sky. You’ve gotten close enough that he can smell your perfume, something citrusy and clean, and he subconsciously leans closer.

Mouth dry, he manages to croak out, “What are you doing?”

“Trying to find the damn eye drops.” you snap, an arm extending towards him and for a moment he holds his breath, waiting for contact. Instead, you grab something from the ground, “There it is.”

He watches as you straighten, lifting your torso upright, but still kneeling in front of him. An image flashes through his mind, your face between his thighs, those large eyes staring up at him, but he banishes it quickly lest his thoughts begin to stir his body.

“Here, these should help.” You say, finally standing back up and placing the tiny bottle on his desk. A filthy part of him wishes you’d get back on your knees. He catches the tilt of your head, the confusion in your eyes, “Reid. Are you still with me? Has your brain finally short circuited from all those statistics?”

Oh his brain is short circuiting, all right, just from a different cause.

“I’m - yeah.” he replies, and then he rattles off the first thought his frazzled mind could come up with, “Did you know some people have used eye drops as a method for murder? Not these ones, but there are specific brands that contain—”

“Tetrahydrozoline,” you finish for him, “Yeah, I know.”

He blinks. There you go again, proving your intellect, your value, somehow matching his even though he’s pretty sure you are no genius, not in the same way he is. Still, perhaps it’s the late night, or your offer of relief, but the sting of being bested doesn’t resonate tonight. A softer feeling unfurls in his chest, something warm and addictive, something like understanding. He smiles, “That’s right.”

You nod, curls spilling over your shoulders again, “Mhm. Well… These are for your eyes, I’m not trying to poison you.”

“Wouldn’t put it past you.”

A scoff, “Please, I’m not dumb enough to attempt murder in the office.”

His brows lift and he finds himself grinning, “So you’ve thought about it?”

“I will neither deny nor confirm.” you’re smiling now too, and he lets his eyes roam over the pretty lines of your face, memorizing how lovely you look in this moment, guards lowered and smiling at him with ease. He thinks he sees something flash in those pretty eyes of yours but he’s not sure. Reading people has never been his strong suit, regardless of his profession.

“Come on, I’ll help you.” you gesture at his glasses, and he immediately obeys, pushing it back up to nestle on his hair. He holds his breath as you come closer, bites his lips when your hand comes to his chin. It’s soft, unbelievably gentle, and you tilt his head back. From this angle, he can see the way your lashes curl, the soft hint of shimmer swept across your lids. Eyeshadow, he remembers from what Penelope and JJ have told him, and it highlights the shape of your eyes, making them appear brighter.

He blinks as coolness hits his eye, and then you’re tilting his head to the other side, and he’s trying not to panic, trying not to be a creep, but in reality, he hasn’t been this close, this intimate to a woman in so long that it’s messing up his ability to inhale, to think, to function. Your hair flutters gently around his face, and the scent of citrus is stronger now, heady, and he feels so light headed he’s afraid he’ll faint.

The same coolness hits the other eye, and before you can pull away, before he can think it through, he’s curling his own hand over your wrist. He lifts it up, pressing a kiss to the inside of your palm, admonishing any thoughts of germs and bacteria, and instead relishing at the tender flesh beneath his lips. He kisses your palm again, lips gently tracing the lines, before moving down to the inside of your wrist, before pausing.

He dares to peer up, waiting for a reprimand, a cutting sentence that would have him lashing back at you, but there’s none. There it is again, the flicker in your eyes, and now he finally knows the word to attach to it: desire.

He kisses the inside of your wrist again, and feels you pulse fluttering beneath his lips. Fast, to his surprise, almost matching the quick succession of thudding in his chest.

“Reid,” you whisper, and he waits again, allows you time to pull away. You don’t, but he’s apprehensive now, afraid he’s crossed a boundary. He definitely has, but he would do it again if you express the desire to do so, to tumble into whatever this is with him. He just needs confirmation, one verbal acknowledgement that you want this too, because he doesn’t trust his ability to read you yet, not when he’s spent so much time despising you.

But you’re just looking at him, and the embarrassment is almost painful. His cheeks heat up, and he drops your hand.

“I’m sorry.” he murmurs, sinking back on his seat. He’s about to turn to his monitor, intent to forget about this, forget everything even though his memory would make that impossible, but he finds his face being tilted up again, cradled between impossibly soft hands, and then there’s lips against his own, your lips, oh god you are kissing him.

He wraps his arms around your waist, following the movement of your mouth to the best of his limited ability. Your teeth dig into his bottom lip and he lets out an involuntary whimper, his body jerking at the sting. He feels you smiling against his mouth, cocky even in the midst of a kiss, in the midst of the most heated kiss he’s had since - since - he can’t even remember her, the brief dalliance he had with an actress once upon a time, because all he can think of is your mouth, and your hands, nails scratching at his scalp, and every single thought is expelled from his mind when you climb on his lap.

“God,” he moans in between kisses, his breaths ragged, but he would gladly drown in you before stopping.

“Not god,” you correct him and nip at his lower lip with more force this time.

“Mhm.” he whines, and kisses you again, shifting so you’re more comfortable on his lap. He wonders if the chair is creaking from your combined weight, but then you’re grinding directly on his cock and he’s lost in a haze of white hot pleasure.

Apparently, Spencer Reid cannot multitask, because his lips fall slack as you grind against his hardening cock. Your laughter tinkles in his ear, before your mouth latches on his jaw, down his neck, open and wet and sticky. He knows you said you aren’t god, and he’s never been religious, but he swears this must be heaven. Fitting too, in the same way he’s never thought he’d reach some place he doesn’t even believe in, he’s also never thought he would have you—beautiful, infuriating, untouchable you—grinding on his lap with a desperation that borders frenzy.

Recognizing that your need burns you just as his is making him reckless, he manages to whisper, “Tell me— tell me what to do. How do I make you feel good?”

You giggle, taking one of his hands away from your waist and leading it under your skirt. The fabric has bunched up over your thighs, and he grips the smooth flesh greedily. But you have other ideas, and he’s eager to learn, so he lets you move his hand higher, until the tips of his fingers brush against moist fabric.

His mouth goes dry. You’ve soaked through your panties.

“Like this?” he dips his fingers past the lace, his mouth falling open at the slick that’s gathered at your core. You have your face buried at his neck, lips and tongue still assaulting the tender skin there, but he feels you nod, feels the shudder that runs through you, and he takes those as a good sign. His touch is exploratory, gentle, fueled by an intoxication over the fact that you’re here and you’re enjoying it, you’re making those sounds for him.

He’s awestruck rather than cocky, and when he slides his fingers into your pussy, he’s immediately trying to figure out a rhythm that would draw out those pretty noises from your lips. When he finds it, he sticks to it, greedily drinking in your moans, no matter how muffled they are against his neck.

There’s a sense of degeneracy to this whole thing. Fingering his coworker in the office, right there on his desk, he could get fired should this get out, they both could. Still, he’s never truly had anyone want him so unabashedly and he simply cannot stop. You had been the one to kiss him, after all, the lines in the sand had been completely trampled by the time you had climbed on his lap.

“You feel so good,” you whisper, and he feels you move, riding his hand shamelessly, and he has to bite your shoulder to keep himself from whining again. The sight alone nearly undoes him, and you’ve barely done anything. He’s been actively providing you with stimulation this whole time, fucking you with his fingers relentlessly, and somehow, he wouldn’t change a single thing.

“Yeah?” he asks, pupils blown wide, wanting, needing the assurance that he’s doing good, he’s making you feel good.

“Yes, oh fuck, yes!” your voice grows sharper as he curls his fingers with every thrust. After a few moments of fumbling with your panties, his thumb presses against your clit and he’s rewarded by another groan from you.

He draws figure eights against your slick core, finding a rhythm that has you tugging at his hair wildly, and he’s whispering into your ear, pleading, “That’s it, please come for me, please, let me see how good you feel, please, please—”

“Spencer!” you groan, and then you’re shuddering in his lap, and his fingers down to his knuckles are wet with your slick.

He grins, helping you through your orgasm, pressing kisses to your hair, the FBI issued office chair creaking so much he’s afraid the two of you would break it if you don’t stop. The image is hilarious in its absurdity, making his grin widen, and you must have taken it for arrogance because he feels a slight smack on his shoulder.

“Don’t get cocky.” you mutter.

He takes you in, the flushed cheeks and hazy eyes, mascara now smudged along your lash lines, and he’s reverential instead of arrogant, grateful that he has brought someone so stunning and capable to the throes of pleasure, has taken you apart so much you’ve ruined your normally perfect facade.

“You’re beautiful.” he tells you, his own eyes glistening with an unfocused daze. You roll your eyes and shake your head, and he’s seized with a desire to keep you hear and bury his fingers inside you over and over again until you believe him.

“Your turn.” You chuckle, hands unwinding from his neck and travelling down the length of his abdomen, coming to the buckle on his belt.

“Wait, I—uh,” he turns beet red once again, clearing his throat, “Are you on the pill? I don’t have—”

You tilt your head, as if the idea of a man walking around without a condom is foreign. Perhaps it is, but Spencer simply never assumed he would have any use for it. He turns away, teeth worrying his lower lip, but you pull his face to you again.

“I have hands.” you say as you resume undoing his pants. You shift, then slink away from him, and he whines at the loss of your warmth, but he sees you on your knees once again, and this time it’s not just his brain making up lewd, inappropriate thoughts, “And a mouth.”

“Y-you really don’t have to.”

“I know,” you grin, pretty as the devil and twice as tempting, and as your hands wrap around his engorged length, thumb circling at the tip, “But how can I not, when you’re this pretty?”

He blacks out, he swears he does, there’s no way this isn’t a perverted dream, no way that you’re actually stroking up and down his throbbing cock. Somehow he comes to, only to feel a warmth, a wetness, enveloping the swollen tip, and his hips buck up instinctively. He whines when your hands push at his thighs, holding him in place.

“Please,” he gasps, babbles, really, “Please, oh god, that feels so good.”

You take him further down and he throws his head back so violently the glasses slip past his ears and clatter onto the floor. He feels your laughter vibrating against his cock and it almost has him keening. He whines, wriggles against your hold with no real desire to break free. He finds that likes the force of your hands on him, nails leaving harsh indents on his flesh as he struggles. The pain is delicious, heightening his already frazzled senses.

You bob your head up and down, your hair swaying gently, and he manages to will his hands to move, gathering the soft tresses in his hand so they won’t impede your movement. Your eyes flicker up, meet his own, and he swears there’s a thank you in the glint of them. He cannot do anything else.

Slack jawed, he watches you hollow your cheeks, saliva dripping down the sides of your mouth as you give him the best head he’s ever experienced. Never mind that it’s his first one, and that he doesn’t have a point of comparison. He’s convinced this is the best, you are the best, and he’s never been more thankful for his eidetic memory until this night, knowing that he cannot, will never, ever forget the way you look as you knelt down and sucked his cock like you were being paid to do it.

“God, you’re so pretty, oh my god, yes, just like that, please, please, yes.” he’s aware that he’s whining, and there’s an amused twinkle in your eye that tells him he would never hear the end of this after.

He knows you well enough to know that you would dangle this over his head any chance you get, that you aren’t above playing dirty. Instead of dread, it makes his stomach roil with another gush of desire, and he knows that that is even more concerning than whatever you were going to do.

(It never occurs to him to do the same, that he could tease you back and point out that he has had you on your knees and sucking on his cock like you were made for it simply because his brain cannot fathom ever associating the sight of you kneeling before him as something to be ashamed of.)

He’s drawn from his thoughts as he feels your hands cupping his balls, stimulating an entirely new area that has him thrusting up. He feels his cock brush against the back of your throat, and he pulls back immediately, eyes wide with worry as you gag around his length.

“Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, baby you can stop if—”

But you do it again, soldiering past your gag reflex and taking him all the way, and he can hear someone saying oh fuck oh fuck I’m cumming agh, please, I’m cumming, and he thinks its his own voice but he’s unsure. His eyes are squeezed shut, colors exploding behind his lids as he feels your tongue swirling over and over his sensitive cock, before the cool air surrounds it, telling him you’ve stopped completely.

When he opens his eyes, you have your head on his thigh, cheek pressed against the fabric, a lazy smile on your ruined lips.

“God,” he whispers, reaching for you, wanting you close, “That was—wow, you—come here, please.”

He watches as a flicker of surprise flits over your face, before you mask it with a giggle, “Good?” you murmur, tucking his soft cock into his pants before climbing on his lap again.

“Incredible.” He holds you tight, your slick only half dry on his fingers, the taste of him still on your tongue, “You’re incredible.”

You’re quiet, contemplative, and he presses a kiss to your neck, wanting to bring you out of whatever funk you’ve gone into, “Hey, what is it?” He’s almost terrified of the answer, worried you would pull away and leave him cold.

“I just didn’t think you’d be a cuddler.” you reply, eventually sinking into his arms. Your voice is soft when you say, “Most men aren’t.”

The thought of her having experiences doesn’t bother him; it’s the fact that they callously left her after that makes him tighten his hold on her. “I’m sorry.”

“For the entirety of shitty men? You’d need more apologies than that,” you chuckle, fingers absently curling into his hair, “But thank you. This is— this is nice.”

“It is,” Spencer nods, leaning into your touch, eyes shut.

“You lost your glasses.”

“I did.”

Your laughter fills the air, “Hey, are you sleepy? You still have Morgan’s reports to finish.”

His eyes flutter open, a sheepish smile on his lips, “Why’d you have to remind me?”

“Because the sooner you finish it, the sooner we can do this again.”

Spencer laughs, kissing your shoulder as he relents, “All right, all right.” That’s more than enough incentive to brave staring at the monitor again.

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stranger-fanfiction-n-things · 24 days ago

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lucas sinclair was the real victim of season 4 he lost all his friends and the girl he loved was suicidal and he couldnt do anything to help her and he was brutally assaulted by a grown man and in this essay i will-

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stranger-fanfiction-n-things · 25 days ago

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stranger-fanfiction-n-things · 1 month ago

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I honestly want to be unplugged. This ain’t it for me.

#she speaks #mental health awareness

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stranger-fanfiction-n-things · 1 month ago

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AALIYAH

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stranger-fanfiction-n-things · 1 month ago

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The judge refusing to have Luigi's shackles removed due to "safety" concerns just shows how this case has been nothing but the presumption of guilt over innocence. They're trying so hard to make him look dangerous when in reality I'd feel safer alone in a room with Luigi than with any of those NYPD officers around him :/ I have no words

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stranger-fanfiction-n-things · 1 month ago

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WHEN THE RIGHT ONE COMES ALONG

A/N: Based on the tv show Nashville. I had this idea sitting in my WIPs for years now. I grew up listening to country music so I absolutely loved watching the show. I wrote this as a way to escape conflicts happening at home, so it's kind of sad. But in height of Cowboy Carter and Marvel Cinematic Universe coming back, I thought I'd share this.

Warnings: Implied abuse

Bucky x Black! Reader

One Way Ticket (Because I Can) - LeAnn Rimes I'm in a Hurry (And I Don't Know Why) - Alabama

PREFACE

The sun shone down upon the open road and luscious green fields. The cool air from the atmosphere created heatwaves which hovered over the pavement like rippling water. A light blue vintage Volkswagen Beetle drove down the highway at great speeds along the white dotted lines. Inside the small vehicle sat a young woman with rich brown skin the colour of dark umber. The front windows of her car were rolled down, loud winds rushing in and out of the car whipping her long black ringlets around. The air smelled of sea salt from the Gulf of Mexico. It was the peak of summer and the humidity made it difficult to breathe despite the cool breeze circulating the car.

The young woman pulled on her white tee shirt that clung to her dewy skin. The state of Alabama was under extreme heat warning and several radio stations warned its listeners to stay cool and listed the extended times public pool would stay open to accommodate citizens. She was finally free. Free from the shackles of her past. Bright topaz-coloured eyes glanced down at the dashboard clock, 11:10am. She had been driving for approximately six and a half hours. She was running on adrenaline and couldn’t believe she did it. She finally left home. The weight of her past fell off shoulders and she felt herself beginning to relax but not quite.

…It’s all your fault!

Her fingers ghosted over her neck, throat tightening reflexively. The voice rang in her head echoing around her. She swallowed thickly, tears glistening in her eyes and placed her hand back on the steering wheel, tightening her grip on the hard leather. Her eyes quickly darted to the passengers seat where a road map lay sprawled across the tan leather being held down by her house keys. The map was colour coded with each colour symbolizing a different route and according to it she would be in Birmingham, Alabama in the next twenty minutes.

Reaching for the dial she turned the volume up to drown out the circling thoughts in her head, a breath falling from her lips. She silently made a vow: She will never go back again.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x black!reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #sebastian stan #bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #angst #cowboy!bucky #country au #nashville show #music au

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stranger-fanfiction-n-things · 1 month ago

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one in a million

rockstar!eddie x famous!reader

I’d like to dedicate this song to my woman, Zeppelin Rose. I’m sorry baby.

coming soon...

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stranger-fanfiction-n-things · 1 month ago

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stranger-fanfiction-n-things · 2 months ago

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Today is such a good day for Kendrick Fans & people who hate racists. From the Grammy’s last Sunday to the Super Bowl in New Orleans today, I am very happy. Never stop being a hater! Happy Black History Month!

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stranger-fanfiction-n-things · 2 months ago

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YOU'RE SUCH AN EGG HEAD

This is an Original Character fanfiction. All Stranger Things characters and content are owned by Netflix and The Duffer Brothers.

a/n: I wrote this in 2023; it was the first one shot (?) I ever wrote and first fic related to the rewrite. I didn't have a name for Diana yet, which is why it is in first person. My writing schedule didn't go according to plan with my dwindling mental health, but I wanted to post this as a thank you for everyone who continues to read my Stranger Things Rewrite!

This takes place after the events of Season 2 after the Snow Ball but before Christmas.

Please let me know what y'all think :) Happy Holidays!

Warnings: Extra Fluff

Word Count: 4483

Masterlist

Sunday December 23, 1984

There was an unspoken rule in our house: No Christmas music before December 1st. Although I don’t know who made the rule but part of me thinks it was Dad because he doesn’t like the holiday season. He thinks it’s too stressful with all the decorating, baking and gift wrapping. Dad hates gift wrapping. He says there’s no point when it will all be torn to shreds anyway. Christmas is my favourite holiday. I love everything about it. The Christmas music, gift wrapping, decorating, but especially baking.

Every year for as long as I can remember I would help Mom bake Christmas cookies for the family and our neighbours. Gingerbread cookies, peanut butter blossoms, molasses cookies, sugar cookies, white chocolate and cranberry cookies, chocolate crinkle cookies and classic chocolate chip cookies. As of three years ago, Mom gave me the responsibility of doing all the Christmas baking. A responsibility I hold near and dear to my heart. This morning, I woke up bright and early to start with chocolate chip cookies for the Byers family, they are on the cooling rack. Now, I am scooping the dough of the peanut butter blossoms for Dustin and Miss Henderson onto the parchment paper. I count a total of 12 evenly divided circles.

To me, baking is an intimate activity. A love language. A meaningful relationship between a person and food. It helps me relax; the process time consuming. I am undisturbed and in a different world. The doorbell ringing pops my domestic bubble. I frown peering down the foyer at the front door. Mom, Dad and Lucas wouldn’t ring the doorbell. Erica wasn’t expecting anyone. I wasn’t expecting anyone either. Eddie was busy running errands for his uncle Wayne. It couldn’t be him. I freeze feeling a shiver run down my spine. The past year has been filled with monsters and alternate universes. I take a deep breath and remind myself that the Hive was gone. Steve, the kids and I burned it down last month. Will was safe with my brother at Mike’s house. Billy will never come near me or Lucas ever again. It was all over. A Demogorgon cannot knock on a door and wouldn’t. Not even if it were D'Artagnan.

I walk toward the front door, wiping my hands on my apron before slowly turning the handle opening the door a smidge so only my eyes can be seen by the stranger. To my surprise and relief, I am met with beautiful dark brown eyes and a dazzling smile.

“Eddie?” I say, opening the door wide. A cold breeze blows past making me shiver. “What are you doing here? I thought you were running errands for Wayne?”

“I finished them early thought I’d stop by to say hi.”

Dark brown eyes pan down my body. I look down instantly wanting the ground to swallow me up. Not expecting company, I threw on one of the sweaters my Grandma Giselle “GG” sent from Virginia. Beneath my powder blue gingham print apron with white ruffles (also from GG) I’m wearing a baby pink sweater with baby kittens all over. The collar of the sweater is embellished with white lace ruffles making me look like Queen Elizabeth I. Erica, Lucas and Dad laugh at it anytime I put it on (Dad tries to cover it with a cough, but I know he’s laughing). It’s okay if my family sees me and laughs at me, I don’t care. I think the sweater is cute and cozy. But never did I think my boyfriend would see me in it.

Eddie’s smile widens to a grin. Displaying his deep dimples. “I love this,” he gushes pointing at my outfit, eyes twinkling.

I quickly cross my arms over my chest feeling my cheeks grow hot. I scrunch my nose looking down at my socked feet. GG also sent me matching socks to go with my sweater. I have two more sets in baby blue and lavender.

“No, no. Don’t hide from me. Ever,” he says, uncrossing my arms and holding my hands. “You look cute.”

I peer up at him through my lashes. Eddie leans back observing me once again. He sniffs the air peering around the front door.

“Are you baking?”

“Yes, I am.” I reply happily.

Eddie stares at me, his grin unwavering. I feel myself growing shyer under his intense gaze and I want to cover myself again but he’s still holding my hands.

I tilt my head to the side, blinking up at him. “What’s so funny?

“Nothing.” he shakes his head, chuckling softly. “I’m not laughing. I’m smiling.”

“What are you smiling about?”

Eddie leans forward and my heart beat picks up speed because I think he’s going to kiss me, but instead his lips graze my ear.

“Just happy to see you,” he murmurs. “…and your sweater.”

“Eddie!” I exclaim wiggling out of his hold, walking back inside my house. I am never wearing this sweater again.

“What? I love it.” Eddie laughs, closing the door behind him. “What are you baking?”

“I’m baking peanut butter blossoms for Dustin and Miss Henderson.” I answer returning back to the counter. “I was about to put them in the oven before you rang.”

Eddie hangs his coat neatly on the coat rack in the mudroom and pads through the foyer in his socks. A smile tugs on my lips at his ease around the house. Dad’s military training and Mom’s propriety kicked Eddie into a straight line early in our relationship.

“Have you been baking all day?”

“Yes. I started with chocolate chip cookies which are on the cooling rack. I finished the peanut butter blossom cookies and once they are in the oven, I am going to start making white chocolate and cranberry cookies.”

I take the pan of dough and put them in the oven, setting the timer to 10 minutes. I turn around to find Eddie sitting on the stool in front of the counter observing the organized mess of ingredients. I place the timer on the counter.

“Where is everyone?” Eddie asks, looking around.

“Mom and Dad are out shopping for more Christmas lights. Erica is in her room and Lucas is at Mike’s house probably playing Dungeons and Dragons with the rest of the boys, El and Max.”

“And he didn’t invite me,” Eddie says, holding his heart.

“He didn’t know you were coming,” I say shooting him a playful glare.

I clean off the counter to have a fresh surface for the white chocolate and cranberry cookies. From the corner of my eyes, I see Eddie reach towards the direction of the cooling rack. I whip my head around catching him in action.

“Hey!” I scold, running around the counter. “No touching! Those are for Miss Byers.” I block his access before he can touch the cookies. “And you didn’t wash your hands!”

Eddie smiles, dimples deepening on his cheeks. He looks so cute I have to resist the urge to kiss each dimple and put on my best disapproval face.

“My hands are clean, I promise,” he replies, reaching over my barrier.

I smack his hand the way my mom does when she catches Dad trying to steal a cookie from the cookie jar before dinner.

“Eddie!” I reprimand. His eyes widen, baffled by my seriousness.

“I swear,” Eddie assures me, eyes twinkling with amusement. “You baked so many. I’m sure Miss Byers won’t realize one is gone.”

I look at him for a few seconds and slowly remove my hand.

“Okay, fine,” I admit. “But you can only have one.”

Eddie’s smile turns to a smirk. “How about two?” He quickly picks up two shovelling one in his mouth.

“Eddie!”

His loud, boisterous laugh is muffled by the cookie in his mouth. In seeing the look on my face his laughter dies down to a light chuckle.

“They’re so small. One wouldn’t be enough,” he reasons, licking the oozing chocolate off his fingers.

I cross my arms above my chest, walking back to the counter. I wasn’t really upset with him. I did make a lot of chocolate chip cookies for the Byers Family. I just took baking very seriously.

“Aw, sweetheart,” he coos, walking towards me.

I feel his arms wrap around my waist and his chin on my head. I imagine how hunched over he must be because of our height difference. He nudges by head to the side, kissing my temple. A small smile forms on my lips at the gesture. Eddie was so loving and caring. It was one of the many things I loved about him.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “…but they taste so good.”

I look up at him and roll my eyes playfully. The rumble of his laugh makes me giggle.

“I’m serious,” he says shovelling the last cookie in his mouth. “These are the best cookies ever!”

I scrunch my nose looking down. “Thank you,” I murmur.

Eddie kisses the top of my head. “You’re welcome, cutie.”

Eddie sits on the other side of the counter watching me set up. He told me about his day and the errands he had to run for Wayne. I listen nodding my head and asking questions as I multitasked. Eddie has been over many times since we started dating, my house being a second home to him. But he’s never watched me bake before. I feel like we unlocked a new level in our relationship. Domesticity.

“What kind of cookies are you making again?”

“White chocolate and cranberry.”

“Who are these for?”

“Me. They’re my favourite kind for the holiday season.”

“I can’t believe I’ve never asked you this question before, but what’s your favourite kind of cookie?”

“White chocolate and macadamia nut cookies,” I replied. “What’s yours?”

“Chocolate chip,” he responds, grinning. I roll my eyes fighting back a smile.

“Eddie, can you check the timer and let me know how many minutes are left?”

“Aye, aye, captain,” he salutes, squinting at the timer, “Six minutes left.”

“Thank you,” I answer scooping brown sugar into the measuring cup.

“How do you know how much to put without looking at the recipe?”

I shrug my shoulders. “I’ve made these cookies so many times it all comes naturally to me.”

I start to pat down the brown sugar, levelling it with a spoon. Eddie leans forward on his elbows watching me work. In getting to know Eddie I notice he doesn’t like to sit still for too long. Always looking for something new to do. There were few things Eddie could sit down and pay attention to for long periods of time. I mentally compiled a list: Planning Dungeons and Dragons Campaigns, reading fantasy books, Corroded Coffin band practices and gigs, eating, cooking (a pleasant surprise), and now, watching me bake.

“Do you want to help me?”

Eddie scratches the back of his neck, shaking his head. “I don’t think you want me to help you. I’ll ruin it.”

“No, you won’t. I’ll help you!”

“Okay.”

I squeal excitedly. “Let me get you an apron. In the meantime, wash your hands,” I say giving him a warning look.

Eddie laughs. “Alright, Alright.”

I go to the pantry where we kept all the kitchen stuff. On a rack at the corner of the small room I find all the aprons. Most of them had stains on them, the cleanest one was Erica’s old apron. It was blue with polka dots on it. I smile taking it off the rack. This would barely fit Eddie but I think he would look adorable in it.

“I could only find Erica’s old apron,” I call out walking into the kitchen. “I hope it’s okay.”

Eddie looks over his shoulder throwing a rumpled paper towel into the trash can. He throws his head back shaking with laughter.

“Is this payback?”

“No, the others were dirty, I have to wash them. Erica’s old apron was the cleanest out of the bunch.”

“This is hilarious,” he chuckles, taking it out of my hands. “I don’t think it’s gonna fit though.”

“You have such a tiny waist. I’m sure it will.”

I giggle at the pink tinge on Eddie’s cheeks, walking behind him to tie the apron around his waist. Eddie was a little self-conscious about his waist, often commenting on how he needs to go to the gym to bulk up. I always reassure him that I love his body the way it is and he doesn’t need to change a thing. Eddie ties the string around his neck first, hoisting the fabric high on his chest. The waist string moved up to his stomach. I pull on the string tying it around his stomach instead. Peering over I look at him, snickering quietly. Eddie looks like an overgrown pre-schooler. I have to take a photo.

“Don’t move. I’m going to get the camera!”

“Diana.” Eddie groans. He always acts like he hates when I take photos, but I know secretly loves them. Eddie is just like Erica in that sense. Lucas and I love taking photos. Erica complains but always asks to take another one just in case the first one isn’t good.

“These are memories, Eddie!” I say, grabbing the camera on the kitchen counter by the refrigerator.

“Uh, uh,” he refuses crossing his arms.

“No, don’t hide from me. Ever.” I uncross his arms.

Eddie rolls his eyes and I kiss his knuckles taking a step back.

“Now say cheese!”

Eddie smiles wide, dimples making an appearance.

“Aw, you look so cute like that!” I squeal, looking through the viewfinder. I snap the picture, waiting for the photo to develop. “Can I take another photo?”

Eddie grabs a whisk holding it in his hands like Julia Child. I take another picture laughing at his antics.

“Your turn,” he spoke, reaching for the camera.

He takes it out of my hands peeking through the viewfinder. I close my eyes sticking my tongue out just as the light flashed out the camera.

“One more. Smile and point at your sweater,” he smirks.

I gawk at him just as the camera flashes. Eddie cackles behind the camera pulling the photo out of the slot.

“Eddie!” I shout, running to him.

I try my best to grab the photo out of his hands but he was long and lithe for my short stature. Eddie’s laugh echoes through the kitchen as he squirms out of my reach.

“Look at your face!”

“I’m trying to!”

Eddie hides the photo behind his back. “If I show you this photo, do you promise not to throw it out?”

“Yes, I promise.”

Eddie arches his brow skeptically.

“I promise,” I assure, holding my hand up like a girl scout taking a pledge.

“Okay.”

Eddie shows me the photo in his hand not letting go when I try to pull it out of his grasp. I huff looking at the picture. I look as shocked as I felt in the moment. You can tell I was looking at him over the camera. I didn’t look as bad as I thought.

“See? You look so cute.”

“C’mon,” I say handing him the rest of the photos. “You have work to do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He sets the camera and photos on the farthest edge of the counter before joining me. I smile feeling his lips on my temple. Another thing I noticed about Eddie, he can’t go five minutes without touching me in some way. Whether it’s holding my hand, playing with my hair, touching my cheek, standing beside me, or my personal favourite, kissing me. Eddie bends forward resting his elbows on the counter. He gazes at me with warm affection, waiting patiently for instructions. I take a deep breath trying to rid the pink fog in my head. Over a year later and I’m still not used to the way Eddie looks at me.

“O-okay,” I stutter, breathlessly. The corners of Eddie’s lips twitch but he doesn’t say anything thankfully; “we’re gonna start with the butter and white sugar first. I already finished measuring the brown sugar. Now you’re going to measure ½ cup of butter and ¼ cup of white sugar. When you’re done, put them all in this big bowl, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am. Can I use the same measuring cup for both?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

I watch Eddie pour the brown sugar in the large glass bowl; He then proceeds to measure ¼ cup of white sugar and add it to the bowl. I hold back my smile as he hesitates with the butter, a line appearing between his brows as he thinks about what to do next. Eddie makes the cutest faces when he is concentrating. I adore the way he frowns, the way his eyes narrow at the task at hand, when his tongue pokes out between his lips. I busy myself with the eggs so it doesn’t feel like I’m hovering. From the corner of my eye, Eddie scoops the butter with a spoon knocking it against the measuring cup. He does this until half the measuring cup is full.

“Sweetheart? How do you make brown sugar?” he asks, making sure there was half a cup of butter in the measuring cup.

“By mixing molasses and white sugar together. If you want to make the brown sugar darker, just add more molasses.”

“Hmm,” he muses, scooping the softened butter into the mixing bowl. “Okay, I’m done. What’s next?”

“Now this part is very important, Eddie,” I voice, handing him the electric mixer. “You are going to use this to beat the ingredients together until they are creamy and smooth.”

“Creamy and smooth. Gotcha.”

I leave Eddie to mix just as the timer set went off. Quickly shoving on the oven mittens, I open the oven pulling the steaming hot cookies out. The smell of warm peanut butter and sugar floats around the kitchen mixing in with the scent of chocolate. I set the tray on the top the stove and take off my mittens before taking the small bowl full of Hershey kisses on the counter. I begin to carefully place one kiss in the centre of the cookie having already unwrapped each chocolate prior.

“Baby, is this creamy and smooth enough?”

I walk over to him peering into the bowl. “It looks great, Eddie,” I respond with a smile. “I’m going to add egg and vanilla quickly and then you can continue to mix. Use this,” I hand him a spatula, “to scrape the sides of the bowl.”

After I add the egg and vanilla, Eddie mixes the ingredients as I work on the flour. We work in comfortable silence and I feel happy and light thinking about all the pastries Eddie can help me make. He was already a great cook; baking was natural to him although he didn’t know it yet.

“Baby, can you check this again?” I peer from my spot.

“It’s perfect. Change the speed to low. I’m gonna add flour.”

“Is it only flour?”

“I put cornstarch, salt and baking soda.”

“Hmm,” he hums.

“Keep mixing. We want soft and thick.”

“Soft and thick,” Eddie nods. “Coming right up.”

Eddie mixes the dough together and smile at him.

“You’re a natural, Eddie.”

Eddie blushes, turning off the mixer. “I have a good teacher.”

I scrunch my nose, adding white chocolate and cranberries into the bowl and set it aside too distracted to continue.

“You’re so cute when you blush.”

“How do you know I’m blushing?”

“You scrunch your nose and look down,” he answers, mimicking me.

You could fry an egg on my face the way it felt so hot.

“I do that when I’m embarrassed,” I point out.

“But you add a giggle like,” he imitates my giggle.

I hit him softly fighting back a smile. Eddie was right about everything. He knows me so well, better than I probably know myself.

“You’re such an egg head,” I comment.

Eddie leans close. I can smell the chocolate chip cookies on his breath.

“I’m not,” he replies, shaking his head.

I open my mouth but couldn’t find the words to say. The corners of Eddie’s lips turn up to the familiar confident smirk he wears when he knows I’m flustered. I can’t give him the satisfaction. Not this time. I turn my head peering at the open carton of eggs on the counter. I pick up an egg, biting my lip to conceal my laugh and quickly jump up breaking it over his head. Thick, sticky globs of egg yolk and tiny egg shells slide down his dark brown curls, seeping through the strands. Eddie opens his eyes as I wipe what was left on my hands on his white t-shirt, smearing the dark yellow residue against the cotton fabric.

“Smooth,” Eddie mumbles, nodding his head.

My body shakes with silent laughter. Eddie reaches over to the pile of leftover flour on the counter, flicking it onto my face before I could turn around and dodge the attack. I gasp, eyes widening in disbelief, yet I am unable to contain my growing laughter. I flick flour on him as well challenging him. Eddie scoops a handful with both hands and drops it all on top my head.

“Eddie!” I scream.

I grab whatever I could find on the counter throwing it on him. Salt, sugar, flour, baking soda, brown sugar. Eddie wraps his arms around my body to hold me still, smearing what smelled like egg yolk all over my face.

“Who’s the egg head now?” Eddie shouts. My scream turns into loud cackling.

“It’s—It’s still—you!” I shout back through uncontrollable laughter.

I try to escape from his hold but Eddie’s much too strong easily overpowering me. He spins me around laughing at my face. I must have looked as crazy as him. Flour and egg yolk with sprinkles of brown sugar on my face and in my hair. Eddie picks me up placing me on the counter, both our laughter dying down to hushed giggles. He brushes my hair out of my face gazing at me. I scrunch my nose, bumping mine softly against his before looking down.

“That’s a new one. What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug looking back at him. “You tell me.”

Eddie grins scrunching his nose, bumping it softly against mine.

“It means,” he pauses, thinking. His eyes convey vulnerability that I only saw when he was with me. “I love you.”

The butterflies in my stomach flutter around uncontrollably. It’s been one week since Eddie and I confessed our love for each other and we’ve said it to each other every day since. Each time either of us said it, which was plenty, my heart skipped a beat.

“And this,” he rubs his nose against mine making me giggle and hold his face still. “Means, I love you too.”

“In that case,” I scrunch my nose again, bumping it against his.

Eddie rubs his nose against mine before closing the distance between us. His lips are soft and powdery. My heart feels like a jack hammer in my chest adrenaline coursing through my veins. Ever since the Snow Ball, I craved the feeling of his body close to mine in the most intimate of ways. I open my mouth deepening the kiss wrapping my arms around his neck pulling him closer.

“Um?”

I flinch startled by Erica’s voice, quickly grabbing onto Eddie’s shoulders to jump off the counter. The remaining flour, sugar, and baking soda fell onto the floor onto Eddie’s socks.

“H-hey monster,” I stutter, putting my hands behind my back.

Eddie snickers from behind me and I elbow him softly in the gut. My face feels like it’s on fire and I hope Erica didn’t see anything. She was my little sister after all. Based on the bewildered expression on her face, she was more concerned about the mess in the kitchen than the fact Eddie and I were making out.

“What are you guys doing?”

Eddie and I look at each other grinning like Cheshire cats from ear to ear.

“We’re baking,” I say, cheerfully.

Erica arches her brow eying our appearance. “I can see that,” she said, observing the state of the kitchen. “You better clean up before Mom and Dad get back.”

“Yes, Erica,” I sigh. Sometimes it felt like she was the older sister.

“Do you wanna help—” Eddie began.

“Nope,” Erica cuts him off swiftly, taking a peanut butter blossom from the cooling rack on the adjacent counter.

“Erica! Those are for Dustin and Miss Henderson!”

“I’m just testing the product,” she explains, with her mouth full breathing heavily. The cookies were still hot. “Hmm, too much flour.”

I gasp rushing beside her to inspect the blossoms. There couldn’t be too much flour. I know the recipe like the back of my hand and always put just the right amount of flour.

“That’s impossible!” I exclaim snatching the piece of cookie in her hand to check the consistency.

“She’s only joking, babe,” Eddie chuckles. I frown at Erica who was laughing hysterically at me.

“That’s not funny Erica!”

Erica takes the rest of the cookie out of my hand with a mischievous smile. I gently push her out of the kitchen so she doesn’t add to the mess. I turn to Eddie with a sigh looking at the mess we made in the kitchen. We really needed to clean it up before my parents got home.

“I’m going to mix the rest of the cookie dough together. In the meantime, you can clear the counter and then we can tackle the rest together before my parents come home.”

Eddie grabs the polaroid camera on his way to me. I catch a whiff of the raw eggs and flour on him and laugh scrunching my nose faking disgust.

“You smell like egg!”

Eddie tilts my chin up with his finger. “Well, who’s fault is that?”

I grin reaching up on the tips of my toes to close the distance between us. The kiss was intended to be chaste but the feeling of Eddie’s arm snaking around my waist pulling me against him won’t allow it. I try to pull away but that only makes him tighten his hold on me. I giggle against his lips holding his cheeks, our noses press together. A flash of light and the shutter snapping sounded in the background. Eddie pulls away taking the photo out of the camera.

“This is amazing!”

“We look insane!”

“We look like…” his eyes crinkle despite the softness in his smile. “…We’re in love.”

I smile, even with tears running down my cheeks. I go up on the tips of my toes scrunching my nose bumping it against his. Eddie smiles rubbing his nose against mine, closing the distance between us. In love we were.

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