#I managed to write at least the idea of a fic I guess?! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

push-the-heartbrake · 6 months ago

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𝙃𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙔𝙤𝙪 (𝙃𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙄𝙣 𝙈𝙮 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩) // 𝙎.𝙍

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳. 𝘙𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘦��𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘳. 𝘕𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦. 𝘏𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

First instalment | Series masterlist

Summary: “I’m not supposed to do this, but you’re the only person still here, so I made us tea.” — or the one where Spencer really likes the library for its books, the chess, and the girl working the night shift.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader (she/her)

Word count: 14.9k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ♡ Cm typical violence, Spencer gets injured but nothing major. Mention of bullying, sick parents, and addiction. Takes place sometime after he got clean, so S4 perhaps? No smut, but talk of sex. Spencer being an insecure virgin and reader having used sex as a coping mechanism in the past.

A/N: Hello!! New blog, new fic. I'm too dumb to write for Spencer, but I tried my best. Reader probably has too much personality and backstory but I stopped caring midway through. No physical descriptors used though, except for some wacky clothing. Tell me what you think? Please? Love ya, bye.

You wouldn’t think it was possible, given how most Americans viewed paying taxes, but for some reason, in some way, a very persistent person at some board meeting somewhere had managed to get through the idea that at least one library in D.C. should be open all hours of the day.

Spencer, for one, couldn’t be more pleased with that decision.

He had fond memories of spending long nights in quiet libraries when he was working toward one of his many degrees. Now, his longing for the silence and solitude stemmed from insomnia. He guessed most people his age spent sleepless nights out at nightclubs or in the never-ending search for love or just a one-night stand to suffice some sort of primal need. Spencer wasn’t like that. Never had, nor ever would be.

The library was a better place in every sense. He grew bored out of his mind by being alone in his apartment for too long, but he also got tired of having people around him. His job was social enough. The library was a perfect mixture of the two, requiring silence but still had people in motion so that he didn’t feel entirely isolated.

He’d browse the shelves, searching for things he hadn’t read. Quickly getting through many books in an evening with his way of processing words. It got to the point where there weren’t enough books about his usual interests, so he would pick up books about old cars that Rossi mentioned and learn about their engineering or read some wacky poetry that Emily had recommended that she loved as a teenager.

Sometimes he’d bring whatever knitting project he was working on and join some old ladies who met up at the library to knit and discuss romance novels. Spencer didn’t bring much to the conversation, but he liked hearing them talk. He wasn’t much for gossip, but made-up drama between fictional characters was surprisingly entertaining.

He would also borrow one of the computers and play online chess for hours until his eyes had grown tired from the bright light and he finally thought he might be able to go home and force himself to sleep. Eric, one of the chess players that he frequently met in a local park, showed up sometimes, when he wasn’t swamped with homework or had a curfew to keep. Maybe he should make some friends his own age that weren’t his colleagues, but Eric, at age fifteen, was also the best chess player that Spencer had ever met.

So, the quietness, the books, the knitting, and the chess were all perks of spending time at the library. The cute girl sitting at the front desk, working almost every night shift alone, was also somewhat of a perk.

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure how it came about or why he was so enamored by even just the idea of you, but he couldn’t help but let his eyes linger for a little bit too long whenever he walked past the front desk or saw you organizing books at some shelf in the library.

That was a lie. Spencer knew exactly how it happened and why.

It started with simple people-watching. He liked to imagine wild backstories for people he only saw in passing. Probably a result of being a profiler.

With students he would wonder about what project they were researching late at night in the library and what their majors were and if he could notice patterns in their appearances and behaviors.

He’d connect the dots with the old women knitting and their opinions about the romance novels to actual experiences in their own lives. One had been cheated on in her youth and found any sort of love triangle to be awful, while another couldn’t understand certain writers fascination with sneaking in unplanned pregnancies because she had never wanted kids herself.

And while Eric and he played chess in silence most of the time, he still picked up on how Eric didn’t like how strict his mother was on him and how his sisters got treated differently, more easygoing, than him.

And then there was you, the only other person who would frequent—well, you worked there—the library so often that Spencer could start to piece together your backstory.

His first impression was that you were cute, in like an objective way. The same way people would look at Garcia with some sort of childlike awe of how uniquely herself she was. You had that same thing about you, with colorful cardigans and ribbons tied in your hair.

The second thing he noticed was that you probably didn’t work that much. You were sat at that front desk all night, organizing what needed to be organized and helping those who needed help, but then you were left to yourself for the rest of your shift. You read a lot, but Spencer never got close enough to see what exactly. You also had the news playing really quietly on a little radio, perhaps to not go completely insane from the silent nature of the library.

At first he thought you weren’t too talkative, but then he observed an interaction you had with a student. A young mother who came to the library to study while her child peacefully slept in their stroller. Spencer wasn’t one to judge. If the child got to sleep and the mother got to study, it was a win-win situation, although unconventional.

When he saw the mother and baby leave, going up to you to check out some books, he saw just how talkative you were, practically spewing out words about the subjects she was researching and cooing at the baby who was then awake, calling it adorable and quickly playing peekaboo.

Now, as Spencer sat in a chair, not too far from the entrance and the front desk, acting like he was reading a book he had already read through, he observed you inconspicuously.

You were fronting books on a display shelf that was the first thing you saw when you entered the library. Usually seasonal books, or that followed a current event or a theme. It was Halloween this time around, and you fought with the mess that was fake cobwebs. A garland of little black bats hung over the shelf and plastic jack-o-lanterns acted as bookstands. He could spot certain covers of books he recognized. Goosebumps, for the children. Stephen King, for the horror fanatics. Edgar Allan Poe, for the poetry lovers.

You quietly cursed under your breath as your fingers got stuck in the cobwebs, and Spencer had to cover his laugh with an unnatural cough. That was when he saw that your nails were painted a pumpkin-like orange and your black cardigan had a little skeleton pattern. You were going all out with the theme, even if you barely saw any people during the night shift, telling Spencer that you were doing it all for your own enjoyment.

As you stretched to place books on the highest shelf, he noticed your trousers, and Spencer was only a man—granted a little peculiar and different—but still a man, with working eyes and needs. You wore slacks so well-fitting he wondered what tailor you went to or if you could sew yourself. And Converse, always dark red Converse. You dressed like him, but in a more colorful, feminine way.

He saw you pick up a book and judge it by its cover, then instead of placing it on display, you put it in a tote bag placed on the cart you had to pick books from. He’d seen you use the same tote bag before, when you were organizing the shelves, placing books back or collecting ones loaned online. The album cover for Kate Bush’s The Kick Inside was on it, not because Spencer knew of the album but because the text was printed on it.

You used it to pick out books for yourself, Spencer noticed in the moment. While rolling the cart around with books for others, if you saw one that you wanted to read during your shift, you’d place it in the tote bag to not lose it in the masses.

You were filled and covered in idiosyncrasies, making you nothing but enchanting to watch. And cute, in both the aforementioned objective Garcia-esque way and also a subjective Spencer-esque way. Not in the sense that Spencer found himself subjectively cute, but that you were subjectively cute in a way that felt catered to him and his attractions.

Spencer thought all of this about you, while he had never even spoken a singular word to you. He would fantasize about what your initial interaction would be like, but he never had the courage to actually do something about it. He wouldn’t say that he was shy, and he normally didn’t find it that difficult to speak to someone, but something about your subjective cuteness made you terrifying.

And it didn’t come naturally. He had a library card; he didn’t need to talk to you to check out a book. And asking for directions to a certain book seemed pointless when he had the shelves memorized.

Spencer stood up from his chair to place the book he’d pretend to read back on the right shelf, passing by his favorite section of classics translated into their original languages. He was grateful that D.C. was multicultural enough and filled with diplomats and embassies so that the library found it necessary to take in books that weren’t in English.

He stopped to browse the Russian selection, his finger grazing the spine of Война и мир.

Wait… Certain rare books had to be checked out at the front desk.

And while he already had this book at home, annotated and analyzed, you didn’t know that. He could totally loan this to compare to the version he had at home. This was an earlier copy than his own, and maybe certain parts of the Russian language were different.

Yes. That could work. He was going to talk to you.

With the book in hand, he willed himself to approach the front desk you were now sitting at after finally winning the wrestle match against the cobwebs.

You looked up from the computer as you noticed him, the soft glow of overhead lights casting shadows over the high points of your face. A welcoming smile, although well-rehearsed in a customer service-like manner, stunned him as he placed the book and his library card on the counter.

“War and Peace… in Russian?” you asked, raising a brow as you grabbed the book to scan it. The way you viewed it showed that you recognized the book from the cover, but not the Russian language. And then you looked right up at him, not afraid of keeping eye contact.

Spencer cleared his throat, suddenly hyperaware of how intently you were looking at him. “I’m rereading it to compare to the English version.”

“Are you by any chance from Russia?”

“No,” he said with an honest smile. “I’m from Nevada. But I know enough Russian to get by.”

You let out a low hum of appreciation, your fingers quickly typing something down on the keyboard after having scanned his card. Your nails weren’t only pumpkin-colored, but on them were also minuscule little pumpkin faces.

“To each their own. Don’t get me wrong, it’s impressive.”

“Have you read it?” Spencer asked, his curiosity slipping through.

“No,” you admitted with a laugh. “I picked Infinite Jest as my designated brick of a book that I’ll never finish but still spew opinions about.”

The honesty of your response caught him off guard, and a small chuckle escaped before he could stop it.

“Which is embarrassing to admit to someone who actually can read said bricks,” you added.

“Even worse as a librarian,” he teased, the words leaving his mouth before he had a chance to second-guess them.

“Hey,” you said, your tone mock defensive. “I mostly recommend things to kids anyway. I know all about Daisy Meadows and Captain Underpants.”

That Spencer was twelve years old when he discovered Tolstoy was something he kept to himself. He understood that most kids wanted something funny or imaginative to read, like underpants or fairies—not Russian realism.

“How long until you gave up on Infinite Jest?” he asked instead, leaning slightly on the counter in a way that felt more natural than he anticipated.

“I am seated in an office, surrounded by heads and bodies.” The quote escaped you easily, like you actually had it memorized, but the way your smile cracked through revealed that you were painfully aware of the ironic implication of it.

“That’s the opening sentence,” Spencer pointed out, fighting the urge to laugh outright.

“Captivating, right?” you quipped.

Spencer kept his smile tight as he enjoyed your sarcastic humor. He would’ve never assumed that Infinite Jest was the beast that broke you. Stereotypically, he thought it was stoners and annoying philosophy majors thinking the world was doomed who enjoyed that book.

You didn’t look like either.

But there was also the huge amount of guys who kept it in their bookshelves and had it on display when they had girls over, as a conversation piece, although they hadn’t read a word from it. Maybe you had fallen victim to one of those guys and decided to give it a try on your own, at least getting further than they ever had.

“So you’re more into modern literature?” he was quick to ask, keeping the conversation going.

He wasn’t even sure if David Foster Wallace was considered modern. Contemporary was probably a better word. In comparison to the Russian mellow kind of realism, Wallace was hysterical. Spencer had read it for the sake of saying that he’d read it. After all, it didn’t take him that long. While he was comfortable being the guy who read Tolstoy in Russian, he wasn’t sure he’d be comfortable being the guy who had Infinite Jest as his holy scripture. It made some interesting points about substance abuse and addiction, but that was about it for Spencer, if he was going to give a literary review.

“Not really, I adore some classics,” you admitted, before pointing to a small stack of books behind the counter. The ones you’d snuck into your tote bag. “Now I mostly read poetry, though. All kinds, as long as it’s short and impactful.”

“Oh, you’d hate this then,” he said, like a realization, meaning War and Peace.

You scrunched your nose, nodding softly. “Mhm, and Infinite Jest too.”

There was a beat of silence, not uncomfortable but charged with the kind of potential Spencer wasn’t quite sure what to do with.

“Alright, Tolstoy,” you said, sliding the book over the counter in his direction. “Enjoy your comparative studies.”

“Thanks,” he replied shortly.

As he walked away, book in hand, he couldn’t help but glance back once, catching you fiddling with the edges of your cardigan as you returned your focus to the computer screen. If you wanted to hide your smile from him, you weren’t doing that good of a job.

–––––––––––––––––––––––

Spencer wasn’t sure if he had overthought it, read too much into it, to the point where nothing was making sense. A conversation with a person loaning a book at a library that you worked at probably wasn’t that noteworthy to you, even if it left you dumbly smiling after he’d left.

So, he didn’t dare walk up to you again. He couldn’t justify it in his head. Maybe when his War and Peace loan expired, he’d find an excuse to check it out again, but until then, Spencer didn’t know how to talk to you.

On one afternoon, when the unit had just finished up a case in rural Virginia, Spencer had taken the train back home to D.C. and gone to the library earlier than usual. It was more crowded, with students cramming in some last-minute studying for their finals and parents taking their kids for a little after-school adventure.

He sought refuge in a quiet corner—a cluster of armchairs nestled between the history books and autobiographies—where he could read in peace even though it was busy. But on his way, he was stopped in his tracks. Walking past the kids section, a voice he had begun to recognize caught his attention.

You sat cross-legged on a colorful mat, a worn picture book spread wide in your hands. Your voice carried the story with a mix of humor and animation as you brought the story to life, reading aloud to an audience of tiny faces. Children leaned forward eagerly, their eyes wide with fascination, while a few younger ones had already succumbed to the comforting cadence of your voice, their tiny bodies sprawled across cushions in peaceful slumber. You held the book up for the kids to see the illustrations, pausing occasionally to add exaggerated voices that sent giggles rippling through the group.

Spencer lingered, a faint smile tugging at his lips, before he walked away to not get noticed.

As time passed, the library emptied out. He saw people leave, tired from a long day. For him it was the opposite. Now was when his favorite time of day began, if he wasn’t stuck in the limbo of trying to get himself to sleep. But he had the day off tomorrow and could spend all of it sleeping if he wanted to, so tonight he wouldn’t be anxious about the lack of sleep he was getting, and instead fully indulge in the quiet sanctuary that was the library.

Spencer sat in one of the armchairs, a book open on his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in over fifteen minutes. Something heavy about the history of Nobel Prize winners in chemistry. He was lost in thought, the events of the day fading into memory.

Footsteps broke the silence, rubber soles squeaking against the linoleum floor, growing louder until they stopped just beside him. He looked up to see you standing there, two steaming paper mugs in your hands.

“I’m not supposed to do this,” you began, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “but you’re the only person still here, so I made us tea.”

You placed both mugs on the table in front of Spencer before flopping down into an armchair of your own. You had dungarees on and a soft maroon sweater underneath, matching your Converse. Spencer blinked, unable to form a sentence as he watched you get comfortable, picking up a book from the tote bag you always seemed to carry. He didn’t necessarily recognize the cover, but he knew of the author’s name.

“John Cooper Clarke? You’re into punk?” he heard himself ask before he could think twice about it. You didn’t even get the chance to start reading.

You tilted your head. “You know who he is?”

“I have a colleague who used to be goth in high school. Full on Siouxsie Sioux. And she has told me about JCC,” Spencer explained.

Emily. She was the reason he knew about the “punk poet”. He still couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw her yearbook photos from high school. Even less so when she would quote the same poem every single time they had to wait for something—the jet to get ready, blood samples and lab reports, Rossi to catch up when they had to run somewhere. Whatever it was, she would quote Evidently Chickentown.

“Makes sense,” you replied. “He performed on the same bill as a lot of those early post-punk and goth bands.”

Spencer smiled, quietly reciting, “The fucking train is fucking late. You fucking wait, you fucking wait.”

“You’re fucking lost and fucking found. Stuck in fucking Chickentown.” You chuckled, picking up the line seamlessly. Spencer sounded like cursing was something alien to him, as if the crude words didn’t belong to his vocabulary. You found it sweet, yet unusual. “That poem is in this book! Along with the weird one about being someone’s vacuum cleaner, do you know that too?”

“Uhm, no. I don’t think I know that one,” Spencer admitted, silently begging for you to read it to him. He would be just as excited as the children hearing you read aloud earlier.

“If I’m annoying or distracting,” you said after a moment, “you can tell me to leave. I just sort of go insane spending all night here alone in silence.”

He’d been sitting by himself, looking like he was reading a book about chemistry breakthroughs, and maybe that didn’t come across as someone who wanted to be talked to. Spencer at least assumed that was your thought process when shyly admitting that you were seeking company.

“No, uhm, it’s okay. Thank you for the tea,” Spencer was quick to say before grabbing one of the mugs and taking a small sip. He didn’t want you to leave. If you were voluntarily talking to him, that was better than any made-up War and Peace-related plan he could come up with.

“I’m Spencer, by the way,” he added.

You told him your name in return, pointing to your name tag—a little yellow one with Winnie-the-Pooh on it—before reaching out your hand to him. He hadn’t noticed the tag before, and maybe that was because he didn’t want to get caught staring at your chest.

He looked at your hand, the germaphobe in him coming to life as he observed your dainty fingers. At least in comparison to his own. The orange nail polish was gone and replaced by a simple black coat. Even your hands were cute to him, yet covered in bacteria.

“Oh, I don’t do handshakes,” he said and took in your reaction, your smile fading as you retracted your hand and hid it in your pocket.

“The number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering. It's actually safer to kiss,” he felt the need to explain. It was a simple fact, yet he didn’t think of the implications. Spencer’s eyes widened at the sound of his own voice, and he stammered, feeling heat rise to his cheeks, “Uh… not that you and I—I mean, you know what I mean.”

You acted like you didn’t mind, keeping the conversation going without noticing the huge bump in the road that Spencer thought he had created.

“But doesn’t the other person’s bacteria stay in you forever after you’ve kissed them?” you wondered, a crease forming between your brows as you thought about it. “Don’t quote me on it, but I’ve read that somewhere. It’s like eighty million bacteria exchanged on average in a french kiss, and that some of them stay and colonize, becoming part of your own… what’s it called?” Your voice trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Microbiome?” he supplied. “The community of microorganisms found living together in one habitat?”

“That’s the one!” You lit up with realization. “It’s horrifying and poetic that, after you’ve kissed someone, they become part of you forever.”

He thought of the bacteria, while you thought of the internal battle of someone you’ve kissed staying with you forever. He blamed his background in STEM and his lack of experience with kissing for not seeing the big deal.

“I’m sure it’s not in any way that’s noticeable to us. It’s modest at worst,” he tried to reassure.

He wasn’t sure exactly what research you were referencing when mentioning the eighty million bacteria, or if it even was scientific research. Knowing a little bit about you, it could possibly be poetry about clinging to something or someone for too long. But he knew enough about microbiomes and their complexity that one exchange of saliva wouldn’t alter them majorly. Maybe in a constant way, but never majorly.

“In the sense of bacteria colonizing?” you wondered, seeing Spencer nod. “Well, it’s still psychologically fucked up.”

Spencer raised his eyebrows at your frankness, urging you to keep talking.

“I would like to forget the fact that I made out with Cody Parker in ninth grade, but no, he’s stuck in my microbiome. That’s fucked up,” you laughed, gesturing with your hands in frustration.

“Now, what was so bad about Cody?”

You huffed before answering. “Captain of the football team. Is that enough of a reason to hate him?”

Spencer could’ve guessed it from his name. Cody. He could imagine what he looked like and why you would’ve kissed him. Hell, Spencer would’ve probably kissed a guy like him too if given the chance at that delicate age of self-discovery. Just to have it done early, and as a bragging right for the future. His first kiss had been at a college party that he was too young to attend really, with some girl who probably saw him more as a little brother to care for rather than someone she was actually attracted to.

“Do you also have a deep hatred for anyone that ever played high school football?” Spencer asked with a small, curious smile.

“You could say that,” you admitted, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. “I lost my virginity to Cody the same night, and then he stole my underwear and stuck them to my locker with a note that said I was up for grabs.”

You laughed after you said it, but Spencer couldn’t help but wince. He understood why you laughed, a response to make something uncomfortable feel less serious, but he couldn’t believe that someone had done that to you.

He was an annoying, know-it-all, little boy when he was in high school and had internally justified the bullying he had gone through by telling himself that football players and cheerleaders were just jealous and stupid, probably still stuck in their cliques, in Vegas working dead-end jobs. But you, you shone like light itself, and someone had still found a reason to humiliate you. It didn’t make sense.

“The football team at my school tied me to a goalpost and stripped me naked in front of a girl I had a crush on,” Spencer shared softly. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt like the right thing. Not to make it seem like he’d had it worse, but to show that you had similarities.

Your head turned sharply to look at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “Not that we’re competing, but I think you win the bully-off we just had.” You straightened up in your seat, lifting your legs to sit criss-cross. “But you’re cute, though. Was the girl at least nice to you?”

Spencer looked down at his hands, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. You’d called him cute.He thought you were cute. It shouldn’t be the other way around.

You stared at him like you were questioning his sanity while he reacted to the compliment. It wasn’t him you were questioning, but the eyesight of all the people Spencer had around him, because why wasn’t he used to being complimented? It didn’t even necessarily need to be about their eyesight. They had to be deaf too, because just from hearing him talk, you were fascinated by the way his brain worked.

“I graduated high school at the age of twelve, and she was like sixteen, so no, she didn’t care much,” he answered slowly, keeping his cool. He knew now that he never had a chance with the girl anyway, but twelve-year-old Spencer had been heartbroken, and, of course, humiliated.

Your eyes turned even wider as he spoke. “Huh? Is that legal? Are you some kind of genius?”

“I don’t believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified, but I have an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory,” Spencer admitted matter-of-factly. He didn’t know why it felt like a secret to tell people just how smart he was. In an academic sense, that is.

“Certified genius,” you declared with a grin.

“And I do introduce myself as Dr. Spencer Reid when I’m at work,” he added, emphasizing his name.

“You’ve got a PhD?” you asked. The crease between your brows seemed permanent at this point.

“A few.”

“More than one?”

“Mathematics, chemistry, and engineering. BAs in psychology and sociology,” Spencer rattled off, glancing at you cautiously to gauge your reaction.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, throwing your head back dramatically. “I would’ve hated you just as much as those football players.”

“Not in the sense that I would’ve tied you to a goalpost,” you added quickly, “but more so that I would’ve been insanely jealous. I might still be jealous; the jury is out on that until you explain further.”

Spencer gave a soft laugh, believing that you wouldn’t have been a mean girl. “Do you want to get into the reasons why certain people are smarter than others?”

“No, I just…” Your voice trailed off, and you paused to take a sip of your tea. “Do you ever get freaked out over how people’s lives are vastly different even though they’ve spent the same amount of time on earth?”

He tilted his head slightly, intrigued. “How do you mean?”

“Like, we look similar in age but probably have very few shared experiences because you were born a genius and I was born…” you gestured vaguely, searching for the right words, coming up with nothing in the end.

You were born… how exactly? Spencer tried to fill in the blank, but his guesses seemed almost offensive. “You don’t appear to be dumb,” Spencer countered gently. “You seem to be socially smarter than I am.”

“Because I’m sat here oversharing high school stories with virtually a stranger?” you teased, almost self-deprecatingly, like your easy way of talking was a fault.

And maybe that was true. Spencer knew what it was like to say too much at the wrong time, or have people turn uninterested mid-sentence when he was speaking. But he thought that stemmed from how bad he actually was at talking with people. And you were good at it, with a fluidity and humor to your speech that not many people had.

“I’m not good with words, and you obviously are,” he settled on saying, earnestly.

“No, not really. I was never good at anything. Always a straight B-student. It’s a damn mystery how I managed to get this job without a master’s degree,” you said with a shrug. “When I realized my own mediocrity in high school, I stopped trying. I thought it was much more fun to do drugs and get railed in the back of some college boy’s car. Spoiler alert, it’s not.”

“R-railed?” Spencer stammered, nearly choking on his tea.

“Too crude of a word for you?”

“No, I just would’ve never assumed—”

“That I was a slut in my youth?” you retorted, staring him down. “I’m only messing with you, Spencer. Now I’m sober, and boring, and in on a three-year-long dry spell.”

“We’re more similar than you think, so you don’t have to be freaked out about our lack of shared experiences,” Spencer said softly as realization struck him.

“You also got railed by college boys?” you quipped, and Spencer let out an unexpected laugh, his cheeks reddening.

“No, uhm, I meant being sober from drugs, and the dry spell too,” he clarified quickly.

As the conversation stilled, Spencer noticed he still had the book on Nobel Prize winners opened in his lap. He shut it quietly and placed it on the table, carefully looking at you as you sipped your tea. Your own book was long forgotten too, sliding down the side of your seat. You ran your fingers over your knees, still sitting cross-legged, nails rasping against your denim dungarees. You weren’t scared to look right back at him, not scared to be with him in silence for a moment. He watched as your eyes drifted to his book, struggling to read the title upside down.

“What does an actual genius do for a living? And why can he spend so much time at a library in the middle of the night?” you asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity, turning the book to see.

“Do you want to guess?” he asked, not because he didn’t want to tell you, but because he sensed you were about to guess anyway.

“You’re probably some sort of professor, teaching and researching something I couldn’t even begin to fathom,” you speculated, resting your chin on your hand, flipping through the pages. “You’re also away for like a week at a time and then back here for a week, so you must travel. Maybe you go to conventions and guest lectures. Have you ever done a TED talk?”

You noticed his patterns. That he had noticed yours was no surprise. He noticed everyone’s. But you had noticed his, meaning that you cared enough to mind when he was at the library multiple nights a week and when he wasn’t. What did that tell Spencer? Absolutely nothing he could make sense of.

“No, I haven’t. And I’m not a professor, though I have done a couple guest lectures,” he explained, waiting for you to continue guessing.

“Do you work for some tech company then? Are you secretly a billionaire?”

“Nope, I make a humble living compared to the work I put in.”

“So, the public sector then,” you deduced at the same time as a bell could be heard.

You quickly whipped your head around, straining to see the front desk, where an awfully stressed-out student could be found, holding some heavy book on human anatomy that Spencer knew had to be checked out manually.

“Oh, fuck—” you muttered, quickly standing up, momentarily lost. “I should probably get back to work.”

“Don’t forget your bag,” Spencer hurried to say before you could leave without it. The Kick Inside. Was that a reference to pregnancy? Maybe Spencer should look into Kate Bush to have another thing to talk to you about.

You picked up your book and paper mug, slinging the bag over your shoulder, and gave him one last smile. “Do you know you have the face of a genius?”

“W-what?” he questioned, unsure of why you’d said that.

“It’s a lyric from a song on this album. It made me think of you,” you said, pointing to the bag, before walking away to the front desk to do what you were paid to do.

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The next time Spencer talked to you was exactly two weeks and one day later. They’d been on a case in California, which naturally led to him not seeing you. But then when he was back, you weren’t working. He spent three days filling out reports at the office, waiting for time to go so that he could take the train home and go to the library, and when he showed up, you weren’t even there.

Two weeks he planned what to say to you. The last three days of those felt like torture, not knowing where you were. On the fourth day, you were finally back. And Spencer wasn’t shy. And he could justify his reason for talking to you. Two weeks and one day ago, you had talked to him first.

It was early December, and the first snow fell softly outside as he walked into the warmth of the library. He knew immediately that you were back working because you were the first thing he saw. Perched on a small stool near the front desk and the display shelf of seasonal books, you were stacking books into a makeshift Christmas tree. Carefully selected covers in colors of red and green were stacked into circles, narrowing as you built upward, creating somewhat of a tree shape.

You hummed softly as you worked, occasionally glancing down at the growing stack with concentration. As you reached for another book, you were stopped in your tracks by the telltale sound of footsteps against the library’s linoleum floor. Footsteps that could only be made by a pair of Converse.

“I listened to The Kick Inside.”

Looking over your shoulder, you found him standing there, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, a small smile on his face. Your hands paused mid-placement as you looked down at him, brows lifting in surprise. “You did?”

“Creative use of resources, by the way,” Spencer mentioned, picking up a book from the pile and handing it to you, his long fingers brushing yours briefly in the exchange. “Did a song about incest really make you think of me?”

“Oh, no. Just that singular lyric.” You laughed, shaking your head. “It’s inspired by some old English folklore, I think.” Balancing on the stool, you placed the book carefully onto the stack, leaning back to eye the structure.

“A murder ballad called Lizie Wan. Her brother got her pregnant, and then he killed her.” Spencer supplied, his tone instinctively slipping into lecture mode. He stepped closer and shed his coat to drape it over a nearby chair as he continued to hand you books.

You made a face. “Well, did you like it? The album, I mean. Not the incest.”

“I understand why youlike it. It’s very… you,” Spencer explained, hoping it made sense. It was theatrical and wacky. Feminine too, in a brutal way, only archivable in lyrics written by an adolescent girl. Spencer wasn’t a music lover by any means, but even he could hear that it was undeniably good, just not his taste. “Is Wuthering Heights perhaps your favorite classic novel?”

“No, not at all. I think it’s a stupid book and a stupid song,” you said.

Spencer handed you another book, his eyes darting between the growing tree and your face. The grin you put on betrayed your monotone voice.

“Okay, no. I adore it,” you admitted. “It’s a nightmare to read, and I fully believe Emily was clinically insane, but I can’t help but love dark and twisted women. One review at the time when it was first published questioned how she could’ve finished writing it without committing suicide. That’s badass.”

“Do you know that Kate hadn’t even read the book when she wrote the song? She just watched some TV adaptation, which is why the names are all messed up,” you continued as you perfectly balanced the book he gave you onto the others. You’d soon be done at this pace.

“I did notice that she sang Cathy instead of Catherine, and Cathy is the daughter, right?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “So if you know the book, the song totally reads like a love song between Heathcliff and his dead lover’s daughter.”

“That’s disturbing,” Spencer concluded. “I can’t help but think that Brontë would’ve loved it.”

Your lips twitched into a smile, but you didn’t comment further, too focused on your Christmas tree. He handed you another book in silence and saw how your nails were now painted red with little white snowflakes on some of them. He wondered if you painted them yourself. You were back to wearing your usual slacks and cardigan. This time a white one that looked terribly comfortable and wintery. In your hair you had a red ribbon tied into a bow, matching, as always, your red Converse.

After a moment, you spoke. “You were gone for a while, again. Who in the public sector travels that much? I hope you’re not a politician.”

“No, I’m not,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “I’m with the FBI. Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

You blinked, looking down at him in mild shock. “You’re a profiler?”

He nodded.

“That actually makes a lot of sense. And it’s scary as hell. No wonder you’ve got insomnia, probably messed up from all the murders you’ve solved.”

“I’m not making fun of you,” you added quickly. “I’ve obviously got it too; I wouldn’t be working the night shift voluntarily otherwise.”

Spencer handed you the final book for the top tier, his gaze steady on you. “You weren’t here for a couple of days either. I had to talk to Omar, and he’s not as good of a conversationalist.”

You snorted. “Period cramps from hell,” you said casually, knowing it was the fastest way to end questions.

Spencer also knew that it was a common lie told by women to men. And he wasn’t the kind of person to be grossed out by basic biology. He might have issues with pathogens and handshakes, but he had no issues talking about the human body.

“Bold move to lie to a profiler,” he remarked, tilting his head slightly.

“I didn’t necessarily lie—”

“But you didn’t tell me the whole truth.”

He waited, silent and expectant.

You sighed, and for once your gaze was scared to meet his. “I’m kind of…depressed. Probably just seasonal, I fucking hate the winter. Spent three days on my living room floor, in some sort of verbal shutdown, just staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’m even human.”

Spencer’s brows knit together, concern flickering across his face. “Do you feel better now?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” you said, forcing a small smile.

Before Spencer could respond, the precarious stack of books wobbled. You tried to steady it, but the entire top layer you’d just finished collapsed in a cascade of covers and pages, books tumbling to the floor in a loud crash. You stepped down from the stool quickly, and Spencer instinctively grabbed you by the hand so that you wouldn’t fall. He didn’t even have time to think about germs.

“You’re legally allowed to shoot me in the head,” you said with a disbelieving sigh.

“You can’t consent to murder,” Spencer replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

“But you can consent to bodily harm, right? So maybe you can shoot me in the foot at least?”

“That’s more reserved for sports and medical procedures. Shooting you would still be a crime even if you coerced me,” he explained.

“Sadomasochism too, right? You can consent to sexually inflicted pain?”

“Ehm—” Spencer mouth got dry, and his cheeks flushed red. “Well yes, technically.”

“So you really can’t figure out a way for me to not have to work another day this year?” you asked, leaning down to pick up one of the fallen books.

Now, if Spencer was as socially smart as you were, he’d notice you were flirting. Maybe even insinuating that you’d be okay with a sexual injury that resulted in you staying home from work the rest of December. But Spencer was surprisingly dumb for having such a high IQ. And his ears sort of started ringing as soon as you mentioned sex, so he wasn’t sure he’d even heard you correctly.

“Not if you need the money, no,” he replied, a small, apologetic smile playing on his lips.

“Some kind of genius you are, Spence,” you teased, shoving the book in his hands before crouching to start rebuilding the tree.

–––––––––––––––––––––––

After that conversation, Spencer helped you rebuild the Christmas tree. He’d handed you book after book with a quiet determination, his brow furrowing slightly as if the arrangement were a problem he needed to solve. Occasionally, he would pause to ask you a question about your favorite winter-themed books or share an anecdote about an obscure author. All throughout December, Spencer became a constant presence during your night shifts.

You found him fascinating to listen to, even if he seemed to doubt himself midway through every tangent. His voice would falter, and he’d look up at you with a quick, “Is this boring?” or “Am I rambling?” as if he needed reassurance that you were still interested.

You always were. At this point, he could probably recite the yellow pages, and you’d still find it captivating. Knowing him and his eidetic memory, he most likely could do it on the spot if you asked him.

December always moved slowly for you. Students crammed into every corner, poring over their textbooks and laptops as they prepared for finals. The library was busy, but there was a strange liminal quality to your evenings, the dark winter nights stretching endlessly as you walked the halls, organizing books and straightening shelves.

You wouldn’t admit it to yourself just yet, but because of this heavy feeling, you found yourself sat at the front desk, waiting for Spencer to walk through those doors. You now knew that he was a busy man—a brilliant, busy man with a job more important than yours, so you stopped expecting him to show up, getting positively surprised every time he did instead.

On the 23rd of December, Spencer walked through the entrance at exactly 9:32 p.m. You knew the time because you’d been watching the seconds tick by on the digital clock of the computer’s screensaver.

You straightened your back, softly smiling as he made his way up to you. Sometimes, you had to go on little treasure hunts to find him in the library, but today, he didn’t appear to be shy to approach you first.

With a soft thud he placed a heavy book on the counter, one you immediately recognized as War and Peace, in Russian. Your heart lifted slightly. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been waiting for the day the loan would expire, so that he either had to return it or extend it.

“Have you finished comparing them now?” you asked, eyeing the book.

“No, uhm,” Spencer hesitated, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Is it possible to extend it?”

“I’ll have to check,” you replied, tapping at the keyboard. “It’s quite a popular book. A lot of Russian diplomats in D.C.”

You pretended to eye the screen, searching for whatever you were searching for, when you already knew that it wouldn’t be an issue to extend the loan. He didn’t have to know that, though.

“Are you doing anything special for the holidays, Spencer?” you asked, to make it appear like small talk while you were tapping away at the keyboard, mindlessly clicking between pages of the software you used.

“I might make it to Las Vegas to see my mom. I don’t know if I’ll have the time, though.” Spencer’s lips quirked in a small smile. “What about you? How will you celebrate Christmas?”

You knew by now that it was a dumb question to ask if he had a lot of work to do. He didn’t have a normal schedule, sometimes getting called in the middle of the night to fly across the country.

“I’ll probably be here,” you admitted. “We’re closed for two days, and then over New Year’s, but otherwise I’ll be working. Might go see my dad if I have the time and he’s feeling up for it. Nothing major. Do you have plans for New Year’s, Spence?”

He opened his mouth to respond but paused, tilting his head slightly. “I, uh— Sorry, what’s that on the radio?”

You cocked your head, listening to the faint news broadcast filtering in from the staff break room that had caught his attention. You always had it on to not go insane from the silence. All afternoon it had been occupied with the same emergency broadcast. “Oh, you haven’t heard about it? I honestly thought you’d be working the case.”

“What case?” Spencer asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Some senator was kidnapped, and another one was shot. Apparently no one heard or saw a thing, but they can’t figure out how since the neighborhood has, like, crazy good security.”

“Kidnapped in his own home?”

“Mhm. I think they used the helipad, but Janice and Charlotte didn’t believe me.” You gestured toward the corner where the two older women usually sat knitting and reading romance novels. “Y’know, the regulars?”

“You think the kidnappers used a helicopter, without being heard or seen?” Spencer asked, a note of skepticism in his voice. “How would they even get access to a helicopter?”

“If you know how to find and operate one, certain helicopters are easier to steal than cars. No locks in the way or keys needed,” you explained as if it were common knowledge.

Usually, this was the point in a conversation where you would shut up, thinking that you’d crossed into boring territory. But by the look on Spencer’s face, he just wanted to hear more about it.

“And if the security guards are all at the entrance to the gated community, I think you could go unnoticed. It’s close to the air force base, there are probably aircraft flying there on the daily.” You shrugged, a little self-conscious. “This job gives me a lot of free time to overthink things.”

Spencer smiled in slight disbelief. “How do you know how to steal a helicopter?”

“My dad was in the air force,” you explained. “From Fork Union to Master Sergeant. With today’s standards he’d probably be diagnosed with autism, but back when he was working, he was mostly just known as the guy who knew everything about every type of aircraft.”

You scrunched your face at the thought of your dad. You adored him, you really did, but he hadn’t given you the easiest of childhoods. That meaning being stuck with your mother because he was away a lot for work.

“What was that look for?” Spencer asked, because of course he realized stuff like that.

“I have tried so hard all my life to not be like my mother that I unconsciously picked up my father’s personality instead,” you said with a self-deprecating laugh.

Spencer’s expression softened. “I despise my father, so I’m doing the opposite. Turning into my schizophrenic mother.”

“My dad got sick too,” you said quietly. “That’s why he stopped working. And why my mother divorced him. He lives at a care facility by the coast now.”

Before Spencer could respond, a buzzing noise came from his pocket. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen.

“Duty calling?” you asked.

Spencer hesitated before nodding.

“I don’t think I can extend this, by the way,” you said, picking up the copy of War and Peace, placing it behind you on a shelf with other returned books.

“That’s fine—” he began, but you cut him off.

“I do, however, have another solution,” you said, standing up from your chair to go into the staff room. With quick steps, you grabbed your tote bag, the one with the Kate Bush album on it, and walked back out. Spencer stared at you in confusion as you pulled out a book, not wrapped in paper or anything special, but there was a dark red ribbon tied into a bow around it.

Spencer recognized it immediately as the same type of fabric you often wore in your hair.

“I have no one else to buy gifts for, so I thought I might as well. You won’t have to keep loaning it over and over again,” you said with a shy smile, handing it to him.

Spencer stared at it, his hands hesitating before taking it. A Russian copy of War and Peace. A nice one too. Hardcover with gold leaf embossment. “Thank you…” he said softly. “I feel bad now. I don’t have anything to give to you.”

“You’ve made my night shifts a lot less depressing these last months,” you replied. “That’s enough of a gift to me, Spencer.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue but closed it again, nodding instead. “You know I’m not good with words,” he said after a pause, “or sometimes I think I might be too good with them. I say too much too quickly—”

“Do you wanna go on a date with me?” you interrupted, your voice steady but your heart pounding.

Spencer’s eyes widened. “A d-date?”

“Y’know, we go somewhere, maybe get some food, and then we talk. And if it leads somewhere, it leads somewhere.” You hesitated, your confidence wavering. “If I misread this entirely, that’s fine. You don’t have to say yes. But I’d like to keep your company during my night shifts, if I haven’t ruined that completely now by admitting that I find you attractive.”

“No, no, uhm—” Spencer stammered, his cheeks now fully pink. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been asked out this directly before.”

You held your breath as he gathered himself.

“I’d love to go on a date with you.”

A grin broke across your face. “Good, so how about those New Year’s Eve plans?”

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The D.C. police office buzzed with activity despite the late hour. Phones rang, officers rushed past with files in hand, and the muted hum of fluorescent lights filled the air. Spencer stepped into the building, his scarf still loosely draped around his neck and his cheeks slightly pink from the cold December air. From the side of his messenger bag, a red ribbon could be seen peeking out.

“Spencer, where the hell have you been?” Morgan’s voice rang out from across the room. He strode toward Spencer, his brow furrowed with equal parts concern and frustration.

“At the library,” Spencer replied, unwinding his scarf as he spoke. His tone was calm, almost as if the answer were obvious. “I came as soon as I heard.”

Morgan crossed his arms. “At ten at night?”

Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze darting briefly to the floor before meeting Morgan’s eyes again. “There’s one open all hours of the day.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed slightly, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Why are you smiling like that?”

Spencer’s lips twitched as if suppressing the grin threatening to break through. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly, clearing his throat in an effort to sound composed.

Morgan tilted his head, his smirk growing wider. “Uh-huh. Sure it is. Library must’ve gotten a whole lot more interesting since the last time I was there.”

Spencer ignored the comment, shifting the conversation back to the matter at hand. “We should look into stolen helicopters in the area. I think that’s how they got in.”

Morgan’s smirk faded as his professional demeanor returned. “Helicopters? That’s a hell of a theory. What makes you think that?”

Spencer adjusted the strap of his bag, his fingers fidgeting slightly. “The location of the kidnapping is close to an air force base. Certain small helicopters are relatively easy to steal—no locks or keys required. If the neighborhood security was focused on the main entrance, a helicopter could bypass them entirely. Given the proximity to the base, it’s plausible they used the airspace to their advantage.”

Morgan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Alright, genius, I’ll get Garcia to pull up any reports of stolen aircraft in the area. Nice ribbon, by the way, really pulls your outfit together.”

–––––––––––––––––––––––

If December in general was slow for you, the holidays were fucking dreadful. Your dad had a cold and could not receive visitors, so you ended up spending Christmas Eve at a party—two hours sober between drunk friends, and then you had enough. Christmas Day was spent on your couch, watching all five hours of Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander, eating your body weight in Chinese takeout.

You did get a postcard from your dad, a pretty coastal view on it that was of the beach he lived by. He also sent a pair of hand-knitted socks, a hobby you knew had been forced upon him by the older ladies he lived with at the care facility. His squiggly writing was harder and harder to decipher with every year that passed, but it still filled you with immense joy that his mind seemed to be bright even if his body wasn’t.

From your mother you also got a postcard. A pretty coastal view was on it too, from Bali, where she was spending Christmas with her new partner. Hers wasn’t handwritten, instead only printed with a generic Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. No thought put behind it.

You placed your father’s on the fridge, hung with a magnet you knew he’d gotten you when he was abroad for work in England. Your mother’s ended up being a perfect makeshift and temporary coaster on your living room table. Within days you had to throw it out because the paper had been ruined by tea stains.

When you were back at work, the library was even quieter than normal, which honestly was to be expected. Janice came by to borrow some new romance novels to have over New Years. Some poor students had deadlines due first thing in January. But still, so calm you might even call it boring. And you loved this job.

You sat at the front desk, flipping through a worn-out copy of a poetry collection by Patti Smith. You’d fallen down a hole of punk literature ever since you talked about JCC with Spencer. He didn’t seem like the kind to like said literature, but he had talked with you about it anyway. It was a tradeoff maybe, quid pro quo; he got to geek out about Tolstoy and Nobel Prize winners, and you got to talk about British bands and Vivienne Westwood. He’d actually really seemed to enjoy the irony of her bringing French 18th-century aristocracy into clothing worn by the most alternative and radical people in punk-era London.

Deep down in thought, you barely heard when the entrance door opened. It was a gust of freezing cold wind that made you look up from your slouched position. In walked a man, obviously bothered by the weather, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room as he walked forward. He was followed by…

“Spencer?” you wondered, standing. “You should be in Vegas.”

Spencer didn’t even have time to answer before his companion did. “Serial killers don’t care about the holidays, miss,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “SSA Derek Morgan.”

“You’re working the senator case, aren’t you?” you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly. “It’s turned into a serial case?” you rambled before shaking your head. “You probably can’t tell me the details anyway.”

Morgan gave a tight smile. “Not exactly.” He gestured toward Spencer. “We need your help with a quote. Spencer said you were the only person he could think of who might know it.”

“I didn’t say that—” Spencer tried to explain.

“Don’t you have search engines and databases for things like that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“We do, but nothing came up,” Spencer replied. “And I don’t recognize it for the life of me.”

“Must suck to be a genius, Spence,” you chuckled. “What’s the quote?”

Morgan pulled a photograph from his pocket and placed it on the counter. Written in bold, smeared letters that looked disturbingly like blood were the words: Whoever is strong must also be good.

“Jeez, give a girl a warning,” you muttered, grimacing slightly as you studied the photo.

It answered your question about whether or not it had turned into a serial case, because this was a place where someone had been murdered, and it wasn’t some fancy senator mansion this time, but more what looked like an abandoned warehouse.

“Ehm… I honestly don’t know. I mean, it’s a very simple quote. I could come up with that.” You tilted your head thoughtfully. You weren’t sure why Spencer had thought of coming to you when faced with this problem. You knew of a bunch of books and quotes, sure, but you were honestly mostly known around your workplace as the one who knew all about children’s bo—

“Oh, oh! It’s sort of similar to a quote from a children’s book, but very badly paraphrased in that case.”

Morgan straightened. “Can you show us?”

You were already walking out from behind your desk when he asked, making your way to the children’s section with quick steps. The two taller men following. “Ever heard of Pippi Longstocking?” you questioned over your shoulder as you walked.

Morgan looked skeptical and Spencer for once, too, like he didn’t recognize the name at all.

“I would assume that you had a more refined taste in literature as a child and did not waste your time with translated Swedish fairytales about the strongest girl in the world,” you added, finally reaching the right shelf, filled with thin books with bright yellow covers.

As you ducked down, you practically disappeared out of view for the two of them, squatting on the floor while picking out the right book.

Spencer perked up, smiling gently. “My mother is a professor in 15th-century literature. She used to read to me a lot.”

“That’ll do it,” you concluded, flipping through the pages. “We use it sometimes for kids’ reading hours, that’s why I recognize it. Popular with bilingual and immigrant children too since it’s been translated to over 70 languages.”

Spencer knelt down beside you, reading over your shoulder. You knew he was a quick reader, but when you knew what you were looking for, you were quicker.

“Here!” you pointed out on a page, disturbed by the look of your chipped red nail polish. “The quote in English is ’If you are very strong, you must also be very kind’.”

“That’s oddly similar,” Spencer agreed.

“It might be translated. I can look into our non-English books.”

You didn’t even wait for an answer before you started walking again, forcing Spencer and Morgan to follow suit. Down a corridor of shelves with children’s books, around a corner, to a new shelf, and then you ducked down on the floor, quickly scanning the spines. It was all children’s books divided into different languages. You picked whatever yellow spine you could see, collecting them in your arms before you sat down right on the floor. You knew the cleaning lady, she was great at her job.

“The story is from the 1940s but still relevant. Pippi is an orphan living in a big yellow house with her horse and monkey, and has to fight with adults and authorities, saying that she can’t survive on her own. Honestly quite progressive,” you explained as you gave Spencer a copy in Russian, trying to hand a different one to Morgan before realizing that not all agents had the skills of Dr. Spencer Reid.

“How’d she get the house?” Morgan asked, crossing his arms.

“Her dad is a sea captain and a king over some fictive island. She’s rich,” you replied matter-of-factly.

As you sat there on the floor, books spread around you, searching and comparing to the English version, talking about the pure feminism and boldness of a female author creating such a character during that time period, Spencer found you fascinating. Like a dancer, you had moved through the rows of shelves, with a grace and a crazy smile, firing you up.

He had sensed it as soon as the unit stumbled upon the issue with finding the quote, that if someone was going to know this simple, moral-of-the-story quote to feed down the throats of children, it’d be you.

“I don’t think it’s Russian,” Spencer said after finding the right page. ‘Kind’ didn’t turn into ‘good’ like it had in whatever way the unsub had paraphrased it.

Morgan gave Spencer a sidelong glance. “Do you even need me here for this conversation?”

You ignored the comment, pulling out a book and flipping through its pages. “The missing senator has a German surname, right?”

Both Spencer and Morgan turned to you with confused faces.

You shrugged. “I watch the news, okay? I’m alone here all night!”

With the German version in your hand, you scanned the pages for the quote. “Oh, look! My high school German might finally be paying off.” You read aloud, “‘Wer stark ist, muss auch gut sein.’”

You stood up and showed the book to Spencer, pointing to the quote. “‘Kind’ turns into ‘gut’, which can translate back to ‘good’,” you explained, even if you felt like he probably didn’t need it. Morgan might’ve found it useful at least. “Whoever is strong must also be good, right? That make sense?”

Morgan leaned against the shelf, rubbing his chin. “So, the quote is from a Swedish children’s book, translated into German, and then badly paraphrased into English? What do we do with that?”

You shrugged, closing the book. “I just know what it says. I don’t know what it means.”

Spencer paced as he thought out loud. “The unsub has to be a woman.”

“Who speaks German?” Morgan added, mostly out of confusion.

“And she most likely identifies with the abandonment issues of the girl in the book, and having to be independent at a young age,” Spencer added, a light in his eyes shone like the stereotypical picture of a lightbulb turning on when an idea was formed.

Morgan glanced at Spencer. “Reid, didn’t the senator have a daughter?”

You watched them as they spoke, unsure if this was even new information to them or something they were reciting to jog their own memories of the case.

“So, wait, was I helpful?” you asked a little self-consciously, looking around, seeing the mess of bright yellow children's books on the floor.

Spencer nodded, his excitement bubbling over. “Yes, yes, your brain is unbelievable! Thank you so much.” Without thinking, he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you in a brief but firm hug. You felt him stiffen slightly, his germaphobe instincts clearly battling his enthusiasm, but he didn’t pull away immediately. You knew he didn’t do handshakes, so the thought of him hugging you felt even more abnormal. His voice was soft as he added, “I mean it.”

Before you could respond, Morgan cleared his throat, a teasing grin on his face. “Alright, Romeo, we’ve got to get moving.”

Spencer stepped back quickly, fumbling with his feet. “Right, of course.”

You hesitated, looking up at Spencer’s flushed face, before softly hurrying to ask, “Are our plans for New Year’s Eve still on?”

He grinned, walking away. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

–––––––––––––––––––––––

Spencer did miss it. Or in thirty-two minutes he would. He watched the clock on the wall in his hospital room with an anxious feeling. The fragments from a bullet had just been removed from his arm, and yet his biggest worry wasn’t the lingering ache in his arm—it was you.

“Your first date with her was supposed to be in a park at midnight? Do you realize how creepy that sounds?” Prentiss’s voice broke through his thoughts as Morgan had just explained why the first word they heard from Spencer as they had been allowed to enter his hospital room was your name.

“Could you stop yelling at me while I’m literally in a hospital bed?” Spencer shot back. He wasn’t one to complain, and he could hear the humor in her voice, but if he were to complain, now wouldn’t be an awful time.

Morgan leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, an amused smile playing on his lips. “They’re both insomniacs and were going to watch the fireworks. It’s sort of sweet.”

They hadn’t been able to just get the unsub when they figured out who it was. It had taken them days to plan their attack, knowing that the daughter would kill her father if they ambushed the place. A senator being killed because they had rushed their strategy wasn’t a defense that would hold up in any internal investigation.

So they waited and waited, mapping out the place where he had been taken, trying to get the daughter to leave. But she persisted, and an ambush was in the end the best choice anyway. Spencer hadn’t been shot directly. The daughter’s boyfriend had fired a shot, landing in the wall behind him, which left fragments flying all over. Some grazing his right arm, leaving it now fully bandaged. He’d also managed to hit his head on a beam while being lead out of the building afterwards, so he had three stitches on his forehead and blood in his hair.

It wasn’t as dramatic as it sounded. He’d been through worse. Which was why he now felt restless in the hospital bed, just waiting to be discharged. He wouldn’t make it in time to see you anyway, but maybe he could at least call you and tell you what had happened so that you didn’t wait outside in the cold for him.

He didn’t even have his phone on him, now that he thought of it. Or your number.

Restless and impossible, the situation was.

He had Prentiss, Morgan, Rossi, and Garcia all in his room. Just restlessly waiting too. Hotch was somewhere talking to a nurse about getting him out of here. Garcia was anxiously knitting. Rossi was half asleep while standing. Prentiss and Morgan were bickering about whether or not his date plans were cute or creepy. There was a radio in his room playing some sort of New Year’s program, almost taunting him by mentioning how time was closing up on the clock striking midnight. Some sort of reverse Cinderella, that was what he felt like.

With a slow knock on the doorframe, Hotch announced that he was back. “They don’t know when they can release you, and, uhm…” he began, poised as usual, though he was fighting a smile. “Look who I stumbled upon in the reception,” he continued, stepping aside as you appeared in the doorway.

It was probably all over the news that the senator case had been solved and that officers and agents had been harmed in the process. And you listened to the news, like religiously.

“You got shot…” you whispered, your voice trailing off as you took in the sight of him, pale but upright in the hospital bed.

“Oh, oh, is this her?” Prentiss asked as the entire unit watched as you entered the room.

They already knew your name. Now they knew what you looked like too.

You were all done up. Date ready. For Spencer. You had on a black coat, covered in little snowflakes from being outside, but underneath he could spot a dress that sparkled like diamonds. You had red ribbons in your hair like usual and your Converse, squeaking from being wet against the hospital floors. No tights, and while Spencer worried you might be cold, he also knew from Garcia that you just couldn’t wear tights with certain dresses.

“You’re gorgeous,” Garcia said, practically swooning. She nudged Spencer playfully. “Spencer, she’s gorgeous.”

Rossi stepped forward, clapping a hand on Garcia’s shoulder. “Maybe we should give them some time alone.”

Hotch, ever the professional and hopeless romantic, nodded. “We’ll be down the hall if you need anything, Reid.”

“Or pressed up against the door to eavesdrop,” Garcia added, earning a pointed look from Hotch as they all filed out, leaving you and Spencer alone.

The door shut with a click behind you as you stood flat on your feet in the middle of the room. You looked almost scared to move.

“We were supposed to go on a date, and you got shot, Spencer.”

The words left your mouth in nothing but shock. You didn’t even have time to be embarrassed over his colleagues being there and almost making fun of the situation because all you had in your head was the ringing sound of a gun firing and Spencer being the target.

“I’m okay, I promise,” he reassured gently, reaching out his unharmed arm to you.

You tentatively moved forward, almost in an inspective manner, seeing where he was hurt and not. With his hand reached out in your direction, you assumed he was fine with you touching it. You grabbed it gently, and Spencer spotted that your nails were just as sparkly as your dress.

“You. Got. Shot.” You emphasized every word, scooting to sit on the side of his bed. “Like a bullet penetrating your skin kind of shot. That’s insane.”

“It didn’t actually penetrate the skin, more like grazed me with fragments after it hit the wall behind me,” Spencer tried to explain. The bandage looked dramatic but all that was under it were scratches, basically.

“But still—” you began, but he cut you off.

“You look very pretty.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Don’t change the subject.”

“But you do. I like you in red,” he insisted, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“I always wear red,” you pointed out.

“And I guess I always like you then,” he replied simply.

You tilted your head, a teasing grin forming. “Did they give you something strong for the pain? What kind of smooth talking is this?”

“I, uh— I got nothing for the pain, y’know—” He gestured vaguely.

“Drugs and that?” you filled in.

“Yeah.”

You didn’t press further. He figured you understood. Not that you had talked about it more than briefly. But you were sober, and he was sober, and breaking a sober streak even in a hospital setting was nothing easy. The pain from the fragments being removed was only temporary. The aftermath of any sort of prescription painkiller was a long-term thing for people like him. And maybe you.

In silence, Spencer moved to the side of the bed, a way of notifying you that you could come sit higher up beside him. He hadn’t let go of your hand since you grabbed his, and when you scooted to sit so that your right arm touched his left one, he felt himself tense up at the closeness. While you still had your coat on, it was like a fire spread through it to his hospital gown and in turn his skin.

You toed off your shoes, kicking them on the floor, as you lifted your legs to place them alongside his. “So, was it the daughter? Did she shoot you?” you asked, turning to look at him with wonder in your eyes.

“Her boyfriend did. Helicopter pilot, by the way,” Spencer answered, gaze stuck on how your hand held his, perched in his lap over a thin blanket.

Your eyebrows shot up. “No fucking way. I was right?”

“You’re smarter than you realize,” he replied, his tone earnest.

You looked like a child on Christmas with the way happiness spread across your face. A happiness of being right, not over the situation. That was a given.

“It was the same old tale about a rich man abandoning his child and them later seeking financial compensation for it, thinking they’re entitled to their parents wealth after they’ve practically been left to live on the streets,” Spencer explained. Journalists would’ve figured out the motive as soon as it was public that is was the daughter, so he didn’t think he was breaking any protocol by telling you.

“And those are the good kind of senators,” you quipped, earning a small laugh from Spencer. You could see that his tired body didn’t react particularly well to the sudden vibration in his chest.

Your hand dropped his, only momentarily to soothingly caress his chest. He moved to hold yours again, keeping his held against his ticking heartbeat. You were so close.

The second he could think that, you whipped your head around at the sound of a thud. It was outside, a flashing light coming through the window.

“Oh my god, you can see the fireworks from here too,” you whispered, jaw dropped.

Spencer turned his head, following your gaze. Bright colors lit up the night sky, faint booms audible even through the thick hospital walls. Both hands on the clock were on twelve.

“It’s also a lot warmer in here than the park would’ve been,” Spencer mused, squeezing your hand in his.

He could almost feel you relax as you watched the colorful explosions go off in the night sky. You leaned into his side, the side of your face carefully placed on his shoulder. In this cold, sterile hospital room, you filled him with tepidity. He glanced down at your face; cute was the only word that came to mind. The subjective Spencer-esque way of defining it. You had silver glitter on your eyelids that twinkled whenever you blinked. Your lips had been glossy but were now mostly bitten raw from being anxious.

Spencer could only think of one thing as he took you in.

“Would you mind me becoming part of your microbiome?” he whispered.

You blinked, startled by the question, looking right up at him. He hadn’t even wanted to shake your hand when he introduced himself that first time. But kissing was, according to him, more sanitary anyway. You hadn’t been nervous for a kiss since you were in high school, yet this paralyzed you. It was terrifying, looking at him, feeling an invisible force pulling you towards him, towards his face, towards his lips.

“W-what if some bacteria from Cody Parker becomes a part of you now?” you joked, buying time to collect yourself.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he replied easily, his face now dangerously close to yours.

Your breath caught as he closed the distance, his lips meeting yours. You were both tentative at first, his hand still holding yours clasped over his chest. With your other hand, you pushed his hair from the side of his face, cradling his cheek as you deepened the kiss, touch by touch.

Spencer had never had a New Year’s kiss before. He wasn’t sure this was considered one either. The clock was probably 12:07 if he were to estimate.

From the hallway, Garcia’s voice could be heard through the door. “Oh my god, he kissed her.”

“Shut up, Garcia, I’m trying to see,” Prentiss whispered harshly.

You pulled back, laughter bubbling up as Spencer’s cheeks flushed deep red. Despite his embarrassment, a shy smile lingered on his face. The fireworks outside continued, unnoticed by the two of you, as you leaned in to kiss him again.

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The apartment was quiet as you stepped inside, the muffled hum of the city beyond the windows the only sound accompanying your footsteps. Spencer moved carefully, his movements stiff and hesitant from the pain radiating from his arm. Two pairs of Converse stood on his doormat. One pair of simple black ones. Another pair of smaller, red ones.

“You need to shower, Spencer. There’s coagulated blood in your hair,” you said, setting his bag down on the floor before reaching up to tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear, it all sticking together in a knot.

He groaned softly, glancing toward the bathroom, then at the inviting sight of his bed just a little bit further down the hallway. “When I, for once, feel like I could fall asleep just looking at a bed?”

You crossed your arms, giving him a pointed look.

“No, you’re right. I just—” He hesitated. “How am I going to do it with this on my arm?”

“I’ll help you,” you offered immediately, then Spencer could see the realization hit you. “O-or maybe we can call Morgan, or someone else that you trust—”

His face twisted in mock horror. “I’d rather die than have Morgan wash my hair.”

“I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, firmer than intended.

“You don’t have to pretend around me.” Your expression softened. “When was the last time you were naked in front of someone?”

His eyes widened, and he stammered. “Ehm, I—”

“Never?” you asked, far from in the teasing manner he was used to.

“Do doctors count?” he muttered, his face flushed.

“Okay,” you said, putting your hands together, stepping back slightly. “We’ll work around this to make you comfortable. Do you have swim shorts?”

“Yeah, that could work.”

Spencer retreated into his bedroom while he saw you go into the bathroom. It wasn’t easy for him to get out of his clothes and into the shorts, but he managed in the end. He spotted himself in his full-length mirror just as he was about to exit the bedroom. Tall and scrawny. Bandaged all over his right arm. Dressed in light blue shorts with flamingoes on them that Garcia had gotten him, as a joke he thought or she could have been completely serious. You never knew.

This was about to be the closest he’d been to another person while wearing so little clothing. And that was terrifying. No other word for it. It didn’t matter that you had kissed. Twice at the hospital. Once in the taxi home. Another small one as you helped him unlock his front door. Still terrifying.

It wouldn’t get easier the longer he waited, so he stepped out of his bedroom, too self-conscious to look at you, already rambling before you even noticed him.

“Don’t laugh, Garcia bought them for me when we had a case in Florida—”

“They’re cute,” you simply said, sat on the edge of his bathtub.

When he lifted his gaze to see you, you’d also changed. Or maybe undressed was a better word. Your dress was gone, and left were a pair of spandex shorts he imagined you had on under for comfort and warmth, maybe? And your bra. A simple black bra.

“You—” Spencer couldn’t form a sentence.

“I thought I’d make it even,” you shrugged, standing up. “Can you get in the tub without hurting yourself further?”

Spencer pressed his lips together to keep his posture. He nodded, as he at least though he’d be able to sit down on his own. But no. His balance betrayed him as he had both feet down on the porcelain, trying to lower himself down into a cross-legged position.

You were there within seconds, your hands trying to help him from falling. With an ungracious thud, he was sat down.

You sat halfway on the edge of the tub, turning the water on, waiting for it to get warm. As you did, you reached to comb through his hair with your fingers, but he stopped you before you got the chance.

“Just wait,” he said quickly, putting his hands up so that you couldn’t touch him. “For a second, will you?”

“Cause you’ll pop a boner if I touch you now?” you teased, shockingly how easy dirty words fell from your mouth.

A baffled laugh escaped him. “You’re so…”

“Rude?”

“Honest,” he replied. “I’ve been having a hard time keeping it together since you kissed me.”

“Nuh-uh, you kissed me,” you shot back with a grin. “You’re a good kisser, by the way.”

Spencer didn’t say another word as you started to wash his hair. Feeling slightly pathetic, he sat there in the bathtub, water falling from his head like a wet dog. He didn’t know how to make the situation less awkward, so he just accepted the way it was.

At least it was comfortable, having your fingers untangle his hair and massage his scalp with shampoo. When you were done, you helped him stand up, handing him a towel, but not before quite obviously eyeing his body up and down.

“You’ve turned pink all the way to your stomach,” you pointed out, and before Spencer could react, you added, “Don’t worry, it’s hot,” like that would make it any easier for him to process.

Later, Spencer was sitting on the edge of his bed, his damp curls sticking to his forehead as you helped him dry his hair. You moved gently, careful not to jostle his injured arm.

He’d been able to change into a t-shirt and pajama pants on his own, with you trying to hold in your laughter from the other side of his bedroom door when he would stumble and hit his shin on his bed frame due to the lack of balance he had with only one working arm.

“I can sleep here, right?” you said, tossing the towel into his hamper of dirty laundry. “It’s like 3 a.m. and I totally get if you wanna throw me out—”

“I want you to sleep here,” he said softly, looking up at you. “With me.”

No words left your mouth, but the smile that cracked through was unmistakable. He gave you a t-shirt to sleep in, something with an old college logo on it, and then he watched as you swiftly removed your bra from underneath it, like magic.

He settled under the covers, making room for you on the side where he didn’t have his injured arm. Spencer hadn’t shared a bed like this with anyone before, so to say he was surprised when you laid beside him, snuggling into his side like you’d done it a million times before, would be an understatement.

“Am I hurting you?” you mumbled, your head resting in the crook of his neck.

“No, not at all,” Spencer squeaked out, trying to find a natural spot for his hand under your body.

As you took in his room, your gaze landed on his nightstand, and your breath caught. Sitting neatly on the surface were three copies of War and Peace. One was pristine, the Russian copy you’d gifted him. Beside it was a well-worn English version, its pages annotated and creased. And then there was… another Russian copy, similarly worn and filled with notes.

Your hand rested lightly on his chest as you began to laugh. “You—” you started, glancing up at him with a soft smile. “You only loaned it from the library to talk to me.”

Spencer’s gaze flickered between you and the nightstand as he realized that you had realized. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered with a smile.

You chuckled a little, reaching up to kiss his cheek before relaxing back down again. He’d been so tired before, as were you. But now it was like he could feel every nerve in his body, running through him like electricity. Just because you were here with him.

“Is it—” Spencer whispered, unsure where his words would lead him. “Is it weird to sleep in the same bed as someone without having experienced the sexual aspect that is usually the reason couples share a bed for the first time?”

Shit, he’d called you a couple. Maybe not directly, but definitely indirectly—

“No, not at all,” you hummed against him. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“I haven’t exactly done this before, so everything feels new and weird.”

You looked up at him through heavy lashes, makeup-free and squeaky clean. “Most men that I’ve been with never made me feel like a woman—like a ladylike presence they cherished. I’d sleep with them too quickly and they’d get bored, or I wouldn’t put up with it, and they’d call me a prude.”

Your voice sounded fragile in a way he’d never heard before. He’d picked up on little things where he assumed you weren’t exactly inexperienced, but the fact that experience could be something bad wasn’t necessarily something he’d thought about before.

“Whatever this is, whatever weird order we are doing stuff in, feels better than anything I’ve ever felt before when it comes to love,” you continued, stuffing your face back in his neck to hide.

Shit, you’d said the word love. Not even indirectly, like fully pronounced it, no mumbles.

“It’s not a dry spell if you’ve never done it, by the way,” you joked, and he melted at the sound even though you were trying to embarrass him. “You’ve never gotten it wet for it to become dry.”

Spencer stared up at the ceiling, biting his lip. “Can you not make fun of me?”

“I’ve used sex as a coping mechanism all my life, allow me to be a little amused about someone going over 25 years without it.” You gently laughed again. “It’s sort of sweet.”

On the side of your body, you found his unarmed arm placed all limp. With a bold move, you intertwined your fingers with his, taking both of them up to place against your chest. He was now embracing you, and he couldn’t even begin to think about the soft, ample flesh that could be found under your t-shirt.

He let out a faint groan, mumbling, “You’re not making it any better.”

Your expression softened further as you tilted your head, meeting his eyes. “We’ll get to it,” you said, your voice low and steady, “when or if we both feel like it. Don’t stress about it, okay? I don’t care.”

Spencer swallowed, his eyes darting to yours before quickly flickering away. His voice came out quiet, uncertain. “That’s something—” He hesitated, his brows furrowing as he searched for the words. “Is that something you’d want to do with me?”

You smiled, kissing his cheek again. “You just indirectly called us a couple, and I mentioned the word love, so don’t act clueless. I know you’re not.”

His face turned a deeper shade of pink, and he ducked his head, letting it rest on his pillow as the ceiling yet again became very interesting. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt warm. He felt at home in your presence, no matter how foreign it was. His hand was still grasping yours, tucked against your chest. He could feel you fiddling with his fingers.

“Can’t sleep?” Spencer asked after a long moment of silence.

“I like ’em,” you murmured, lifting his hand to kiss his knuckles.

“My hands?” he wondered tiredly.

“I like everything about you,” you answered simply before closing your eyes.

Can we all pretend I posted this on New Years? Yes? Thank you. And thank you for reading. Title and beginning quote is from Purple by Wunderhorse btw <3

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #dr spencer reid #spencer reid criminal minds #mgg #doctor spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #spencer reid imagine

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deepestnightcolor · 1 year ago

Text

☾ ᴅʀᴜɴᴋᴇɴ ɴɪɢʜᴛꜱ ☽

ᴀ/ɴ: I am already back with a new fic for Sam. I am in a groupchat with some amazing people and I decided to write some ideas out that were thrown around. I hope you enjoy! Maybe I will do Alex or Elliott next... Anyway, thank you so much for your time! ✧

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Sam (SDV) x Fem!Reader

ᴡᴄ: 3884 words.

ᴍᴅɴɪ ✧ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: alcohol consumption, drunk sex, doggy style, cursing, unportected sex, drooling, exhibitionism, public setting, teasing, creampie, hornyness all around.

Sam’s mouth was watering, and the sole reason for it was you. Sam had fallen in love with you the moment you had stepped foot into Pelican Town yet had never managed to utter a single word about it. But now, the blonde was absolutely hammered, and that allowed him to shamelessly stare at you. Pupils blown, chest heaving and falling quickly, his eyes were focused on your ass while you were bent over the pool table, focused on your next shot in your game with Sebastian. The only thing that kept him from dropping on his knees and begging to be allowed to suck on those slender fingers wrapping around the cue was the fact that he still wasn’t sure if you liked him back.

When you wiggled your butt a little, a small groan passed his lips. It was desperate, and rough, making the attention of the room fall on him. “Are you okay, Sam?” You asked, worry in your voice. “Yeah…yeah…Yeah, ‘m fine… just gonn…you need help, dontcha? Winnin’ against Seb, I mean,” he slurred, pushing himself up on his legs, steadying himself using the pool table. Sebastian cocked his pierced brow; Sam sucked at pool when he wasn’t drunk, and now he was absolutely shitfaced. What help could he be?

Sam placed himself right behind you, pressing his crotch against you a bit, hoping – no, praying – that you didn’t catch on that he only did that to feel you against his growing buldge.

Though you were a smart girl. The feeling of his erection didn’t go unnoticed, but you kept up your pokerface. “I guess I could use a little help,” you murmured, voice coated in innocence. You leaned forward, smiling up at the oblivious Sebastian. “Sorry, I told you I haven’t played in ages,” you explained, directing the black-haired man’s attention back to the game. He shrugged nonchalantly, waving off your comment and watching you adjust the cue, but Sam had seemingly become hyper focused. He leaned over you, shaking hand gripping your wrist. He was so close, so close to you. He could smell you and feel you. If his mouth was watering before, now it was drooling. He had dreamed of this so often, having you bent over under him, and now he had, and you didn’t even notice his ulterior motives.

A thought that was disproved when he felt it. You pressed your ass against him, circling your hips just ever so slightly to cause friction. An accident? Sam didn’t care. The whine that slipped couldn’t be caught anymore; the despair obvious. The need to beg for you to at least let him feel you for one night, even just a single hour, maybe just put the tip in you if that was all you wanted to give, hanging onto his tongue by a thread. The only thing that kept him from speaking was a pair of attentive eyes that were placed on him.

“‘S…’s a bad position,“ Sam slurred in a weak attempt to explain himself, but he didn’t even really care. He cared about you, boxed in-between his wobbly arms. He could lean down, kiss your neck, suck on it. Leave his wet marks all over you – and who would stop him? “He’s right,” you mused, shifting yet again. This time you rubbed your ass from side to side as if to figure out how to stand, making sure to add pressure against his dick. Sam was creaming in his pants by now, his knees wobbling as he lowered his head. He licked his lips, hot breath hitting your neck. The goosebumps that appeared made him want to drool all over you, but still, he cleared his throat and guided you into a sloppy shot. Trying to stay strong, not to make it too obvious. But fuck, your gentle grinding into his cock, the way you pressed into him – he swore his cock was about to burst right then and there for you, and if you kept it up, he’d cum in his pants in the saloon.

“Damn, Sam. You wanted to help her win, not make her lose. Maybe you should step back,” Sebastian grunted, an obvious edge to his voice, yet he would have never expected his best friend to actually growl at him in return. That was the only way the sound that radiated through the blonde’s chest could be described; it was deep and rough, almost threatening. Possessive, even.

While it shocked the other man, it sent a shock straight through your whole body. It was enough for you to put your cue away and stand up straight, giving Sebastian a small smile. “I think it’s time we get Sammy boy here to sleep.”

„Ugh, drunk like that? It’s best he sleeps on the couch here, Jodi’s gonna flip otherwise… and I doubt I can drag his drunk ass up the mountain.”

Perfect.

“I’ll take him to the farm, then. Until our ways part we are about halfway there, you can help me drag him.”

Sebastian sighed dramatically, but put the cue away, which probably signalled his agreement, or at least you decided to take it as such.

Both of you draped one of Sam’s arms over your shoulders and made the strenuous way up to your farm, Sebastian stubbornly staring ahead, while Sam was slumped between you. His cheeks were red, but the way you looked at him made him wheeze. The look that he gave you, so lustful and horny, eyes drowning in need, made your legs buckle every now and then, straining a grunt from Sebastian that now had to basically drag two whenever you did. “You sure you want him on your farm? I can stay over-“

“No,“ you interrupted, flashing him a quick, reassuring smile. “You’ve got to work with Robin tomorrow, and she will freak out if you’re not there. Besides, I have a guard dog, and if this fella acts up, he’ll be sent to the doghouse.”

Sebastian smiled a little and nodded, the thought of Sam sleeping in a small hut clearly bemusing him. Smacking his friend on the back, which almost sent the poor boy tumbling over, Sebastian turned. „Behave, you hear? Or I gotta whoop your ass.” With that and a wave, he began to make his way home.

“So…,” you began when Sebastian’s silhouette had blended into the deep night, looking at the blonde hanging onto your shoulder. “What was all that about?”

“All…hicc… what about?”

“In the bar. You drooled on my neck.”

Sam giggled at that, tilting his head back as his laugh became deeper. “Yea…that-…that probably was ‚cause I really fuckin‘ love you…an‘…an‘ cum in my fist every night thinkin‘ of fuckin…fucking you.”

If that wasn’t drunken honesty, you didn’t know what else would be. “But I didn’t know hoooow to tell youuuu. So, don’t tell on me, m’kay? Don’t want ya to..hate me, ya know.”

Chuckling quietly, you pushed a strand of hair out of his, face, dragging your lower lip between your teeth. “You know who you’re talking to, right”

“Mh..course. My little farmer princess.”

“And you know what I did to you in the bar?”

“Mhhhhm. Was so close to cummin‘. Still…still am.”

“Do you know what could mean, Sam?”

“That… you suck even more at pool than me?”

You snorted, head tipping back as you laughed. Yoba, he wanted to lick down your throat, down your body, devour your cunt. He wanted to taste you so, so bad. He could have bet that you had the prettiest pussy he would ever lay eyes on, and he would make sure to worship it. With slow licks, the fast ones, by spelling his name on your clit and with your legs over his shoulder so he could get into as much contact as possible.

“No, Sam. I’m into you. I have been for a while. Didn’t you ever notice me flirting? Not even when I told you you should show me what else those fingers can do than play guitar.”

Silence.

You could literally see the corks in Sam’s head reeling, trying to connect the dots of the information that had just been relied to him. “So…ya…like me back?”

You rolled your eyes, deciding that in this state, only actions seemed to count for Sam. Words took too long to process. You leaned down to kiss the man deeply - an opportunity he leaped at. His tongue immediately dragged over your lips, coating them with the taste of alcohol. The moan that left you was to his advantage, he shoved his tongue into your mouth clumsily, letting it run over yours, licking at it as if he was starving. His hands had found your body for support to stop himself from swaying back and forth. “Need ya…need ya so bad. This kay?“ He slurred against your mouth, pretty blue eyes staring at you, begging you without words.

You bit your lip and tried to steady Sam again, “Come on, let’s get to the farm, we can…we can-„ Sam’s mouth hit yours again, his teeth sinking into your lips gently. You moaned again, tugging at his hair, but your surroundings made you pull away and tug at him him. “Let’s get to the farm, I need you,” you ordered, setting a rather fast pace for drunken Sam.

He whined, begged and pleaded, but in the end, he strolled with you, legs buckling and wobbling, and the lack of blood in his brain seemed to make the short path to your house even longer. The fabric of his clothes rubbed against his buldge so uncomfortably, and the way your hips swayed when you walked brought him close to tears. He wanted you. He had wanted you for so long, he couldn’t wait any longer.

The moment you reached the bus stop, Sam dropped to his knees, almost making you fall over due to the sudden weight shift. “Sam! What are you doing?”

“Fuck…fuck, please. ‘M beggin’ you. ‘M so fuckin’ hard…it hurts so bad…shit, you look so pretty for me,” he gasped, rutting against his hand that he had rested in his lap. The moonlight hit you so perfectly…you looked so amazing. Amazing enough for him to throw his head back, now gripping his length through his clothes. “Pretty please,“ he added, helplessly looking up at you. You bit your lower lip again, your own knees growing weak. You could feel the wetness pool between your legs, and it was hard for you to not just let him have his way with you.

“But what if anyone is gonna see us? We can’t risk being caught. It’s not that far anymore…”

“No! No one will see us!” Sam cried, “I promise…promise I’ll be quick. I’ll be quiet. Anythin‘, princess. Pretty please. I beg you. Please. I’ll be good. Just…please.”

You seriously doubted the value of a completely horny, drunk and in love person’s opinion, but before you knew it, you found yourself on your knees, kissing Sam sloppily.

The blonde immediately pounced on you, pressing his crotch into yours, his hands seemingly everywhere. “So pretty,” he panted against you, kissing down your jaw, down your neck, and then he already lapped at your throat. You seemingly felt him everywhere at once, making you moan out lowly. That only urged Sam on more. He wanted more. He wanted to hear you, smell you, taste you, feel you. He wanted you. No, he needed you.

“You know how often I’ve dreamed of fucking you?”

It was just a murmur against your neck on which he greedily sucked. “How often I’ve dreamed of holdin‘ you in my arms? Pretty baby, makin‘ you all mine.”

Sam had seemingly sobered up a little but that didn’t help much – he was was already intoxicated by you again.

He tugged at your pants and at his at the same time, trying to get them both off at the same time, causing you to laugh out breathlessly. He gave up his attempt and back, licking over his lips.

“Need you so bad,” he repeated while he unbuckled his belt, struggling out of his pants.

You licked your lips and opened the button to your pants much slower, pushing them down your long legs centimetre by centimetre. Blue eyes were glued on you; Sam’s mouth hung open as he watched you, tongue hanging out just slightly. He was pretty sure you could see his dick throb against his already wet boxers, but fuck, who cared? He sure didn’t. The hunger in his eyes made you shiver, no man had ever looked at you like he did, and you were sure he was already fucking you in his head.

“The panties,” he stammered, making you grin to yourself. “The panties. Please, princess. Take them off. You’re so wet already, fuck, please, I- am pretty sure I’m gonna die if you don’t.”

“You mean these?” You teased, gripping at the waistband and letting it snap against your hips. The blonde groaned, the force of the sheer lust hitting him almost making him drop forward again.

“You want them off?”

He nodded, eyes yet again filled with tears. “Yoba, please, yes…need…need to see your pussy.”

“Then take them off.”

Sam was incredibly quick to move, much quicker than you had deemed in the range of possibility, he did have a lot of drinks, but he was on top of you the moment you gave the go. He pushed your shirt upwards and messily pulled your breasts from your bra, sucking one of your nipples into his mouth. He trailed his tongue around it, before switching sides, his hand trailing towards your panties already. He let his finger glide along your slit over the fabric, growl escaping him upon feeling your wet spot. “All that teasing gotcha wet, huh?” He hissed, biting your nipple gently before he slowly licked down your cleavage, staying in-between your breasts for a moment longer, just inhaling deeply and leaving his love bites. You smelled so good, so sweet; it was hard to not get lost in his in his need. However, after a moment he picked up his journey again and licked down your stomach, until he finally reached the hem of your panties.

The night air began to fill with moans that tumbled out of your mouth, the eagerness you were treated with leaving your cunt pulsing. By now you felt a need similar to Sam’s, making you pretty sure you needed him all over you to ever think properly again, even though right now, you were far from it. He let his fingers run up to your exposed chest, gripping your nipples between pointer finger and thumb and rolling them gently. “Lift your butt,” he ordered, almost smiling to himself when you did. He gripped the lace of your panties with his teeth, slowly tugging them down. You shuddered when the cold night air hit your hot wetness, and Sam moaned lowly upon seeing your cunt.“ Look how beautiful. Such a sweet little cunt…all for me, isn’t it? All for my cock and me,” he rambled, having to sit back on his heels for a moment. The beauty of your almost naked body had him dangerously close to the edge, and he would have forever hated himself if his own dick cockblocked him right now.

“Sam-“

“Get on your hands and knees for me, pretty baby.”

You sucked in air through your teeth, eyes dragging down his body. He was hard as a rock, and you were sure his boxers were about to rip, so you slowly settled on your hands and knees. Maybe it was also because you just needed to be absolutely stuffed with cock.

You tried to wait patiently, even though your own need made that incredibly hard, but you couldn’t risk getting Sam distracted. His gaze seemed to burn holes into your back, making you shift around on your knees. Then you finally heard shifting and the gentle sound of skin smacking against skin.

“You are so ready for me, baby,” he murmured, his fingers spreading your drooling lips slowly. One of them pushed inside of you, low groan falling from his lips. He curled his finger and then thrusted it knuckle-deep, breathing in sharply upon feeling you basically pulling him in. You were so wet and warm… and he could finally get his dick into you. He couldn’t take it anymore. He was about to be ripped apart by the feelings tumbling around inside of him, and you were the only thing on this whole planet that would ease this ache he had for you.

You felt his finger leave you and whined, wiggling your ass in the air. Much to your surprise, a hand came down on your butt, forcing you to yelp out Sam’s name. “Teasin‘ me all night already,” he slurred, pressing his tip against your soaked hole. “And it worked…”

With that, he slowly pushed himself inside of you and the world seemed to disappear.

All he could hear was static, and the sound of his own heartbeat, mixing with your moans. He was pretty sure the world could explode and he wouldn’t have blinked an eye. All he could think about was how good you felt; despite only having the tip in, you sucked him in deeper already.

“This okay?”

You nodded eagerly, pushing back against his dick in a desperate attempt to get more. Yoba, you needed more. This time it was you that wanted to cry and beg for him, but Sam seemed to pick up your silent prayers.

His hips shoved forward eagerly; it seemed like your walls were made for his cock. You fit so snuck around him, cunt welcoming him with a wet sound. The two of you moaned and you had to rest your head on your arms to keep at least your butt up in the air for Sam, the promise of being quite long forgotten. Centimetre by centimetre Sam pushed inside of you, making sure to take his time, to really split you in two for him and only him. One of his hands was resting firmly on your hip, the other cupping one of your breasts. When he was balls deep inside of you, he abruptly stopped, his penis twitching violently inside of you. For a moment, you weren’t sure if he had just had his orgasm, and when you turned around you could see his eyes watering. You were about to ask, yet the thought was immediately cut off when Sam pulled back and rammed back into you.

Suddenly you could feel the weight of his upper body on your own as he angled himself to get better access to your sweet cunt.

“Mine, all mine,” Sam panted into your ear as he began to pick up a fast pace, humping you like an animal in heat. The sound of his balls smacking against your wet pussy and the way his pelvic bone hit your bare ass created sounds lewd enough for anyone within a kilometre to know what was happening. Neither of you cared.

You were a moaning mess beneath the blonde, and he was whimpering, close to sobbing your name. Sam sucked on your neck to mark you up, keep you away from dirty, greedy eyes such as his own, his cock bullying into you at a fast pace; your walls sucking him off so well. His eyes rolled in the back of his head when he felt you clench around him as he began to gently circle your clit.

“Like that, huh? Like when…I do this?” He snarled, licking his lips and kissing down your spine; a task that was rather hard given that his hard thrusts made your whole body shake.

“Sam!” You sobbed, trying to meet his thrusts desperately as if you just couldn’t get enough, and Sam was happy to deliver. He pressed you into his body and fucked into you as if his life depended on it, tongue hanging out and droplets of saliva falling on your back.

You swore you could see little fairies dance around you when Sam hit your sweet spot, this combined with his relentless spelling of his name on your clit made you approach the edge with fast steps.

Sam wasn’t much better – he was staring at his thick perverted cock vanishing into your pussy, spreading open your sweet little hole with each thrust. He loved to see how he forced wetness out of you with each thrust, and he swore to himself he’d make you cream.

“Sam, fuck, Sam! I’m gonna cu-cum!” You cried, the thought of if you could maybe wake someone with your needy cries for dick crossed your mind, but it quickly turned into arousal. You would love for people to hear how well Sam was fucking you, how mean he was to your cunt, snapping his hips back and forth mercilessly, accompanied by the sound of his skin smacking against your reddened ass that by now was sporting a red handprint.

“Gonna cum, Sam, gonna cum!” You slurred, feeling his wet tongue trace patterns down the side of your neck again. White light flashed in front of your eyes, your toes curled up as you felt your face growing numb.

Sam’s whimpers and small groans had turned into dragged out whines, adoring how you let him fuck you out here near the bus stop. He wanted people to hear you. Show them you were his and his alone. He would have loved for each of the guys to see him ruining you, so they’d keep their hands off. Seeing how his cock vanished inside of you with each thrust, how his precum and your juices were mixing together, dribbling down his shaft. The thought of them seeing you sprawled out and crying for him and the feeling of you drooling all over his throbbing dick, begging for more was enough to push him over the edge.

His body tensed up, a cry of sheer pleasure was being bellowed into the night as his orgasm washed over him, his cock pressed deep inside of you. The feeling of his cum inside of you was too much. You sobbed his name, fingers wrapping around strands of grass as your body convulsed, the numbness that caught up to you soothing as you clenched around your lover’s dick, making it hard for Sam to move. The blonde gritted his teeth, his thrusts slowly slowing down as he hung his head; his breathing hard and laboured

You were lying beneath him, panting as well as your hand slowly searched for his. Upon finding it, you intertwined your fingers, and for a moment you two just sat there, Sam’s dick still buried inside of you, your hands interlocked.

“Round two when we reach the farm?” You whispered after a while, despite having his cum drip out of you as he pulled back slowly, making Sam smile like a lovesick puppy.

“Round two when we reach the farm.”

What the two of you didn’t notice was the text from Sebastian’s number that made the screens of your phones light up. Nice show. Make it less obvious that you want to fuck next time or send me videos so I can rewatch.

#sdv #sdv sam #stardew valley #stardew valley fanfic #stardew valley farmer #stardew valley smut #sdv sam x reader #SDV fanfic #SDV Sebastian #Stardew Valley Sam #smut #SDV smut #enjoy!#fanfic

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adventures-in-mangaland · 1 year ago

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Dead Boy Detectives: Fic Recs

My latest hyperfixation is Dead Boy Detectives, so oc I've been reading and commenting on a ton of fic. And it's been really nice because the response of the authors has been so warm. I don't think I've ever gotten so many replies so quickly! Also, the fandom has inspired me to actually start writing again for the first time in two years and I've got a great idea for a fanvid. (Any tips on how to make one would be appreciated! 😅)

So in tribute to the lovely fandom, here's a fic rec post (nearly all payneland):

in this city there's a thousand things I want to say to you by laiqualaurelote

Edwin has a sexual awakening and it blows Charles' mind. And other things. Very funny and well written. Also features minor Edwin/Cat King and Edwardian flirting.

I also highly recommend the saviour of the broken, the beaten, and the damned by the same author, which is a kind of multiverse!Edwin fic? Featuring Edwin dying? And Niko time travelling? Trying to save time? Anyway, interesting to see Edwin alive, ageing and in different periods of time/his life.

For the First Time Twice by LikeMmmCookies

Amnesia fic! Charles loses his memories and thinks he and Edwin are married. Very cute (tandem bike date!) and well written, though Edwin's point of view still manages to be angsty. Also, the yearning is off the charts and the most recent chapter turned up the heat.

I guess you're stuck with me by Punny_Puck

AU in which Edwin and Charles actually got married pre-show. Funny, cute with a sweet marriage proposal prequel. Instant comfort fic.

Dance the Night by Gruoch

The gang are hunting an energy-sucking vampire that targets beautiful people, so naturally Edwin MUST disguise himself as the hottest girl in London. This one starts out fun and campy then takes a hard left turn into Serious Business. Prepare yourself for emotional moments, worldbuilding and some really excellent horror.

Long Past Time by sanctuary_for_all

Charles proposes to Edwin post canon. It's a short and sweet established relationship fic with some cool worldbuilding about ghosts and their ability to shape their clothing/appearances.

lay my hands on heaven by Opossum_Subatomic

I had to include a PWP and this is a great one. Extremely well written, in character and romantic. And explicit, obviously.

Data Points by Asidian

Edwin learns to cuddle. It's a production and completely adorable. I love a fic that explores the difference between the boys' physicality and this one's really on point. The writing and characterisation are great and it's nice to see Edwin taking care of Charles.

I also recommend Lanterns In the Dark, which sets the scene for Charles and Edwin's first meeting with some gut-wrenching details about Charles' homelife and Edwin's escape from Hell.

When I Was a Young Boy by flowerbritts

A Good Omens crossover and AU in which Aziraphale is Edwin's adopted father. Family reunions and revelations abound. Also, Edwin gets to be a teenager and slam doors while shouting, as he deserves.

The author has also written Wait, I'm Coming Too, which is a very sweet post canon 'Charles Worries About Edwin and Realises His Feelings' fic inspired by that 'Edwin reading Heartstopper' fanart. Both fics deserve more love!

A Slight Miscalculation by kantigone

Idiots in Love and Didn't Know They Were Dating. Crystal and Niko are the real MVPs, for real. A treat.

Terrible at Keeping Secrets (5+1) by ASingularSadSoggyPringle

Interesting demon!Edwin AU. Charles is a precious cupcake in this fic and Edwin is mostly the same with some Darker moments. I loved the concept and the author adds in some great, creepy details.

somaesthesia by perexcri

Edwin's journey from being touch-averse to touch-starved... at least when it comes to Charles. Palmistry is involved. I loved Edwin's characterisation and the unresolved sexual/romantic tension was on point.

And possibly I like the thrill (of under me you quite so new) by Leandra

Edwin explores his sexuality and re-negotiates his relationship with Charles. Meanwhile, the gang take on the case of a ghost who wants them to matchmake his still-living lover. Crosses over with The Sandman. And Edwin gets to be confident and flirty as a treat.

Always by How You Doing (FancyMeetingYouHere)

Hurt/Comfort fic in which Edwin has a traumatic flashback to the doll-head demon spider and Charles looks after him. Charles reading Good Omens to Edwin is a nice, meta touch.

Made You Look by Baby_Spinach

The agency are hunting an incubus that decides to take on Edwin's appearance. A repression explosion ensues. Fun fic.

Shape Me by dearheartdont

This one's actually a character study of Charles and his mixed race Indian heritage (so no Edwin) and it's so well done. It's also part of a series in progress about Charles growing up in the 80s with all the racism and homophobia that that entails. I look forward to seeing where it goes.

The Most Tender Place In My Heart by coloursflyaway

Edwin shares memories of how he fell in love with Charles, who figures out his own feelings in the process. It's super sweet and involves fun pre-show flashbacks and defintely deserves more attention!

I also loved Won't Fear Love by the same author, in which Charles takes Edwin out on dates and breaks the cuteness scales. And shout out to Good Enough which is the first fic I bookmarked for this fandom! 🥳

Anyway, thank you to all these amazing writers for making this fandom so special! 🥰

#dead boy detectives #fic recs #payneland #edwin payne #charles rowland #fic rec friday #fanfiction #dbda fic recs #my fic recs #paineland #chedwin #charles x edwin #payneland fic recs

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mc-tums-fog · 1 month ago

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Stable, Typical Act I

Chapter Summary: Something like that with Hans Gruber was never going to happen.

Pairing: Hans Gruber x GN! Reader

Content Warnings: Really just mild descriptions of blood and wounds but if you need it also there's angst with little comfort I'm not sorry.

Notes:

I promise I'm working on the other fic but I'm currently rotating Hans Gruber in my brain and so I wanted to write something down.

Read on Ao3 or below the cut:

Even if you weren’t in your own bed, it normally wouldn’t take you long before you fall asleep. But considering the news report of a robbery that happened downtown occurred only a few hours ago, you couldn’t help but be awake for a bit longer.

See, you had done your best to live a stable and typical life. You worked, hung out with friends and family, did your due diligence to be an ordinary citizen. However, truly living a stable, typical life would be near impossible when you had begun dating a man named Hans Gruber.

This was not to say that the two of you were starting to get on the rocks, no, at least not in the way that could be expected. There was passion, intimacy, care, pure infatuation with one another; the time spent, how little there was as he was always away on business, could not have been more perfect.

Therein lies the problem though. What would make your life and relationship unstable or atypical. His business. His line of profession, as some could lightly call it, was being a criminal.

It should be obvious to note that this was something you weren’t made aware of when the two of you began dating. Even when things progressed, and boy did they progress, you still had been kept in the dark. You could come up with several reasons why he hadn’t told you. Maybe he liked the idea of keeping it a facade going that he was a perfect law-abiding citizen with you. Maybe he just wanted to keep his work life separated from his personal life.

Whatever the case may be, you weren’t stupid.

It was some time, a long enough time at the very least, within the relationship that you’d begin to pick up the patterns. The lavish lifestyle, the expensive gifts, the long periods of time where he was gone. You’d begun to think he was secretly married. In many ways, that kind of double life would’ve been much more manageable to address, preferable, and in some ways rational. It’s a common occurrence that could’ve happened to anybody.

Once Hans started to return some nights looking a little more ragged and worse for wear than his usual, kept up appearance, combined with the coincidence of a news report playing about a recent robbery that occurred in your area earlier that day, or hearing from the grapevine of a major robbery occurring in another country that matched up with his long periods of absences, you got suspicious. Especially when some of the gifts that he brought back from said trips were just a tad bit too close to matching the descriptions of the stolen products from those robberies.

You had done your best to ignore these patterns. After all, some of them would occur with enough time in between each event that maybe it really could’ve been written off as a coincidence. Just bad timing is all. But once you had begun noting that some of the robberies would end in gunfire and casualties, it gave you a cause for concern.

This recent robbery was one of those times. Masked, unidentifiable men robbed one of those high-end jewelry stores, holding the employees and whatever straggler patrons were there as quick hostages. Police were quick to arrive on scene as the civilians managed to get out. Shots were fired, as well as a reported high speed car chase, which there had been footage of. The cops managed to get a few good hits in with their bullets- risk of civilian casualties on the police’s end be damned you guessed- as well as ramming the vehicles a few times. But the cars were unrecognizable, with the plates covered, and they managed to evade the cops through the major traffic.

Throughout the whole live reporting of it, you had been on edge. You’d come to stay over at his place, with him explaining a few weeks prior that he would be able to have a “long needed break from work”, so you wanted to be there the first chance that you got. Already having a key to his place, it wasn’t hard to get in and lounge about with the TV on. But as the news report ended, you wondered how much of a good idea it was that you were there. With how your suspicions kept piling up, it was hard to kid yourself at this point.

Still, in your attempts to feign ignorance, you’d figure you just try to fall asleep before he got back home, playing it off that you had gotten tired from your own work and waiting that you couldn’t stay awake. You wouldn’t have to face the direct aftermath of what happened the night prior. Living your life with him in that false narrative, assuming he was always at the wrong place at the wrong time, felt easier.

You finally felt yourself begin to get into the stages of falling asleep, your eyes fluttering a bit and your breathing slowing down. But before you could finally say goodnight to today, your ears caught the distinct sounds of Hans’s front door being opened and closed. Normally, whenever you were sleeping and he’d come back, he’d take much greater care of being quieter for you. He was a graceful gentleman like that. This, however, was different. It sounded rushed with how quickly the door nearly slammed shut. It was then followed by a pair of quick footsteps, which while they weren’t coming to the bedroom, were walking around the house, opening another door.

You were more awake now, slightly sitting up, straining to listen for any more noise. Since it was quiet, with no white noise in the background, you could hear the muffled and hushed voice of a man cursing in what you recognized to be German.

You breathed a sigh of relief, instantly recognizing the voice to be Hans. But the relief was short lived as suddenly the question of why he sounded more erratic and unusual in his movements entered your mind. You didn’t know if you wanted to check just yet. You laid back down for a moment and waited. Normally, when he came back late at night and you were asleep, or at the very least resting in his bed, it would take less than five minutes for him to come into the room, get dressed into more comfortable attire and climb into bed with you, careful to not stir you awake but would whisper sweet nothings as he held you and joined you in sleeping. It wasn’t like he was always strict in keeping to this schedule, but it happened at a regular occurrence, especially after longer trips, so you expected him to do the same thing tonight.

Five minutes, or what you could assume to be five minutes, had passed and yet, still no Hans. The footsteps had stopped not long after you heard them, no other noise coming from outside of the bedroom. Now, your concern was greater. But you still weren’t sure if you wanted to satisfy your curiosity about what was going on. You just wanted to go try to get yourself back to bed and pretend that you had been asleep the entire time. That you had been just dreaming for the last few minutes. You’d wake up, greet Hans in the morning, and spend the rest of the weekend together.

A major part of you would love to keep living in a state of ignorance.

But a tiny part of you knew that it couldn’t be that way, not after tonight. You weren’t stupid.

You took a deep breath and sat up. Trying to prepare yourself to step outside. Which… you didn’t even know how to.

How would anyone even prepare themselves for a situation like this? “Hey, I’m so glad you’re back! Have you been committing armed robberies?” What a way with words. And even then, what would his reaction be to the accusation? Would he try to keep the charade going, lying to your face? Would he try to weave complicated explanations on how you misunderstood the whole situation? Or would it get dangerous? Would he decide that he didn’t want to risk his secret getting out, so he’d snuff you right then and there?

The thought of an extreme and violent scenario going down made you more awake, your heart racing. Even if you’d like to believe that you could take him in a fight, being that there were no weapons on him- which that likelihood was low-you were still greatly terrified of that outcome. You hadn’t considered it could possibly get violent. Or maybe you never wanted to. Even though the armed robberies had ended in casualties sometimes, you tried to think that maybe he would never- could never- hurt you. But you really couldn’t count on that now. If he truly was part of those violent crimes, neglecting that detail once confronting him could cost you your life.

And even if there would be no violence today, even if he admitted to the true nature of his job… What would you do?

You’ve put off even the idea of confronting him so much that you didn’t consider what your initial reaction could be. When your suspicions began you were scared and worried. And the idea of him keeping it a secret, it angered you of course. But which emotion would take over more? And more importantly…

What would this do to your relationship?

Maybe that shouldn’t be important to you, all things considered. It should be easy for you; If he had been committing acts of robbery and was a criminal and told you so, then you should leave. Get the hell out of dodge before anything bad happens to you. End what you had with him. You shouldn’t have to think twice about it.

And yet you did. Even before tonight. You staying with him even despite your suspicions confirmed all that much on how, deep down inside, you thought twice about it. Often.

It made you grimace, being selfish in a way. Here was a likely- no- dangerous man, surely to be wanted in several different countries for breaking several different kinds of laws. And here you were, worried about breaking both his heart and your own. It was even more pathetic to you that you were worried about hurting him. He had been basically hurting you with his lies and deceit at this point, what should it matter now?

But that was the problem. It did matter to you. It mattered that you didn’t want to hurt him for the same reason as to why you didn’t just break it off with him when you had stronger confirmations of his criminal activity.

You were in love with him.

You let out a shaky breath and finally got up from the bed. Whatever happened tonight, however you chose to handle the situation, or how he reacted to this confrontation, would be life altering. You only hoped it wouldn’t be life ending.

Quietly making your way to the door, you lightly pressed your ear against it to see if you could make out anything else. You could ever so faintly hear the movements of him, nothing concrete to make out what he was doing. He really seemed like he was doing his best to keep quiet now.

Turning the doorknob and opening it slowly to make sure it didn’t creak; you could now hear him just a bit better. He seemed to be taking sharp inhales, with mutterings of German that you could vaguely understand to be swears. You did your best to pump up your adrenaline and mentality to be prepared for anything, as this wasn’t typical behavior for him. At least the behavior he was willing to show you.

Making your way through the hall as quietly as you could, and peeking around the corner to where the noises had been coming from, a small light had been turned on over the dining room, where you could see Hans with his head hunched over as he looked at his left arm, using tweezers to pluck what had seemed to be shards of glass.

Numbly, your first thought was figuring that it must’ve been from when the cops had either been shooting at them from the store or when they kept smashing into the vehicles. But you snapped out of it, immediately taking in that his white dress shirt had more spatters of blood, with one being particularly huge and deep with a crimson stain on his right shoulder. The idea of him being shot worried you for a moment.

You had seen his body and seen the scars that had covered it. Early in the relationship you decided not to ask about it, thinking that it would’ve been a difficult subject to bring up. As it progressed further with your suspicions growing, you started to question their sources in your mind. And now, it seemed you had confirmation as to where they came from.

Your worry suddenly switched to an intense fear, as you must’ve let out a noise upon seeing his wound from where you were standing. As Hans suddenly looked up from what he was doing, right to your direction, and noticed you right away.

Neither of you said anything, as you kept eye contact with each other. The deafening silence overtaking the air between you two. You really didn’t know what to say, or what to do. And it seemed like, maybe for once in Hans’s life, he hadn’t had the words or actions either. You could tell his brain was moving a mile a minute, however. Perhaps coming up with what to say. Or he was waiting for you to make the move first, and to react appropriately. Whatever appropriate meant at this time.

And you really didn’t know what was appropriate. Sure, maybe laying into him would be something reasonable. Or quickly making your escape, hoping you’d be faster than him in his current state. But as you looked at him, him being slightly pale, sweating, covered in blood and serious wounds, your heart kept tugging at what you really wanted to do at that moment.

And so, you did.

Rounding the corner, in careful movements as if you were approaching a cornered, wounded animal, you walked over to where he sat. His eyes never left you as you approached him. Seeing a bloody rag on the table, you picked it up and decided to rinse it out as best as you could with cold water in the sink nearby. The soaked-up blood leaving the rag, onto your hands, traveling down the sink.

“Liebchen-”

“Don’t -” You cut him off, shutting your eyes for a moment as you gathered yourself. “Don’t say anything. If you do, common sense might come back to me and I’ll walk out of here.”

And with that, he didn’t say anything else. You wrung out the rag and walked back over to where he was. He still stared at you, waiting to see what you had planned to do. You looked down at his arm, with it still having a good amount of glass in it. Carefully, you pulled open the chair and sat down. Maneuvering the small lamp light, he brought over onto the table, likely not wanting too many bright lights on in the house, you got a better look at it. The marks left behind from the previous shards of glass, as well as the ones currently in him, didn’t seem to cut in too deep. Their scars would fade over time.

You picked up the tweezers and started to pluck the shards out. Out of reaction his hand moved as he grimaced. You used your free hand to hold his arm down in place, squeezing it down onto the table firmly. Seeing the blood seep out of his skin made you feel a bit nauseous, but you had to hold it in.

You tried not to think about how he had more than likely caused greater wounds than that.

It didn’t take long before the rest of the glass was out. You looked at the table, noting a first aid kid that was covered in a bit of blood, as well as a rubbing alcohol bottle. That’s probably what he had been searching for earlier, you thought to yourself. You placed the tweezers down and took it, grabbing the rag and dousing some onto it. You wiped off his arm.

Once you were done, the rag returning to its bloody form, you got back up to rinse it out once more. You could feel Hans’s eyes follow you but said nothing. Coming back to the table he was covering up his arm with bandages and wrapping it in a tight manner, like he’d done this before. He probably had.

Studying him, with the small light aiding you, you could see how unkempt he was. You hadn’t noticed sitting on one of the chairs was his suit jacket, which looked torn up from what you could see. His hair had been disheveled with even his face being bruised up a bit. You had to fight off the thoughts in your mind of you wanting to kiss them better. It didn’t matter that concern overtook you, you were still mad at him, and didn’t want him to give any more care than he deserved.

But then again, helping to clean his wounds was a clear gesture of intimacy and care. And maybe it was already more than he deserved.

Once he was done, you went to his ride side, where the bigger blood spot was at. You said nothing as you placed down the rag and began to unbutton his dress shirt.

“I’m going to clean your other arm now.” Your voice was low, and had a touch of gentleness, despite your best efforts. You helped him get his arm out of the shirt, very clearly being a struggle for him.

Once it was out, you could see how bad the wound had been. Using the light to point towards his shoulder, the light went right through the wound. You figured either the bullet had gone clean through, or he, or whoever else was with him, had enough time to get the bullet out. Whatever the case, you still stood up so you could have a better angle on it. You dragged the med kit over to you closer, reaching in for the contents that were of a sewing needle and some thread. Honestly, you had no experience when it came to fixing severe wounds like this. You were even surprised at yourself that you hadn’t even fainted at the sight of the wound. But you did have little experience in sewing up old stuffed animals when you were younger. It was better than nothing.

Taking the rag and pouring more alcohol onto it, you made work into cleaning the wound, not giving Hans a heads up. He let out more curses and banged his free arm onto the table. It caused you to flinch, which from the corner of his eye he noticed.

“I apologize-” He began.

“What did I say?” You looked at him.

For a moment you could see a flash of him having a look of hurt. Which nearly made you feel guilty at yourself, but you shook it off mentally. His face went back to that composed look he always had on, and he looked forward again. You hesitated, wanting to say something else, but went back to cleaning his wound.

After doing the best that you could, you head back to the sink to rinse off what was hopefully the last of the blood cleaning, wringing it out and coming back to him. You placed it down and grabbed the thread and needle. This time, Hans had more prep time to understand what was coming next and placed the rag into his mouth to keep him from grimacing even louder than he had before.

Sewing up a bullet wound hold was nothing like sewing up a broken stuffed bear. It was harder to poke into flesh, and stuffed bears didn’t let out grunts of pain every time you made a stitch. You instantly wanted to reassure him that the pain was temporary, to soothe him in any way you could, but you had to hold your tongue. It may have been childish, but you felt that in comparison to what he had been doing, he was getting off easy.

With the back side of his shoulder done, you adjusted him to face you more as you worked on the front, this time opting to sit down to get on better eye level. He watched you as you made haste to sew up the front. Not so much for his comfort but for yourself as you didn’t want to see the bruises that were on the front of his body, and how it seemed a bit hard for him to breathe.

You briefly wondered how he would’ve explained these fresh wounds had you not been awake at this time.

Once the last stitch was in, you reached over to place the needle back into the box and reached for some bandages and wrappings. Placing the bandages, you had one hand to hold them in place as you were going to use your free hand to begin to wrap it up. But Hans placed his hands over yours. You looked at him for a moment. His eyes conveyed that softness that you had been used to.

You had to force yourself to look away and pull your hand from under him. His hand on the bandage still stood in place. You grabbed another bandage to place on the back side of the wound. Once you started to wrap it up, he moved his hand as did you, placing more on his shoulder to help keep the wrapping in place. Once you felt that it was secure, you held it down to grab some tape on the table.

Placing it and smoothing it down, your hand was still on his shoulder, as you stared through his patched-up shoulder. Before you could stop yourself, you felt your head resting on it and closed your eyes. You could hear his breathing hitch. And carefully, he placed his hand on your head, giving gentle strokes of your hair.

“I’m not stupid.” You said in a quiet voice.

His movements stopped for a moment, but continued, and spoke in an even quieter voice than your own.

“I know you’re not.”

Nothing else was said that night.

#die hard #hans gruber #hans gruber x reader #die hard 1988 #alan rickman #mcwrites #anyway like ive said on ao3 i lowkey wanna keep this to be a one shot i like how it is #but if the masses want another chapter since i have ideas in my head then i could #it depends #but im now feeling more creative for the other fic so ill get on that #but would like to write more with hans overall maybe even something spicy too

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ashyblondwaves · 1 month ago

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Girl are there fics of katniss and peeta interacting before the games but canonically? If not can you write it pretty please

HI! I'm sure there are, and I have even written one myself a long time ago, but here's another for ya!

Cracked Wheat

The bell over the bakery door gives a tired jingle when I step inside, a low sound that barely cuts through the thick smell of rising bread that assaults my senses. The warmth of the place hits me next. Soft, humid, and rich with flour and sugar. It smells like hunger, like a memory. Like a hand-me-down mercy I never asked for.

I shift the burlap sack on my shoulder, the two squirrels inside already weighing me down. They’re not the best catch, but they’ll do. The baker’s usually fair, especially with me.

Only it’s not him behind the counter today. It’s the baker’s son, Peeta.

He’s dusted with flour, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a streak of something across his cheek. His blond hair’s a mess, like he’s been up since before dawn. For a second, we just stand there, staring at each other across the counter like neither of us knows what happens next.

I tighten my grip on the sack. “Your father’s not here?”

He shakes his head once. “He’s out back. I… I can do the trade.”

His voice is quiet. Careful. Like he doesn’t want to scare me off.

I hesitate. I could leave. Come back later. But that would look strange, and I don’t have time to be careful about things like that today.

So I walk up and set the sack on the counter.

“Two squirrels,” I say. “One’s a little thin, but the other’s decent.”

He nods and unwraps the cloth slowly, like he’s afraid of breaking something. His fingers brush over the fur, gentle. Too gentle. Like he still sees them as alive.

“I can give you a loaf of rye,” he says after a pause. “And a couple cracked wheat rolls. They’re from yesterday, but they’re still good.”

It’s more than fair. I nod, even though part of me bristles at the charity tucked in his tone.

He disappears into the back, and I take a breath. The kind that settles low in your stomach. The kind that reminds you today is Reaping Day.

He returns a moment later with a paper bundle, warm and faintly sweet-smelling. He doesn’t hand it to me. He just places it on the counter between us, like the bread needs to buffer whatever’s been hanging in the air since I walked in.

“You’re up early,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes.

“So are you,” I retort.

Silence stretches between us. Not empty. Just... full of things neither of us are willing to say out loud.

Outside, I hear a child’s old wagon wheels creak by. A woman shouting for her child. The district waking up. People getting dressed, braiding hair, holding their breath.

I should leave.

He clears his throat. “I guess... good luck today.”

I freeze. Not because of what he says, but how he says it. Not pity. Not nervous chatter. Just purely honest.

I don’t believe in luck. I believe in snared rabbits and working lungs and not getting caught. But I believe he means it.

“You too,” I manage.

That’s when I finally meet his eyes. Blue. Wide. And searching for something I don’t have a name for.

There’s a softness in them that rattles me. Like he already knows something’s coming. Like he already mourns it.

I can’t hold that look. Not today. Maybe not ever.

I look down at his hands instead. One of them is still resting on the counter, near the edge of the paper bundle. His fingers are dusted in flour, the skin around his nails rough from kneading dough. They’re worker’s hands. Steady, strong.

Hands that once gave me life.

My throat tightens before I can stop it.

I hate that I remember that moment so clearly, how the bread burned, how he tossed it to the pigs, how I thought I was going to collapse in the rain. I hate how often I dreamt about it afterward, how I clung to the idea that someone, even once, might have seen me and chosen kindness.

I don’t want to owe anyone anything. Least of all him.

“Thanks,” I say, forcing the word out. It burns a little. I don’t know if I’m thanking him for the trade, or the bread from all those years ago. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

He blinks, like he didn’t expect me to speak again. Then nods. Just once.

The silence stretches again, this time thinner. Fragile. Like if either of us says one more word, it might shatter.

I reach for the bundle. My fingers brush his by accident.

It’s barely a touch, not even skin, just the edge of his knuckle against mine through a fine layer of flour. But I still feel it, sharp and real, like a match strike.

He pulls his hand back fast. So do I.

I hate how my pulse jumps. I hate that I even notice it.

Outside, someone laughs. It’s loud, shrill, drunk already, maybe trying to forget what day it is. A door slams. A baby starts to cry.

The world keeps moving.

“I should go,” I mutter.

Peeta just nods again, his lips parting, as though maybe he wants to say something. But nothing comes out. Maybe he thinks better of it. Or maybe he knows, like I do, that there are no right words for this kind of day.

I turn and head for the door. This time I don’t hesitate. My hand’s on the handle, the bell already tilting, when I hear him say, too soft to be sure I was meant to hear it…

“Katniss.”

I stop. Just for a second, but I don’t turn around. I don’t trust myself to.

So I walk out instead, the bell giving its sad little jingle behind me, and the door swings shut between us like a closing promise.

Outside, the sun is just starting to claw its way up the sky, but the world already feels gray.

I clutch the bread to my chest, like it might steady me. It doesn’t.

I don’t know what I expected. I don’t know why I feel like I left something behind. Maybe I should have said something else. Or turned. Or stayed.

But I didn’t.

Because I’m not the girl who says things. I’m the girl who survives.

And I know better than to reach for something that can be taken from me.

The early morning air hits harder than I expect for July, even with the warmth of the bread against my chest. It bites through my jacket and settles into my skin, sharp and unforgiving. Maybe it’s always like this on Reaping Day. Or maybe I’m just noticing it more today.

I keep my head down as I walk. Eyes on the gravel. Don’t give anyone a reason to talk to you. Don’t stop. Don’t think.

But I’m already thinking.

About the flour on his hands. The way he said my name. The space between us that felt heavier than it should have.

It’s stupid. I shouldn’t be thinking about Peeta Mellark. Not today. Not ever, really. We don’t know each other. Not really. Just a few exchanges, half-glances, and silences that weren’t supposed to mean anything. That can’t mean anything.

Still.

He remembered my name. And I remembered the way his eyes looked when he said it.

I pass the old fence near the square, the one with the hole I use to slip into the woods. Someone’s hung a strip of cloth over it, black and fraying. A mourning ribbon. There are always a few on Reaping Day.

I tighten my grip on the bundle. It’s cooling now, but I hold it like it matters. Like it’s more than just bread and rolls.

I don’t know what Peeta meant by saying my name. Maybe it was a goodbye. Or a wish. Or nothing at all. Just a sound caught in his throat.

But it sticks with me. Lodges under my ribs and refuses to be shaken loose.

I hate that.

The closer I get to home, the more the world pulls at me. Prim’s face, waiting. My mother’s silence. Buttercup mewling like the sky’s falling. I focus on those things. Real things. Not blue eyes and soft voices and warmth I didn’t ask for.

By the time I step through our front door, the bread is almost cool. I set it on the table, but I don’t mention exactly who it came from.

And I don’t think about how my fingers still remember the shape of his.

#i write shit #the hunger games #everlark #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #fanfiction #canon divergence

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chvoswxtch · 2 years ago

Text

stakeout

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

summary: going on a stakeout with frank doesn't go anything like you thought it would.

warnings: swearing, angst, mentions of guns, a lil steam ;)

word count: 9k

a/n: fun fact: I originally started writing this specific idea as a standalone fic months ago & then when i started doing this series, i knew it would be perfect for it, & i've been excited to finish it & share it with y'all ever since. grab a snack & a drink, get comfy, bc this is almost 30 pages of yearning & pining for our favorite soft bad boy frankie. thank you so much to my darling angel @spoodermain for being my wonderful beta reader & offering your genius feedback that really made this part shine. as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

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How you had managed to talk Frank into letting you join a stakeout with him, you still weren’t sure, but it was nothing like you thought it would be. The entire three hour drive upstate was nearly composed of pure silence, only interrupted by trivial questions on your behalf, and answers in the form of monosyllables and grunts on his. The two of you had been sitting in his truck for almost six hours now, parked off on the side of a dirt road a good distance away from what looked like an abandoned warehouse that you hadn’t seen anyone enter or leave from.

You were going absolutely fucking stir crazy.

“Why can't we just go in?”

Frank let out a deep exhale through his nose, glancing over at you out of the corner of his eye in pure annoyance before returning his attentive gaze back to the warehouse.

In his defense, you had asked this question at least five times already.

Letting out an impatient sigh of your own, you turned your body slightly in the passenger seat to face him while gesturing loosely to the warehouse with your hand.

“Frank, we haven't seen anyone in hours. We could go in, take a look around, and probably be back before anyone even-”

“Hey hey, no. Ain’t no we. Alright, you’re stayin’ your ass right here. And I already told you why. It’s too out in the open. I got no way of knowin’ if there’s anyone in there watchin’, and I can’t tell if they got some kind of security system ‘round the place-”

“So call Billy. See if he knows-”

“Bill ain’t the head of security for the entire goddamn world.”

Frank’s snappy quips and his irritated tone had you throwing your hands up in exasperation, and you dramatically sank back into the passenger seat of his truck, glaring out your window as you crossed your arms over your chest.

“Fine. Then I guess we’ll just keep sitting here in fucking silence and you can keep brooding.”

Frank let out another heavy exhale from deep within his chest, and you could practically feel his intense stare against the side of your face.

“Look, I know this ain’t the most excitin’ thing, and you can’t sit still to save your goddamn life, but this is how we do this smart, and it’s how I keep you safe, alright? I ain’t takin’ any risks with you. I know patience ain’t your strong suit, but I need ya to try for just a little longer, alright? We don’t see any movement in the next hour, we’ll call it, and try again tomorrow. See if we can come up with another plan. Yeah?”

“Fine.”

Frank let out a tiny chuckle at your bratty response, and all of a sudden you felt something land in your lap. You glanced downwards as a crease formed between your brows, seeing an extra large version of your favorite candy bar. When your eyes flickered over towards Frank in curiosity, you noticed that he was already eyeing you with an amused smile. He shook his head slowly, returning his line of sight to the warehouse with another soft chuckle.

“Eat that and quit poutin’.”

A light scoff left your lips when you picked up the candybar and tore open the wrapper, suddenly noticing the way that you had been ignoring your body’s alerts of hunger.

“I’m not pouting.”

“Whatever ya say, sweetheart. Just remember, you asked to come along.”

“And you let me.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched as Frank shook his head again in response to the pure sass dripping from your voice, and you caught the way the edge of his mouth tugged higher upwards into a wider grin.

“Thought this would be the one time you were quiet for some reason.”

Letting out a dramatic scoff of bewilderment, you reached out to smack your palm against his broad shoulder, which only caused laughter to bellow from deep within Frank’s chest. You doubt he even felt your feeble smack through the black denim layer of his jacket. Rolling your eyes playfully, you looked away with a tiny victorious grin after noticing the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed like that.

He looked so carefree; like that usual heaviness he carried around wasn’t weighing him down, just for that small moment. Frank had such a beautiful smile, and it made you feel like the luckiest person in the world every time you got to witness it.

Taking a small bite of your candybar, you muttered under your breath, making him snicker.

“Asshole.”

»»———　　———««

Forty five minutes later, a police car silently pulled up behind Frank’s truck, and your heart started to hammer wildly in your chest. The flashing of bright red and blue was almost blinding in the opaque darkness surrounding the empty dirt road he had pulled onto. The truck was parked far enough away from the property that the flashing lights shouldn’t have alerted anyone that could be inside, but the explanation as to why the two of you were here in the first place was a whole other problem.

Especially considering that you were technically “missing”.

“Shit.”

Frank hissed quietly as he stared at the patrol car in the side view mirror, his full lips settling into a hard line as he reached underneath his seat to retrieve a pistol that was hidden. Your eyes immediately widened as the silver metal became illuminated by the faint moonlight, and you glanced frantically between Frank’s stoic face and the cop car in the rearview mirror.

“What are you doing?”

Frank hastily brought his index finger to his lips when you whisper-yelled at him.

“Preparin’ for a problem.”

Frank’s eyes remained narrowed on the reflection in the side view mirror as he pulled the hammer back on the pistol, the sound of it cocking in place only fueling the speed of your tumultuous heart rate.

“Put it away!”

Scrunching up his dark brows, Frank turned his head slightly to stare at you incredulously as if you had just said the most ridiculous statement in the history of the English language.

“What?”

“Frank-”

“You got a better goddamn idea?”

Great. You’re not even supposed to be here, and now you’re about to either go to prison or die in a shootout.

Your eyes frantically searched around Frank’s truck for something that could help the two of you out. As Frank rested the gun against his chest with a firm grip on the handle and his index finger pressed along the barrel, an idea suddenly popped into your head that made your stomach flip.

“Put it away.”

Frank turned his head and stared at you curiously when he heard the firm tone of your voice, but his confusion quickly morphed into pure annoyance. He scoffed, opening his mouth to protest before you turned in your seat to face him.

“You asked if I had a better idea and I do.”

Frank stared you down for what felt like an eternity. His features were set in a harsher version of their normal broody appearance, and the hardness in his eyes sent a shiver down your spine. A muscle feathered in his jaw as he ground his teeth, stealing one last glance at the side view mirror before stashing the pistol back underneath the seat, grumbling a string of curses under his breath.

“Now what? What’s this grand fuckin’ plan of yours, huh?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the door to the patrol car swing open. Quickly dashing across the truck bench, you ungracefully climbed onto Frank’s lap. His entire body immediately went rigid, and he looked absolutely stunned as he stared into your eyes.

“What-”

Before he could finish his sentence, you grabbed onto the back of his neck and leaned in to firmly press your lips against his. Frank stilled completely beneath you for a good thirty seconds, and you could feel the tension practically radiating from his body. You started to worry that maybe you should have at least given him a snippet of your plan before-oh.

Oh.

A warmth suddenly spread across your thighs and it took a second for your brain to register that it was from Frank’s hands. They experimentally roamed up the expanse of your thighs until they slowly climbed up your hips, settling on your waist in a firm but delicate grip. All the previous anxiety that was buzzing in your veins seemed to be drowned out by the sensation of the tender pace of his lips finally responding to your chaste kiss.

God, his lips were as soft as they looked, and so warm. There was a bitterness to the way he tasted from the copious amounts of freshly brewed black coffee he had consumed, but it was cut through by lingering sweet mint from the gum he had spat out earlier.

The gentleness of his touch and his uncertain kiss was surprising for someone who was so rough in so many other aspects of their life. You couldn’t help but grab a small fistful of the collar of his gray henley while you melted into his strong chest, your fingernails lightly scratching at the back of his neck with your other hand, holding him as close as physically possible. A low groan sounded quietly in the back of Frank’s throat when you dragged your nails against his skin, and it traveled straight to your-

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Jumping at the sudden intrusion of noise, you turned your head to see a young officer staring between you and Frank awkwardly, the end of his flashlight hovering over the glass of the driver’s side window. When the window was slowly rolled down, the seriousness of the previous situation broke through the haze of lust you had found yourself in, and you suddenly remembered why you were in Frank’s lap in the first place. Before you could scramble out an explanation, Frank’s rough voice cut through the timid silence and startled you.

“What?”

The young officer jumped backwards immediately from the way Frank practically barked at him, and you turned your head to stare at him in surprise. His chest was rising and falling quickly, his thick brows were knit together in pure frustration, and you could see that familiar flame of rage burning in his eyes.

He looked pissed.

Looking back at the officer, you let out a nervous laugh as you pressed your palm flat against Frank’s chest in an attempt to calm him, flashing the young man a soft smile.

“I’m sorry, is…is there a problem?”

He gulped as his eyes flickered from Frank’s unwavering hardened glare to you, nodding slowly as he uncomfortably gestured behind himself with his thumb.

“I…sorry to uh…interrupt. It’s just…well…this is private property. You’re…technically trespassing.”

Hearing the aggravated grunt that sounded from Frank as he opened his mouth to speak, you quickly covered his mouth with your small palm and let out another nervous laugh, trying to keep the officer’s attention on you.

“I’m very sorry, that’s um…that’s my fault. It’s…it’s our first night with a babysitter so, we got a little…carried away. I’m sure you can understand?”

There was a hopeful tone to your voice as your lips parted into the most convincing charming smile you could muster at the moment, hoping he would take the bait so that you and Frank could leave without a scene being caused. When the young man’s lips parted into a light smile, you felt a sense of ease wash over you.

“Of course, I can definitely…understand.”

But that ease was short lived when you caught where his line of sight went, and felt Frank’s grip on your waist tighten possessively.

As the young officer spoke those words, he made the mistake of letting his eyes wander over your chest in a shameless way, and you panicked when you felt Frank lean forward, reaching with one hand underneath his seat while also shielding your chest from the man’s prying eyes with his large body.

“The fuck are you lookin’ at?”

The officer instantly took another large step back, holding his hands up in surrender and mumbling a string of apologies as Frank started going off on him, reaching for the handle to the door. You quickly grabbed his jaw in your hand and forced him to look at you, staring into his furious glare with wide eyes as you whispered frantically through gritted teeth.

“Frank, stop it.”

Glancing back over at the young man, you let out a soft laugh as you waved your shaky hand dismissively.

“I’m really sorry, we’ll just…leave. We’ll leave. Have a good night.”

Quickly rolling up the window, you scurried back into the passenger seat and swiftly put your seatbelt on. When Frank didn’t move an inch, you turned your head to look at him, seeing a twisted up concoction of anger and confusion on his features. You hysterically gestured towards the steering wheel as you gawked at him.

“What are you doing? Drive!”

Frank’s jaw hardened as he let out a heavy grunt, turning the keys in the ignition and flashing the officer one final death glare before peeling off onto the dirt road in the opposite direction. Once the patrol car was out of sight, you let out a deep breath of relief and held your face in your trembling hands as you tried to calm your nerves.

Your mind was racing with all the worst possible case scenarios. What if that officer was with the Defenders of Freedom too? Is that why he was on that road? Did he get Frank’s license plate? Is he telling the others that the two of you found their base of operations? What would-

“That was good quick thinkin’.”

Frank’s gravely voice cutting through the silence made you realize that neither of you had spoken in the past ten minutes. Turning your head to look over at him, your brows knit together in puzzlement.

“What?”

Frank’s eyes darted over to you timidly, only for a moment, before settling back on the road in front of him.

“Your…plan.”

His voice sounded somewhat strained, and you noticed his features were blanketed in an expression you couldn’t fully make out from the faint glow of the street lights. He almost looked…shy?

Shy was not a word you would ever normally use to describe Frank Castle.

There was suddenly a feeling of heat nipping at the tops of your cheeks, and you were swiftly aware of the lingering sensation of your lips tingling from the kiss.

Is that why he couldn’t hardly look at you?

“Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable.”

Frank arched one of his thick brows as his eyes flickered back over towards you once again, his full lips pursing slightly as he nodded.

“Yeah…I s’pose they do.”

There was a layer of questioning in his tone, and you leaned back in your seat as you looked anywhere but at him while clearing your throat.

“It usually makes people look away, or want to get as far away from it as soon as possible.”

A quiet grunt of agreeance sounded in the back of Frank’s throat.

“That’s…smart.”

An uncomfortable silence settled between you and Frank, and the small unoccupied space in the middle of the truck bed suddenly felt like an ocean separating the two of you. Tension hung thick and heavy in the miniscule space of the cab like an awkward fog that you couldn’t have even sliced through with the sharpened hunter’s knife on Frank’s hip.

For the next half hour, the quiet thrum of the truck engine was the only sound disrupting the tense silence.

»»———　　———««

Stepping past Frank’s large frame into the motel room he had rented for the night, your eyes immediately landed on the bed in the middle of the room.

The bed.

The one.

Single.

Bed.

Glancing over your shoulder at Frank, he caught where your gaze had gone, and there was a sheepish expression on his face.

“Last room they had.”

Doing your best to appear nonchalant about the situation, you gave a slight nod of your head in understanding as you surveyed the room. The dingy wallpaper was beyond faded and peeling where the torn edges pulled away from the top of the wall. What had once probably been a tasteful shade of tan looked more like a muted shade of gold. The queen size bed in the middle of the room was covered in a multi-shade paisley quilt that the word ‘ugly’ couldn’t even begin to describe, and contrasted sharply with the hunter green carpet beneath your feet.

“You didn’t make a reservation?”

The joke you attempted to make to lighten the mood fell flat as Frank eyed you with an unreadable expression, dropping his black duffle bag onto the floor with a slight thud.

“Wasn’t expectin’ company. It ain’t the Ritz, but-”

“Frank, it’s fine. I was joking.”

“Right.”

The uncomfortable silence and awkward tension were absolutely killing you.

Things had never been this weird with Frank, and you didn’t know what to do with yourself. So you did the one thing you always did when you didn’t want to deal with an unpleasant situation.

You ran away from it.

“I’m gonna take a shower.”

About halfway through rushing towards the bathroom, you abruptly halted in your steps when you realized that you couldn’t shower because you didn’t have anything. You had slept at Frank’s last night, and you couldn’t go by your place this morning since it was an active crime scene.

You had no clothes. No toothbrush. No nothing.

“Shit.”

“You alright?”

There was a cautious tone to Frank’s deep voice, but it was clearly laced with concern when it nestled in your ears. You turned around to face him, your lips pulled into a tight expression that was supposed to resemble a smile, but probably looked more like a grimace.

“I just realized I don’t have anything.”

Frank cocked his head to the side slightly while he looked over at you, curiosity and confusion swirling around in his deep brown eyes.

“We couldn’t stop by my place this morning…and we left kinda in a hurry…so…”

All of a sudden you could see realization dawning on Frank’s face. His features softened considerably, and he quickly glanced at the small analog clock on the nightstand by the bed. It was late, and you were nearly in the middle of nowhere in some small town upstate about twenty miles from the location Frank had been given. There was nothing around the motel except a rundown gas station and a little twenty-four hour diner.

Frank turned his attention back to you, and his dark eyes wandered over you for a second before he met your gaze again. There was an apologetic expression on his features as he reached down to grab his duffle bag, walking over to set it down on the edge of the bed while he unzipped it and started to rustle through it.

“Here, I got some stuff you can borrow-”

“It’s okay. I can just-”

“Ain’t a big deal. I got extras of some things. Can’t promise anythin’ will fit or smell pretty.”

Frank glanced up to flash you a tiny smile as he held out a small pile of things towards you. As you reached out to take the items from him, your fingers lightly brushed against his, and you felt a spark shock through your system. Looking up at him, your lips tugged into a tight timid smile while you nodded.

“Thanks, Frank.”

Without waiting for a response, you dashed into the small bathroom for some privacy, hoping you’d be able to get yourself the fuck together.

Any attempt you were going to make to try to push that kiss from earlier out of your head was completely ruined when you began to lather his body wash in your hands to rub it into your wet skin, being careful to avoid getting any suds in your hurt hand, and comb it through your hair, since Frank was apparently a two in one kind of guy. Even though the temperature of the water was a degree short of scalding, the areas of your body that had been caressed by Frank’s large hands burned hotter.

He had touched you, really touched you, beyond the point of just trying to sell your distraction. He didn’t have to kiss you back the way he had. He could’ve just let his lips stay modestly pressed to yours until the officer walked up.

But Frank seemed to have lost himself in the kiss just as much as you had.

So why was he acting so strange now? If he wanted that kiss as much as you did, why was he acting more reserved with you now than he ever had before? Was his perceived passion blown out of proportion by your greedy and selfish imagination?

Or did he simply regret it?

The whirlwind of questions and convoluted doubt only got worse when you slipped his clothes on.

His clothes.

Frank had given you a long sleeve black t-shirt that was ridiculously soft and comfortable. You had recalled seeing him wear it on several occasions. While it fit him snugly, the sleeves hung comically off your hands, and the bottom of it reached the middle of your thighs. Your eyes had momentarily widened seeing that he had given you a pair of his black briefs, but they fit you somewhat better than the sweatpants he had offered.

It felt strangely intimate to be in Frank’s clothes. Granted, wearing someone else’s underwear is kind of intimate, but it also made you feel…comforted in an odd way. You were completely doused head to toe in the familiar scent of Frank, and that made you feel safe in a way that you had only ever felt with him.

When you stepped out of the steamy bathroom, Frank was sitting on the edge of the bed with his phone in his hand, staring down at it intently. He perked up when he heard the bathroom door creak open, and his eyes instantly snapped over to look over at you. His dark brown eyes roamed slowly over the sight of you in his clothes, and when he finally met your gaze, there was a look there you hadn’t seen before.

But it made your knees weak.

Trying to dispel the thick layer of tension in the air, you cleared your throat as you slowly walked over towards him and handed the pair of sweatpants back with a soft smile on your lips.

“I gave them my best shot.”

Frank’s eyes softened slightly and he let out a light chuckle, taking the sweats from you to place into his own lap.

“Everythin’ else work alright?”

“Yeah…yeah, um…thank you.”

“Sure. We’ll find a store first thing in the mornin’, get ya some stuff. How’s the hand?”

Frank held one of his large hands out towards you expectantly, and without even thinking, you placed your injured one on top of his.

“It’s fine. I wrapped it.”

He pushed back the sleeve past your wrist to inspect your handiwork, delicately turning your wrist from left to right to examine the placement and tightness of the layers of gauze covering your wounded palm and fingers. He made a subtle expression of pride, his dark eyes flickering up to meet yours with a nod of approval.

“Not bad.”

“I had a good teacher.”

Frank looked up at you with slightly raised brows, and then a quirk of a smile curled at the edge of his lips when it clicked that you had learned by watching him tend to your hand last night.

“S’pose you did.”

When Frank let go of your hand and rose from the bed, he moved to step around you, and you watched him toe off his boots by the door before starting to rummage through his duffle bag again. He had ditched his black denim jacket, and it looked like his shirt was straining against the expanse of his large back. When your eyes wandered upwards, your breath caught in your throat seeing a faint pink vertical line on the back of his neck.

The one you had left with your nails.

A surge of heat instantly spread across the tops of your cheeks, and between your thighs, as the phantom touch of Frank’s firm grasp on your waist burned once again on your skin. You had fantasized so many times about sitting on Frank’s lap and kissing him like that, but your imagination could never compare to the real thing. Your lips started to tingle again at the memory of his warm and soft lips responding eagerly to your kiss, and your ears rang loudly with the echo of his low groan that had sounded in his throat.

You were all of a sudden painfully aware of the fact that you were getting wet in Frank’s underwear.

You had never been so affected just from kissing someone before. Not even when you made out with a boy for the first time. Or…any boy you made out with for that matter.

Hell, Steven couldn’t even get you that worked up with his hand in your panties and detailed fucking instructions.

But Frank…Frank just drove you absolutely fucking wild.

“What happens now?”

Frank turned his head to look at you over his broad shoulder when your soft voice cut through the stillness. You could hear the faint desperation in your own voice, and you knew it heard it too. Frank never missed anything. There was a hesitancy to his features, and irresolution swimming around in his eyes, like he wasn’t sure what exactly you were referring to.

What happens with the investigation?

What happens tomorrow?

What happens next with us, Frank?

Frank carefully turned around to face you fully, and while his face appeared neutral, there was something glowing in his eyes.

“With what?”

His words were laced with pure curiosity, but there was a coveted challenge concealed within them. You didn’t have the courage to ask the question you really wanted the answer to, and you had a feeling Frank wouldn’t answer it unless he was prompted. Even then, there was a good chance he would avoid it. A sobering thought washed over you that you might not be prepared for that answer anyway, so you decided to play it safe.

“Well…we can’t go back there, right?”

Frank’s lips pursed into a somewhat thin line. He almost looked like he was disappointed by your choice of question. His pensive eyes studied you silently for a moment before clutching that same pair of sweatpants he had offered you in his large hand and stalking off towards the bathroom.

“I’ll figure somethin’ out.”

When the door to the bathroom firmly shut, you flopped back onto the stiff mattress with a heavy sigh and closed your eyes.

It was going to be a very long night.

These sleepovers with Frank were not going the way you had fantasized about previously at all.

»»———　　———««

Ten minutes later, Frank quietly emerged from the bathroom, and your eyes doubled in size as your jaw nearly became fully unhinged. The dark gray pair of sweatpants that he had offered you were slung dangerously low on his hips, and a delicious white sliver of the waistband of his briefs were peeking out above them. His cropped dark hair was tousled in damp curls, and droplets of warm water cascaded down the expanse of his lean and toned figure. Frank’s skin looked so smooth, like an exemplary chiseled piece of artwork carved into tan marble; a Greek god perfectly immortalized in impenetrable stone.

Your rapacious eyes were particularly interested in a droplet that was leisurely making its way down one of his deep cut v-lines, only to become absorbed by the fabric of his sweats. While you were marveling at the view of the unveiled Adonis before you, a sight abruptly caught your attention.

There was a faint pink scar above his right hip.

In an instant, you were no longer staring at him through cherry tinted lenses of desire, but with a slight pang of sadness cutting through your chest. There were numerous scars marked on Frank’s body. Some were faded, nearly blending in with his normal flesh tone, while some were opaque, a clear striking contrast of pain endured in comparison to the untainted color of skin that had never known affliction. Some were deep indentations nestled in his skin, almost to the bone, while others casually crested above the sea level of undisrupted ripples of flesh.

“I was a Marine.”

Frank’s deep voice cutting through the silence of the motel room swiftly redirected your line of sight to his face. He had a gray tank top in his large hands, and he subtly seemed to be wringing it with a twinge of nervousness. There was an unrestrained expression of aversion in his eyes, as if he didn’t know whether to hide the evidence of an unforgiving past, or allow you to consume this rare moment of vulnerability completely.

For a moment your eyes dropped to the chain around his neck.

The gold wedding band.

You hadn’t seen a glimpse of it since that night at the bar, when you’d caught sight of him in your guest bathroom with a few of his shirt buttons undone. You still didn’t know if it was his or if it had belonged to his wife, or what happened to her, but it was hard to look at now.

You didn’t like seeing him look so uncomfortable, so you did your best to put him at ease with a tender smile on your lips as you looked up at him in genuine understanding and grace.

“That…actually makes a lot of sense.”

Frank glanced down at the shirt in his hands for a moment, an apparition of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as a dry and short chuckle escaped his mouth.

“I’ll try not to take offense to that.”

The elusive, light-hearted tone of his voice made you wonder if you could try to dismantle at least one of the many walls that he seemed to have up within him. You didn’t want to pry too much, but you’d had so many questions about Frank for months, and it seemed like he was finally giving you a rare window to get a few answers.

“Is…is that where those came from?”

“Most of ‘em.”

Frank kept his gaze averted downwards on the shirt in his hand as he spoke in a hushed tone, like his admissions couldn’t be uttered above a certain decibel level. It almost appeared as though it was easier for him to be vulnerable with you if he didn’t have to look at you.

Was he nervous to see your reaction to his rare divulgence? Or was there something lurking in the shadows of history that he couldn’t face?

Was he thinking about your lips as much as you were thinking about his?

You had to focus. You weren’t sure how grand or miniscule this window of opportunity was with Frank. This moment could be just as magnificently fleeting as a shooting star escaping across the cosmos, and if you blinked at the wrong second, you would miss it.

This could be your one chance to finally break through those meticulously crafted barriers of his. To unravel the chains of mystery that seemed to weigh him down, and finally erase that invisible line separating him from everyone else that he never seemed to let you cross.

But, you couldn’t push too hard. If your curiosity was too intrusive, he’d immediately shut down. If you misstepped over the delicate minefield of his own temper, you risked an explosion. It had to be the most graceful balancing act you’d ever done.

You had to treat this like the most important story of your entire career. Carefully pose the questions as innocent conversation, instead of an interrogation, and give him the space to answer as generally or as detailed as he wanted to.

Billy’s advice seemed to echo in your ears at that moment.

You gotta let him come to you.

“How long were you in the Marines?”

“Did four tours.”

When you didn’t speak for a moment, Frank finally lifted his head to meet your gaze. There was a twinkle of amusement shining in his warm brown eyes at your evident confusion, and he let out a light chuckle as a crooked smile tugged across his lips.

“All in all, little over ten years.”

A faint blush layered over the tops of your cheeks at your own ignorance. Normally when you interviewed someone, you had the benefit of being able to research them beforehand. With Frank, you were having to make up everything as you go with the extremely limited knowledge you had of him, and of his experience. You knew virtually nothing about the Marines, or the military in general, but seemed to be feeling generous in offering explanations.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“I was good at it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Frank glanced around the motel room for a moment, seemingly lost in his own thoughts while pondering the question that lingered between you. After a beat of silence, he sat down on the edge of the bed with a heavy exhale, just a few inches away from where you had been sitting cross-legged on the middle of the mattress, and turned his head to the left to look at you.

“Did you always wanna be a journalist?”

Frank’s question took you by surprise. He didn’t often ask you personal questions about yourself, but you decided if you answered his questions honestly, maybe he would do the same.

“I’ve always been nosey.”

The corner of Frank’s full lips quirked up into a knowing smile, and you couldn’t help but let out a huff of air through your nose in a quiet snort.

“That don’t surprise me.”

Giving Frank a playful roll of your eyes in response to his comment, you lightly shrugged your shoulders, looking up at him with a faint smile on your lips.

“I’ve always liked story-telling. I’ve never really had the imagination to come up with my own, but I like other people’s stories, and I’ve always enjoyed writing. I thought a club would look good on my college applications, and I wasn’t very athletic or talented in anything else, so I decided to join my high school’s paper. That’s where I really fell in love with investigative journalism, which I realize sounds ridiculous given I was reporting high school ‘news’ but-”

“It ain’t ridiculous if it was important to ya.”

The sincerity in Frank’s tone coupled with the depth of his alluring gaze almost made you forget what you were talking about. It also made you suddenly aware of the fact that every time you downplayed yourself, Frank was quick to cut off your self-deprecation with a genuine sentiment. For a second, all you could do was stare into his eyes, until you decided to bare your soul in front of him.

“It was the first time I really felt like I was good at something. Like I…I had a purpose. I had something that was…mine. I could do something meaningful…something that mattered. It could be something I was proud of.”

Frank stayed silent while he soaked up the candor of your confession, like he was taking the time to commit every piece of it to memory. Sometimes you felt like he could see right through you when he stared into your eyes, and you felt incredibly small under his undivided attention. His head dipped slightly between his broad shoulders when he turned his head to stare down at his clasped hands for a moment.

“I never knew what the hell I wanted to do. I was a…bit of a troublemaker when I was a kid. My parents…they were older, ya’know? Couldn’t really do nothin’ to control me. I knew that, and took advantage of it. I was a real…”

“Asshole?”

Frank’s lips parted into a crooked smile, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

“I was gonna say prick. But…yeah. I was a little asshole.”

“Well thank God you grew out of that.”

Frank dropped his head slightly to stare back down at his hands again with a light chuckle. Your eyes followed his gaze, and you noticed a few scars covering his knuckles, resembling jagged designs carved into a tree trunk.

“I enlisted when I was eighteen. Thought…what the hell, ya’know? Was never any good at school or anythin’ like that…and I didn’t wanna get stuck at some…shit job. Thought it was my ticket out, ya’know? Get to travel, play with guns and tanks, that kinda shit.”

The light smile that had been on the edge of Frank’s mouth dissipated slowly, and his thick brows slowly drew closer in together while he rubbed his right thumb over the back of his left hand.

“Bein’ a Marine…it was the first time in my life I felt like I was worth a damn. Like I was really doin’ somethin’, ya’know? Somethin’ good…somethin’ important. I was good at it, damn good at it. Felt like I…like I finally found-”

“A purpose.”

Frank’s eyes flickered up to meet yours, and there seemed to be a shared expression of understanding between the two of you. You knew exactly what he meant, and he could see that reflected in your eyes.

“A purpose.”

He repeated those two words in a more quiet and contemplative voice, like he was repeating them more to himself than to you.

“So, how do you go from being a Marine to a bodyguard for a high maintenance journalist?”

“Just that goddamn lucky, I s’pose.”

The edges of Frank’s mouth twisted up into a sardonic smirk when he turned his head to look at you, and you were about to retort with a smartass comment of your own when you noticed something you hadn’t seen before.

Without even thinking, your hand reached out to trace a circular shaped scar on Frank’s left temple with your index finger. He didn’t go rigid when you touched him this time, not like he had in the truck. The smirk swiftly vanished along with the playful crinkles beside his eyes, and his full lips parted slightly while he stared at you intently as you lightly traced your finger over the mark.

It was indented slightly, and you could feel the faint dip beneath your fingertip. The edges of it were tinted more of a blush shade, making it obvious this wound had been made more recently than some of the others adorning his skin. It almost looked like a bullet hole…and that idea had your stomach twisting into tight knots.

“What’s this one from?”

All of a sudden, Frank’s large hand wrapped around your wrist to push your hand away at the exact same time he turned he pulled his hand away from your delicate caress. His lips were now pressed in a line and that familiar hardness was back in his gaze.

And just like that, whatever moment you two were having was clearly over.

Frank suddenly stood from the edge of the bed and silently pulled his tank top over his head, slipping his large arms through the sleeve holes and covering his body with the dark gray fabric.

“We should call it a night.”

Frank’s voice was flat, and you felt a surge of frustration burn in your bloodstream. Every time you felt like you were getting somewhere with him, he pulled back. It was like you were constantly trying to carefully navigate your way up an unclimbable mountain, and as soon as the peak came into view, you lost your footing and fell to the bottom.

He grabbed one of the pillows from the bed and tossed it onto the floor, and a crease of confusion settled in the middle of your forehead.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ll take the floor. You can have the bed.”

You looked down at the queen size bed you were sitting on top of, a bed of which you barely took up any space, and then looked back over at Frank, who was in the middle of making a pallet on the floor.

“Frank, you don’t have to sleep on the floor. This bed is big enough for both of us.”

“Slept in worse conditions.”

You pinched at the bridge of your nose in pure irritation at both the insensitive implications behind his remark and his unrelenting stubbornness.

“So you’ve told me, several times. Thank you, by the way, for telling me that you think sharing a bed with me is worse than whatever the hell your setup was in the military. You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet, Castle. I had no idea you were such a poet.”

Frank’s face twisted up in puzzlement and aggravation at the tone of sarcasm dripping from your clipped words.

“That ain’t what I-”

“I don’t want to hear a single complaint in the morning when you’re stiff and sore from choosing to sleep on the fucking floor.”

As you vexingly tugged back the thin and somewhat stiff quilt on top of the bed, you slid beneath it, the scratchiness of the cheap sheets against your bare legs only souring your mood even further. While you turned onto your side away from Frank and harshly smacked your hand against the button to turn off the lamp on the nightstand, he stared down at you with furrowed dark brows and a heavy frown in complete exasperation and perplexity.

“Oh for fucks-why is it always a goddamn argument with you?”

“Why are you always such an ass?”

“I’m an ass for tryin’ to be a gentleman and make sure you’re comfortable?”

Dragging your palms down your face with an irritated groan, you furiously sat up in the bed to look over at Frank with an exacerbated expression while the two of you raised your voices at each other in yet another argument.

“How are you making me uncomfortable if I’m offering, Frank? This bed is big, so big that you wouldn’t even have to breathe the same air as me. We could even put pillows down the middle just to make sure that we don’t accidentally touch in the middle of the night, because God fucking forbid-”

“Oh Jesus fuckin’ Christ, fine.”

Frank ripped the pillow off the ground and angrily tossed it onto the bed, tugging the covers back from the other side of the mattress to slip underneath angrily. He turned his head to glare at you as he harshly gestured towards himself in the bed.

“There? Happy? You gonna stop fuckin’ givin’ me shit, now?”

Returning Frank’s fuming glare with one of your own, the two of you seemed to be locked in an angry staring contest until you conceded and turned over again, dragging the unpleasant quilt up to your chin. You grit your teeth as you squeezed your eyes shut, letting out an aggravated exhale through your nose.

As hot as your blood felt in your veins, there was also a nauseating feeling of disappointment settling in your stomach.

Frank wasn’t thinking about your lips. He wasn’t thinking about your kiss at all. If he was, it was him wishing it didn’t happen.

Maybe that was part of the reason he wanted to sleep on the floor and seemed so pissed off at you. He didn’t want to be near you. He was mad that you kissed him without his permission.

You’d made him uncomfortable.

On the other side of the bed, Frank stared at the back of your head in the dim amber light of the room coming from the other bedside lamp. Turning his head to stare straight ahead blankly at the wall in front of him, he closed his eyes for a moment and let out a slow and heavy exhale as he grumbled a string of curses under his breath.

After a few terse minutes of deafening silence, you could feel Frank shifting underneath the sheets, and his gravelly voice filtered in through the dense quiet.

“Look, I wasn’t tryin’ to hurt your feelin’s-”

“You didn’t-”

“Yes, I did. I wasn’t implyin’ that sharin’ a bed with you was such a bad thing, alright? I only meant I slept in worse places than on a floor, s’all.”

Frank genuinely sounded apologetic, and you felt a rush of guilt wash over you from the way you had twisted his words, jumped to conclusions, and reacted poorly. He let out another heavy sigh before speaking again.

“I just…wanted you to feel comfortable.”

The hushed tone of his voice made it sound like he was entrusting you with his deepest secret. Swallowing down your pride, you turned on your side to face Frank, looking over at him silently for a moment before letting out a soft sigh.

“Frank, you’ve never made me uncomfortable.”

He was laying on his back, his head slightly propped up against the headboard, but his face was turned towards you. He seemed to be searching your eyes for any thread of faultiness in your words that he could unravel.

“I…I’m sorry I called you an ass.”

“You’re sorry for tellin’ me the truth?”

Frank arched one of his dark brows, and you could detect a faint smirk on the edge of his lips, even in the dim light of the room. You rolled your eyes as you laughed quietly.

“Can you just let me just apologize to you for making an ass of myself?”

Frank eyed you for a moment with a sly tug at the corner of his mouth.

“Aren’t good reporters s’posed to reserve their conclusions ‘bout somethin’ ‘til they got all the evidence?”

The low, hushed tone Frank spoke in to not disrupt the quiet peace that settled between the two of you made his voice sound sultry. That twinkle of amusement was shining in his eyes again, and you fought the grin that threatened to take over your lips.

Playful Frank was your favorite Frank.

“Are you implying that I’m not a good reporter, Mr. Castle?”

A low chuckle rumbled in Frank’s throat as he moved his right arm behind his head, closing his eyes while he turned his head to face upwards with a faint smirk on his lips.

“Considerin’ you’re trigger happy, and there’s ‘bout three guns within your reach, no. Absolutely not.”

“I am not-”

“Did you not just jump all over my ass a second ago over a misunderstandin’?”

Frank opened his eyes to look over at you, his thick dark brows raised slightly while that faint smirk remained subtly on his full lips.

Narrowing your eyes playfully, you poked your tongue against the inside of your cheek and lightly shrugged your shoulders beneath the quilt.

“Well, you gave me the conclusion that you were an ass the first day I met you, and you’ve only reinforced it since then. You also did just admit on record that you’ve been an ass since you were a kid, so.”

Another chuckle sounded from Frank as a grunt of agreeance sounded in his throat.

“I reckon you’re right ‘bout that.”

A few moments of tranquil quiet passed by between the two of you, but you were buzzing with questions on the inside. However, something he said abruptly clicked in your brain, and your eyes widened as you looked over at him.

“Frank?”

“Yeah?”

“Are there really three guns in this room?”

“Three on your side.”

Blinking a few times in dumbfoundment, your brows knit together as you stared over at him incredulously.

“What…what do you mean ‘three on my side’? How many are on your side?”

“Two, and a knife.”

“Jesus Christ, Rambo. Anything else?”

Frank let out a deep and amused chuckle at that, placing his left hand on his chest as he shifted slightly on his back to get comfortable.

“In the truck, yeah.”

“What? There’s more?”

“Go to bed.”

There was no firmness in Frank’s voice, just complete entertainment. You glanced around the dimly lit motel room cautiously, wondering where he might have placed them.

“Where are they?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

Letting out a scoff, you turned your head to look at him in minor annoyance.

“What if someone tries to break in?”

“I’ll handle it.”

You narrowed your eyes at the mirthy smirk curling on the edge of his mouth.

“What if…five people break in?”

“Highly unlikely, but both guns on my side got a clip that hold 12 rounds. You done?”

An exasperated huff left your lips as you turned to lay on your back and crossed your arms over your chest.

“Isn’t it proper safety protocol to let someone know where loaded firearms are stashed?”

“They ain’t loaded.”

“You just said-”

“The ones on my side are loaded. The ones on your side ain’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“You said it yourself. You’re nosey, and you never even held a gun before.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but to your irritation, Frank had a point. Not that you would admit that out loud to him.

A few minutes of silence passed by before you spoke up again.

“You could always teach me.”

Frank opened his eyes and turned his head slightly to look at you, staring at you in a mixture of interest and confusion.

“Teach you what?”

You turned back onto your side to face him and lightly shrugged your shoulders.

“How to shoot.”

It was Frank’s time to stare at you in dumbfoundment. He arched one of his thick brows while he eyed you.

“You wanna learn how to shoot?”

“I mean…people are only trying to kill me.”

Frank didn’t return the playful smile that you flashed him, and it quickly fell from your lips. This was not going to be something he was going to agree to easily. You were really going to have to fight for this one. You had to show him that you were serious.

“If you hadn’t shown up last night, those men were going to kill me, Frank. I don’t ever want to feel that helpless ever again.”

The devout honesty in your voice was unmistakable, and Frank let out a deep exhale as he turned his head to look up towards the ceiling and closed his eyes again.

“Let’s deal with this shit first, then we’ll talk.”

There was a tiny surge of victory that coursed through you at that. It wasn’t technically a yes, but it also wasn’t a flat out no. You just needed to keep proving to him that this was something you were serious about.

You wanted to bring up the kiss, but you weren’t sure how to approach it. You didn’t want to ruin the peace your playful banter had brought about with Frank, but you couldn’t leave it alone.

Why was he so goddamn hard to read?

Why was he still being so hot and cold with you?

Even if he was still your bodyguard, the two of you were way past the point of professionalism.

“Frank?”

“Hm?”

“I…I’m sorry…if I made you uncomfortable.”

The thin material of the pillowcase rustled loudly in the quiet as Frank turned his head to look at you inquisitively, like he had no idea what you were talking about.

“Earlier…when I…kissed you.”

There wasn’t a desert on any continent as dry as your mouth right now, and your heart was pounding so relentlessly against the sturdy ivory of your ribcage, you swore he could hear it a few inches away.

The cloudy ignorance seemed to dissipate from between his brows, and his features migrated to an expression of recognition. For a moment he didn’t say anything, and it made you realize you found his silence far more unnerving than his unwanted answers.

“You didn’t.”

There was such a confidence behind those two words that it nearly knocked the breath out of your lungs. Those two little words held so many portals of possibilities.

You didn’t; it just caught me off guard.

You didn’t; everything is fine between us.

You didn’t; I wanted to taste you.

Staring over at Frank, words seemed to completely vanish from your brain. You didn’t know what to say. You had no idea how to respond to that. The intensity of his piercing gaze sent a slight shiver tumbling down your spine despite the blazing warmth you could feel radiating from his body a few inches away from you.

The amber glow from the bedside lamp lit up his eyes like the golden hour of sunlight shining through a glass of whiskey. You wanted to get lost in him again. You wanted to take your rightful place on the throne of his lap, tangle your fingers in his hair like a crown, and let him rule over the kingdom inside your body.

“Frank.”

Was the delicate whisper of his name a desperate plea, or an enticing invitation?

It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he answered it.

For a moment, his mesmerizing stare dropped to your lips, and you swore you saw him start to lean in-

But then at the last second, he cleared his throat and turned over onto his side away from you, moving as close to the edge of the bed on his side as he could get. Frank’s voice was rough when it reached your ears, no trace of the warm and playful tone he had used just minutes ago.

“Get some sleep.”

That hopeful ember of desire that he had ignited in you had been completely snuffed out by his own hand before the flame could even catch, and the ambient light in the motel went out along with it leaving you in dumbfoundment and darkness.

tags: @twoshields @day-dreaming-goddess @messymissy @itwasthereaminuteago @strawberry1042 @queenofthenoobs @wanda2themax @xcastawayherosx @ferns-fics @stevenknightmarc @ponyosmom35 @babygal-babygal @wellwwhynot @oldermenaremyreligion @combustiblemeow @tired-night-owl @fairykiss32 @danzer8705 @calkissed @fxckahs-blog @lemon-world1 @yeah3459 @collaps3r @polskiperson @imperihoe @v4leoftears @harperdoodle @spideyvibez @joalslibrary @cherry-berry-ollie @annalism @sorrowfulfragmentation @kdogreads @sumo-b98

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eunbitchh · 1 year ago

Text

casual

pairing: amber freeman x fem!reader, college!au

word count: 1.3k

summary: in which you confront amber about your relationship, or lack thereof.

warnings: smut, pussy eating, fingering, angst

fic inspo from the midwest princess herself, chappell roan

i MIGHTTT write a part 2?? i haven’t decided yet lmao

you and amber had a.. complicated relationship to say the least. you can’t exactly remember how it happened, maybe it was at one of her parties? but here you were, on a night like many others, head trapped between her thighs eating her out like she was your last meal. her hand laced through your hair, pushing your head further into her cunt, not giving you a chance to breathe. it’s not that you wanted to breathe anyways, you would happily die drowning in her juices. amber was an addiction, one that you needed satiated on a regular basis. your hookups initially started off very minimal. a bootycall one in awhile, but they quickly picked up to being a multiple times a week thing. your favorite bra lived in her dresser, just because of how often you visited her dorm room. it became the more convenient place for it to be.

if you had to guess, it was amber who proposed the idea to you. you had always thought she was beautiful, but you weren’t the type to make a first move. amber had always been bold, forward even, while in contrast you would agree to do anything had she asked you to do it. that’s how you always came to be in this exact scenario, your mouth practically vacuum sealed to her clit while your fingers were knuckle deep in her pussy. your wrist ached but you couldn’t care less, continuing you ministrations on her. it was all worth it, for the view of her writhing around falling apart for you paired with the sweet moans that continually fell through her lips. that’s what always kept you coming back for more.

your biggest mistake was catching feelings along the way. well, that was putting it lightly.. you found yourself having fallen in love with her, but you could never tell that to her. after every hookup she made it abundantly clear that it was “just a casual thing” since it was supposedly easier that way. you found yourself agreeing with her words, despite not truly feeling the same about what you were doing. you had never really brought it up with her, not wanting to cut off what little relationship you had. in retrospect that wasn’t a good idea either, you knew that. what was between the two of you wasn’t healthy, but you didn’t want it to end. you truly wished to be with her and this was the only way it could be done, so be it.

at first it was enough to satisfy your yearning to be with her, and it was certainly enough to satisfy her sexual urges. you knew what made her tick, every hit of your fingers deliberately hitting her g-spot, every flick of your tongue and suck from your mouth perfectly stimulating her clit, and how your hands fit her body just right while you held her close to your face. you managed to make her fall apart within seconds, repeatedly. you were by far the best lover she’s ever had. yet it still wasn’t enough for her to love you despite all those things, and it was getting to the point where it was no longer enough for you anymore on top of all that. deep down you wanted- needed her love.

she came hard for you as per usual, her orgasm coating your tongue and you gladly drank her cum, taking every last drop she gave to you until she pushed your head away feeling far too sensitive from your touch. you wiped the remainder of her cum off your face, having been coated from your lips to your chin. you always got carried away with her, you couldn’t help it when she tasted so sweet. she made it hard to be “casual”. it was even harder when you got to have such intimate aftercare with her. cleaning her up with a warm washcloth, carefully cleaning her up while she whispered praises about how good you felt, how you were so good to her. it made your heart hurt so much worse than it already did. she would hold you for a while, soft touches to your skin in return, before you would leave and repeat the process another day.

you left feeling more dejected every time. you couldn’t keep doing this. it was effecting your mental health, your other friendships, and worst of all, your grades. this had the potential to ruin your future, you had to change things. fast. that’s how you got here, in front of her dorm. palms cold and clammy, nerves going haywire. she opened the door, a little taken aback at your unexpected appearance before a smile graced her features as she opened the door wider for you to come in. she thought you were here for a different reason than why you actually came. she led you over to her bed, as usual, raising her eyebrow at you when you sat down and nervously played with the hem of your shirt.

“alright spill, what’s on your mind?” she asked, her tone suspicious as she eyed you.

you sighed, meeting her gaze hesitantly.

“look, amber.. i know that we agreed to be casual but-“ she held her hand up, effectively cutting you off.

“stop beating around the bush. get to your point, y/n.” her arms were crossed over her chest now, growing more impatient by the second.

you bit the inside of your cheek, another bad habit you had picked up recently before finally spilling your issue to her.

“i’ve.. fallen in love with you.” you mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

silence hung in the air for what felt like an eternity. you heard her take a couple steps back from you, almost like she was putting a wall between the two of you.

“y/n.. you can’t love me. that’s not what we agreed to.. we promised each other “no attachments”, remember?” her voice had an edge to it, her tone far more harsh than you were used to. it felt like she was ripping your heart out and slowly tearing it to shreds right in front of you.

“i know, i didn’t mean to fall in love with you, but i couldn’t help it-“

“get out.” she cut you off, turning away from you, not daring to look at you.

“amber please.. can we please talk about this??” you begged. you knew how pathetic you sounded but you were desperate, you didn’t want to lose her, not like this.

“i said GET OUT!” she rose her voice, words like hot venom on her tongue as she spun around to face you. her face contorted in sheer anger, frustration.

white hot shame coursed through your body as you rose from her bed, heading towards the door you had only entered through a couple minutes ago. this isn’t how you imagined this conversation going at all. you had deluded yourself with fantasies of her introducing you to her friends, a shared apartment with her, a future with her. you truly thought she thought of you better. more than just some girl she bangs when she needed a release. how stupid of you.

“goodbye, y/n.” she spoke lowly, having nothing more to say to you.

“go to hell, amber.” you responded pettily, hearing the door slam shut behind you. you ran your hands across your face, gathering yourself and your emotions so you wouldn’t wind up crying right there on the spot and embarassing yourself further. you didn’t bother sparing another second to take one last look at her door when you left, your heart couldn’t stand to. you hated yourself for letting things go on for so long, and you hated how things ended between you two even more.

you had thought it was hard being casual, but now you were being faced with something even harder. being nothing at all.

#amber freeman x reader #amber freeman x fem! reader #amber freeman x reader smut #amber freeman x fem!reader smut #scream vi x reader #scream vi x fem!reader smut

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zordanna · 1 year ago

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𝓑𝓲𝓻𝓭𝓲𝓮

A fluffy fic inspired from this old drawing I did🍃

English is not my first language and I hate writing so don’t expect too much. It’s just a small scene where Sebastian realises he’s in love with my MC, you can imagine yours there too of course! I ain’t stopping you🫡 enjoy I guess?

Sebastian yawned softly as he kept silently reading his history of magic notes while sitting on the carpet and resting his back on the couch, Eleonora was next to him laying fully on it while reading the chapter trying really hard to not fall asleep.

“Ugh I swear I’m failing this time”

She mumbled while flipping pages. Sebastian rolled his eyes and spoke back with annoyance.

“You literally have the highest grades of all the students in our class, shut up-”

Eleonora huffed and gave him a soft nudge with her knee in response.

“Just because the competition prefers wandering in the restricted section more than studying actual subjects. You know- instead of forbidden ones”

Sebastian groaned and rested his head on the couch seat cushion to look at her better.

“You are a pain in the ass.” He breathed out glancing back at his notes pretending to ignore her.

“The feeling is mutual”

She ruffled his brown curls gaining a soft laugh from him , the boy rested one cheek on the cushion and gazed at her while his notes ended up spread around the intricated embodied carpet of Russel living room. Sebastian glanced at the book and got an idea.

“I can read it for you, if you want, so we both learn something at least”

His proposal sounded quite nice to Eleonora, she gave him the book and set herself comfortable as he cleared his throat. He started reading and he could almost feel her gaze caressing his skin, Sebastian didn’t know how he managed to say the words correctly without fumbling while having that lovely pair of blue eyes staring at him, the warmth of her presence, her sweet scent of lavender and soap pervading his nostrils…Merlin help him!

On the other side Eleonora’s eyes were looking at his freckles, she always thought they looked like a starry sky , sometimes she would find full constellations in them while stealing glances at her friend’s features. She glanced at his lashes, was it even legal to have them so long and soft? The way they fluttered while he was reading, the way the sun was making them shine with a warm orange shade. She was mesmerised. That’s for sure. The words sounded like a sweet lullaby rather than an actual lecture on how their ancestors channeled magic trough the years, her eyes felt heavy and her body a little too relaxed.

Maybe if she closed her eyes just for a second…yeah that should do it.

Sebastian was reading the last paragraph when he heard soft snoring coming from his right side ,he turned his head a little to check on Eleonora and a warm smile formed on his lips as he realised she had fallen asleep. He closed the book putting it away before adjusting himself leaning closer to the sleeping girl. He rested his elbow on the couch cushion careful to not disturb her rest, as usual Eleonora needed her afternoon nap.

Memories of their third year flashed in his mind, rainy afternoons spent napping all together on the same couch down in the undercroft between a mess of books and unfinished candies. Anne was still…well Anne. No curse, no pain just Anne, sleeping peacefully while her tiny head would rest on Ominis shoulder as he was nestled up almost like a cat. Eleonora’s long blonde hair would tickle his nose as he often found himself using her soft curls as a pillow. They always smelled so good it wasn’t his fault they felt so comfy.

Instinctively Sebastian brushed off some of her blonde strands that were framing her face, very carefully as if she was made of porcelain. Her long blonde curls that once were left wild and free were now tied up in that blue ribbon he gifted her almost two years ago.

“You keep wearing it all the time mh?”

He mumbled softly more to himself than to her. The soft blue satin fabric was a bit smudged near the knot after years of wearing it every day, that’s what happens with the things you love most isn’t it? They change.

Sebastian always questioned why she would refuse to buy another one, a prettier one maybe made from the most expensive silk with embodied details but she always said that one was just perfect. She loved it.

And he loved how beautiful she looked with it. He loved the way it always made her eyes stand out matching their colour, he loved how it swayed like a swallowtail when she would rush around the hallways late for classes trying to not trip on other students. Swallows are a sign of hope and freedom, he was certain that if she had to be an animal she would be one of them. She was always there trying to see the good side of everything, which in his darker days was both infuriating and yet comforting. It was reassuring having her slapping some sense in his thick skull sometimes, he couldn’t deny it.

He also loved that, her scolding tone, her stubbornness and resolution whenever he was acting like a complete ass. He loved the way she would ruffle his hair to annoy him, he loved how her soft hands were making him feel butterflies flying around his stomach every damn time…

Sebastian’s chocolate brown eyes were fixed on Eleonora’s delicate face as the sudden realisation hit him like a whole bombarda in his chest.

He was falling in love. No. He was in love. Utterly. Undeniably in love.

He didn’t realise his face was few centimetres away from hers till now, his lips dangerously close to hers. Before doing something stupid and reckless he pulled away slightly and took a moment to gain his composure, his eyes wandered around the luxurious living room of her family’s manor, the paintings of the Russels were almost staring at him, judging him with their cold gaze.

Who was he trying to fool? He was nobody compared to her family, an orphan living in a cottage with his grumpy uncle, it would never be fair to her. Knowing her parents Eleonora had probably her life planned since day one, as her older sister Ofelia once told him they lived in a golden cage with all comforts but still a cage. It was all doomed from the start so- for now it was better to suppress those feelings. To pretend they never had been there.

For now having her friendship was more than he could hope for, Sebastian looked at the big wood carved clock and checked the time, it was getting pretty late, he sighed and with a soft spoken tone called for her.

“Hey…Birdie”

The world would never want them together, that’s what he was telling himself, yet when he saw those blue eyes and that warm sleepy smile greeting him Sebastian thought that the world could burn or destroy itself in that exact moment.

The world would know Lady Eleonora Russel but Birdie. Birdie was just for him and that was all he needed.

“Birdie? What am I a chicken?”

Eleonora said with a snort while sitting up and stretching a bit letting a yawn escape her lips.

“No more like a goose.”

Sebastian retorted with a cheeky grin. She had no idea of what passed by his mind all the short time she was asleep.

“Ouch- did I snore loud?”

“Terribly. I mistaken you for a troll or something at some point.”

Eleonora laughed at the statement and crossed her arms in a proud stance.

“Was I annoying you?”

“Terribly.” Sebastian said faking an exasperated sigh.

“Good. I can consider my mission accomplished then”

She added with a chuckle while they both got up to walk towards the kitchen for stealing a snack or two. Luckily her parents wouldn’t be back till next early morning considering their habit to attend balls and ceremonies maintaining their high social status connections. That was a relief for the two of them but also for the servitude. The house elves were quite fond of Eleonora, a true ray of sunshine in that toxic household.

The afternoon passed by with their usual playful bantering like any other. It was better pretending nothing happened for Sebastian, it was for the best really.

Was it? Only time would tell. For now they were just fifteen, sitting on the kitchen counter munching a stolen slice of lemon tart while yapping about how they were both convinced Professor Garlick was hiding “special plants” somewhere in the greenhouse.

It was a normal spring afternoon during the end of the 19th century.

Flowers were blooming , birds were chirping and the air smelled like clean laundry and soap.

Winter was just a distant thought, none of them could ever imagine how everything would irreversibly change in few months.

Moments like these would be soon turned into distant faded happy memories but for now…it was all that mattered.

#hogwarts legacy #art #hogwarts legacy art #hogwarts legacy mc #illustrators on tumblr #my ocs #oc art #artwork #illustration #sebastian sallow #mc x sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian x mc #fluff #oc x canon #sebastian sallow x reader

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cupid-kissez · 5 days ago

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How about lunch? || Part One || Spencer Agnew

Summary: Whilst in a Smosh Games meeting Y/N is asked about ideas for social media promo for an upcoming Games Livestream but what happens when Y/N forgets about the assignment she was given.

Pairing: Spencer Agnew x f!reader

Warnings:

This is my first fic so be warned if my writing isn’t up to scratch yet. I’m still learning!

Not proof read

WC: 661 words (This is a short one another part will be happening)

Authors note: I’d love some feedback on my first fic! But please don’t be mean about it!

While in the conference room, I was listening to Spencer's meeting notes and the upcoming schedule, my cup of iced latte was on the table next to my laptop and by this point in the meeting the ice had already dissolved into my drink so I knew that within every sip I was about to take would be a diluted iced latte that would leave a bitter and disappointing taste in your mouth and as I continued to look interested into what the meeting was, but the meeting just continue to be dragged on, each minute was feeling like an eternity. My attention span, which is already stretched thin, was rapidly dwindling.Until I heard my name.

“Y/N?”, Spencer asked but from his tone, I’m guessing he’s already said my name before but you were most likely too zoned out to realise.

"Oh, sorry!" I blurted out, snapping to attention. I looked up at Spencer, who was now staring at me with thinly veiled annoyance. It was clear I'd been caught red-handed, not even pretending to listen to the meeting. I stammered through my words “Just got caught in some slack messages-“, I was just rushing to come up with some lie that makes it seem like I had something more important than this meeting.

You’ve been working behind the scenes at smosh for at least 5 months,as a social media manager for Smosh games, so you have gotten used to the usual meetings with the Smosh Games Team on how to promote the next video or live stream. “So Y/N how are those ideas for posts about that karaoke live going?”, Spencer asked, his voice betraying a hint of skepticism but since he asked for some of the ideas you had come up for the email he sent you a week ago where you were asked to post some promo for a karaoke livestream. Your face immediately betrayed you and the fact you forgot about the whole make up ideas email, was just spread across your face.

“You did remember to come up with some ideas right Y/N?”, Alex rubbed the bridge of his nose. I decided to wait a few seconds before responding. A wave of guilt washed over me. I knew I was caught red handed, and rightfully so. I hesitated for a few seconds, buying myself some time to formulate a response. "Okay.. do you want the good news or the bad news first?”, I said as I closed my laptop. Spencer spoke up after a few minutes of long and unbearable silence. “You forgot about my email didn’t you Y/N”,

“I’m sorry just whenever someone gets me yapping I just can’t stop and you know what everyones like when it comes to TikToks and instagram stuff everyone wants me to post something. Let’s just say this Smosh game's live stream wasn’t a top priority for me this week.”, you stood up with your laptop and made your way over to where both Spencer and Alex sat in the conference room. "But I promise, I'll get on it right away. Just give me a few hours, and I'll have a whole slew of ideas for you."

Spencer then spoke up again, cutting the tension. “How about let’s discuss and brainstorm some ideas over Lunch Y/N? And we’ll do it together?”, You were a bit shocked that Spencer would even want to talk to you let alone want to speak over lunch? Maybe he felt bad about how busy you were, but you doubt that I mean your only one person, you can’t be everywhere at once. “Sounds great Spencer, I promise I’ll have some ideas when we next meet up”

You then left the conference room, with a slight confusion as to why Spencer didn’t blow his lid or even why he wasn’t annoyed with you. Maybe it’s something to discuss over lunch? You shrugged and went back to your desk.

#smosh #spencer agnew #spencer agnew x reader #f!reader #smosh games #smosh fanfiction #alex tran

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bluu-m0on · 4 months ago

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Demigod!Brant (Hercules!AU) I’d like to thank @let-the-stars-guide for this idea, suggestions, and her feedback in making this fic come to life!

Synopsis: The city of Thebes has never been a place where peace was an option until a warrior: The Flaming Returned, rose up to the challenge and restored it himself. Amidst the praise and the reputation he garnered for himself, he always finds his way back to a humble tavern you work at.

Word count: ~2.3k

Author's notes and disclaimers: - I let this fic marinate in my drafts for a good while. I wanted to try something a little different with this one since I rewrote the setting to be a mix of ancient Greece and Solaris (right after the Mortefi fic too no less). I also used some terminology that might be unfamiliar. I've left the footnotes for the terminology at the end of this piece. - I don't speak or write much in English, even if I'm fluent in the language. Please be aware that my grammar and/or vocabulary might be faulty in some parts. I've revised this with @let-the-stars-guide a few times, but I'm confident that I didn't manage to correct every single mistake. - yes. I am ***horribly*** down bad for this man. Jesus Christ. The gist of the fic's setting is that: - The sentinels are about the same in-game, just seen as similarly as Greek gods. - Resonators are more or less seen as demigods. Where if someone managed to get a forte, it is said that the sentinel has "blessed" them in a way. I really didn't want to elaborate this much more in the fic since that's not the main focus, but I did use it for some context in writing. The setting is almost the same as the one in Disney's version with some rewrites: - "A hero comes to a crime-ridden town to improve the lives of the people in it to prove his worth." I kept this one in. - 'Meg' (as the reader), was rewritten differently compared to the source material so that this version of the character ('(name)') made sense in the setting. So no, this isn't a Meg!Reader fic. Not to my knowledge anyway.

*"I will face the world fearless, proud, and strong 'til I find my hero's welcome right where I belong."

God knows what you expected when you first met Brant. He was, to say the least, theatric, with how he carried himself around the *polis and among the people of Thebes, always with a confident gait and a smile that never seemed to leave his lips as the masses sang their praises of him as a hero: The Flaming Returned.

Surprisingly, you met him in one of the *apotheca, right by the *amphora where the town’s wine was being audited. He didn’t look like much then— a lot leaner and unkempt; truth be told, he looked more like one of the carry-boys for the old merchant who ran the inn right down the block. Yet, despite his frame and incompetence, he managed to save you from being dragged away and mugged by the thugs in broad daylight. He had no sword on him, but he fought them anyway. One punch after the other, he picked them off one at a time.

How a carry-boy like him managed to beat the crap out of a bunch of thugs like it was nothing is beyond you. Better to believe that it was the blessing of a god, nothing short of a miracle.

He offers you a hand— calloused, firm, but kind. “Are you alright?” He asks kindly as you pick yourself up and dust off the dirt on your clothes. “I’m alright.” You reply, just as concerned about him for any injuries. Seriously, how the hell did he manage to get out on top and unscathed?!

“Do you know those people by chance?”

“Not a clue. Thank you— by the way, for saving me.”

“There’s no need to thank me. I had my eye on those guys for a while. They’ve been hanging around here to steal what they can, I’m guessing.”

“Then you best be on your guard, then. Thebes is not exactly friendly— Or kind, for that matter.”

“Then you’re lucky enough to have met me then. The name’s Brant.”

“(Name).”

And thus, followed a camaraderie between the two that blossomed through chance encounters and unplanned run-ins at the *kapaleia, where you’d find out his penchant for wine, that you’d swear he would be a close companion of the god of wine himself.

Where you'd usually be behind the counter serving food and drinks, you find yourself resigned to keep him company for an hour, right in the middle of your shift no less.

It wasn't like the passed-out drunkards could order another cup. Right?

The tavern was lively with the bustle of drunks and patrons after a long day of work, as orders piled up quickly as the night wore on, with money to spend, and mead to drink; Yet you found yourself keeping Brant company across the bar top among the rest of the men and women who gaily lost their sense of time to the hands of lady liquor herself, inebriating even the strongest over a few kisses with just a few cups.

Not like he's immune to her temptation either, but thankfully his tolerance to alcohol is a little better.

No *amphora full of wine is safe around him. Not when he has coins to spend generously. You note one evening, right across him while he downs another cup eagerly.

Unlike the others, he’s got an ego but not enough to be a complete narcissist. He’s charming— charismatic enough to have any woman swoon over him at barely a glance, yet he never used it to his advantage— always carrying this air of honor around him.

One particular night was when you caught a glimpse of his humility.

"Why do you try even bringing peace to this place?" You ask, taking one mug cup after another off the tables to be washed before you clock off out of work. You think it was the liquid courage doing all the talking about heroism, chivalry, and honor, but you were only met with a far-off gaze cast down towards his drink and a wry smile as he swirls the amber liquid in his cup.

"... Because I have something to live for." The words fall from his lips in a soft mutter, half laced with wine and the other half... frustration? yearning? determination?

He's quiet for a moment before he chugs the liquid gold with an audible gulp, making his throat bob and somewhat easing his mind after downing the cup.

You don’t catch what he mutters under his breath right after.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand; and before you can apologize for bringing the topic up, he puts on a practiced smile once more to steel himself, yet his eyes never looked more lonelier until now.

A coin or two for his thoughts, bless him. It might be best to ask him more when he's sober.

With a renewed resolve, He pays for the drink and thanks you for your company, before getting up and leaving the tavern wordlessly; whistling a farmer’s tune into the night. You clocked off work not too long after.

Unbeknownst to you, he would face the Lernean Hydra the next day. the thing had been wreaking havoc in the countryside for a while now, rumored to have taken the children captive with no one to save them.

Who else was more fit for the job really? He thought.

A screech of a beast echoed across the grassfields before it went completely quiet. A man stands alone with a relentless fire in his hands amidst the several snake-like skulls rolling about around him, right before the monster's necks where each base had been cauterized.

The smell was foul, but meant that the fight was over.

Upon the last fall of the Hydra's head with a searing cut, the people let out a deafening cheer. His sword's embers are still somehow unflickering in the shade of the monster's cadaver right by the base of a hill, marking the first of many victories to come.

Brant had come out as the victor that fateful afternoon. Alone, but alive despite it all. The Flaming Returned had come to burn the strife with his own hands.

It's nothing short of a miracle that the city of Thebes finally has someone restoring order and peace once more among its people and managed to live to tell the tale. Finally, an unlikely hero.

The bells ring from a distance, and the captive children are freed.

Finally, peace. Finally, safety.

Lately, the criminal activity has gone down significantly ever since Brant stepped in to resolve most of it that ran rampant down the streets and in the corners of the darkest of alleyways, never the one to leave stones unturned and crannies unchecked; like flames that burned through the strife and the dust on the marble walls of the city, passing through the cracks, leaving no area unlit.

Rumors of a righteous warrior in Thebes spread like wildfire, lighting the darkest of Thebes as if he were a torchbearer, illuminating the way for those who found themselves in trouble to guide them back to safety, all the while keeping the city safe from the discord that loomed over the city outskirt’s horizon.

No doubt this was the same man who had saved you months ago— the same Byzantium eyes with a head crowned with cyan, and his sandalled feet strutting down the street with his head held high and a sheathed sword on his right, while his left hand swung with every confident step he took, donning that mile-wide grin that came so naturally to him, like wildflowers that bloomed wherever they pleased under a cloudless sky.

Unashamed, unshackled, unperturbed. He seems a lot more glorified these days.

Popular as he may seem, you don’t doubt his honor as a hero, nor do you doubt his kindness— not after the few rendezvous you've had with him, though these days it's been a hassle keeping it on the down-low with his reputation and infamy.

Despite the glory and adulation he gets from the crowd, he still returns to that bar seat across the counter where you work.

From running into him months back by chance, he's found a friend in you amidst the newfound infamy, always lending a hand and fending off the thieves from ransacking the mead before you can get them inside. You learn he was raised in the countryside - not too different from the one he freed from the Hydra's havoc, and was found by an elderly couple right by their hut. He was adopted and raised to be a good man, albeit blessed with a little more strength and power than the average man— much like those fabled resonators you’ve heard stories about growing up, heroes who received the blessing of the sentinel.

As for his real parents... he doesn’t say much, and you don’t bother to ask or pry him about it.

He's still the same guy that saved you months ago, just with a huge following, and maybe a prospect or two on his trail trying to get his attention; yet somehow, he still looks out and asks for you after everything. Compared to him, you’re stuck in a familiar routine over the few years you’ve worked behind the tavern counter, much like the trade winds against the ship’s sails. Barely changing, but comfortable enough to know where things are headed. God knows why he still comes around when you’re a server in the bar he frequents, stuck inside listening to tales of him from frequenters and drunks as if he was a Greek regalia.

"You're still working behind the counter? Come now (name), surely you've got something better to do with your time!”

“Brant, it's only been a few months since you took down that monster. It's not as if I've got any place to get a job. Besides, where else would you actually find me for drinks, hm?"

"Serving drinks and lending both your ears to woes that are worth three! All behind a counter no less! Had I known better, you're an unsung hero to many!”

He lifts his cup to toast to you, and your eyes meet his.

“For your quiet service, and to the truest camaraderie you’ve given to people like me.”

Your cheeks warm up over his sincerity as he chuckles boyishly, shining a toothy grin from across the bar top, head propped up on his hand and leaning slightly forward. You cough awkwardly, trying to offset the growing joy in your heart.

“Thank you.”

You glance down and eye the floor. Have the tiles always been this dull? You polish the cup a little firmer.

“Don’t mention it. Another of the house specialty please!”

And there it is again, that bright, mile-wide grin rivaling the sun itself. You roll your eyes and chuff.

His cheek hasn't changed at all.

“… There’s the guy I know.”

You start working on his order exchanging a few jokes and jabs while you busy yourself; missing the way his cheeks flush as you get back to fixing his order like clockwork. A Nectar of the Gods for the hero who sat patiently on the other side of the bar top— "Nectarwine", as he liked to call it personally, watching the amber flow down the new cup in your hands, already smelling the sugar-sweet concoction wafting in the air once you put the rest of the mead back with the rest of the batch on the shelf.

Amidst the glory and praise, he admittedly found comfort in this little routine with you, sharing his day with you at least once a week after a hard day defending the city from tacet discords and criminals.

No matter what had happened to him, he'd always find you preparing drinks with practiced ease, ready to lend an ear and let him tell his daily tales after he orders another cup.

All behind a counter… He thinks to himself.

A kind smile on your face, a chortle here and there from his jokes, and a gentle reminder from you to watch his intake right after you give him his cup. He can't help but respond in kind, softly:

"You know me too well already. I can handle it, don't worry."

It’s no stranger to you that he always orders multiple times as per usual, with the claim that you've given him a cup from a better batch. Another one for the road, and another just to maybe keep you around for a little longer. Maybe.

He looks up from his cup, drunk on the sugar and liquor, while he lays his head on the bar counter, thanking the sentinel that you're too busy to notice him looking at your back. The color of the mead you gave him never looked prettier against your skin as you poured it into a cup every time, and he swore you'd look good in gold, though he wouldn't admit it now.

Was it really the Nectarwine that tasted sweet? or was it the company you provided him without hesitation? No, he's not blushing; he's only red because of the mead.

It’s his turn to cough, yet he can't help the stuttering beat on his chest. Have you always looked this stunning under the oil lamp's firelight? or has the liquor gone to his head already?

“Say (name)?”

He can't help but feel bold. it's now or never. You turn around and face him, setting down a clean cup back on the shelf.

“Yes?”

“How about we meet up some place else after your shift?”

“Oh? What for?”

"You look like you could use a break. Making and serving drinks on a daily must be awfully boring. What do you say?"

He grins, almost sheepishly. Brant, shy? That's new. You smile his way, chuckling over his sudden concern for your well-being. You cross your arms loosely and scoff lightly. For a moment, he's nervous.

Were you fond of him? He wonders. It's his eyes turn to flick up to yours, only to find that you're kinder than he thought.

"If there's anyone who needs a break, I think that would be you, Brant."

Terminology + Citations:

*"I will go the Distance (reprise)" - (sung by) Robert Bart, Hercules 1997.

Polis — greek city

Amphora | Amphorae — two-handled jar or vase, typically with a large oval body and a narrow cylindrical neck, used for storage and transport of liquids and solids like wine, oil, and grain.

Kapaleia — bars and taverns of ancient Greece.

Apotheca — storeroom for wine, herbs, and spices.

#wuwa x reader #wuthering waves #brant x reader #x reader #wuwa brant #Hercules!Brant #wuwa x y/n #Hercules #did I cook?#this has been marinating for a while ngl.#part 2?

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stonedficz · 4 months ago

Text

✰ star shaped ✰ ch. 2 ❛ i've heard about you ❜

[schlatt x streamer!reader]

ch. 1 / ch. 3 / ch. 4

note: this has lots of music. the music helps set the tone for the story. There may be formatting errors, typos, etc. Please excuse them.

and SURPRISE! Due to the high volume of music linked in this chapter, the fic playlist is live! (this fic includes some of schlatt's music :))

[accept request?]

Click.

-POV: you. 10 am-

Inevitably, after the stream, I went to sleep. A nice calm slumber with schlatt's videos in the background. It was calming. I love his voice.

The next day came fast.

"Shit!" I ran out the door, late for my monday-morning class at college. Community. I wasn't exactly the high-achieving type. Well - I guess I was, but I'm not good at school. I was really smart, charming, and funny, but if I have to sit down to take a test, I might have a panic attack. The student rep's office didn't care, either, and said I had to have a disability diagnosis to qualify to even test in a separate room away from everyone else. I'm not disabled... just late.

I slammed through the doors to the building all but one of my classes took place in. Today was gen. ed., English. God, I hated this. What good was English class if I already knew how to speak it?

Using it to read and write, I guess. Cracking my laptop open, I managed to ignore the entirety of the lecture while prepping ideas for my next stream. THIS was what I aimed high for. Stardom. I hoped for it, at least. I never really thought I would be able to do it, I just wanted attention. Good attention - the kind that made people want to share their stories with you. None of that mattered anyways. I wanted a man. Schlatt. God, he was on my mind all the time. His hands.. his arms.. God, his voice. That man was so attractive I could drool. I needed him.

-General POV.-

As your professor droned on for 2 hours, you scoured the internet for ideas, help, and schlatt fics. You even pre-wrote some of your messages to schlatt. You were incessant. Right now, you were back in his DMs writing another sweet message. You worried this would drive him away - but he never came close to begin with,

what did you have to lose?

Your breakfast, apparently.

As you typed, you noticed something. Your breath hitched, hands instantly becoming clammy, shaky, and glued to your keyboard. Vomit crept at your throat.

Instead of seeing a notice - one that reminded you every day that he was out of reach - one saying "Invite this person to message.", you saw:

read yesterday at 10:48pm

"What." your breath hollowed out your chest like the hole Alice fell into. Your wonderland. You barely muttered that into the air at the back of the lecture hall. You slammed your computer shut, packed your bag, and ran out. You threw yourself and everything into your car, aimlessly scratching at your phone. You were desperate. Panicked. Nauseous.

cookkizkill

hi buddy! hope you're having a great day <3 I just finished recording another video for youtube. you're a great inspiration.

cookkizkill

hey babes! i just had my first stream. i got a few viewers. i try to imagine what you felt like when you first started to give me comfort when i worry nothing will ever come of this. i loved your most recent vid <3

cookkizkill

hi handsome! i finally hit 5 twitch followers. yesterday i hit 200 subs on yt. thank you for being a great influence!! i know i wont be huge, but I’m thankful i get a chance to share my life with people. thank you for your stream today! i hope to be on one with you sometime <3

read yesterday at 10:48pm -

"WHAT THE HELL?!" a blood curdling SCREAM croaked out of your throat. Thank God your windows were rolled up. You wiped the sweat off your forehead, leaned your head on the steering wheel, and held your phone. You shook. Panicked. Lost your marbles, for hell's sake.

"It was a terrible idea to ever message him," you started to hyperventilate. Tunnel vision ate away at your already poor, astigmatism ridden eyesight. Your eyes welled up with tears. You were so confused.

"What is going on? Why can I text him? WHY WAS MY TEXT READ?!"

Your head slammed back into the seat headrest. You had one person to call about this - your childhood best friend. She wasn't exactly reliable, or smart, but by God was she a party.

riiiiiiiiing, riiiiiiiiing, riiiiiiiiing click "Bex!! Oh God, you're not ready for this," "What are you talking about? What happened? Why do you sound so freaked out?!" "Schlatt read my texts. He accepted my dm request and now I can text him." "NO FUCKING WAY" "WAY" "AAAAHHHHHHH, Y/N, this is your DREAM! Get that sucker to collab and you'll be famous!" "It's more than that, though, I'm worried this is bad. Like he's gonna blast me on his stream or something. What do I do?" "You play the part, you get his ass." "Dude. Stop. I'm not scamming him. I WANT to be like him, not be his enemy." "God, okay, fine. But when you ain't got that bag girl.. don't come crying to me." "Alright, bud. Bye." "Byee~" click

"Motherf.." your eyes glanced back down at the phone. You opened up the chat again.

What now?

A short time had passed, just enough to get home and settled, but also enough to make you feel as if father time had fallen asleep on the job and forgotten to make the clock tick. You went home and got back to your desk. Maybe now you could gather an idea as to what was going on.

c l i c k c l i c k c l i c k

You desperately tried to find the words. Any words, actually. The only thing that came to mind was to be completely honest and truthful.

cookkizkill

hi again handsome! I saw that you accepted my dms; what's going on!

You waited. Very impatiently at that. The time couldn't go by any slower, at this point. You anxiously sipped water at your desk. Did I mention you were waiting?

Your mind travelled all the possibilities of this - it could mean nothing, he could be belittling you, suing you, or doxxing you. Maybe this was him begging you to leave him alone. Maybe he would invite you onto a podcast, and if it didn't pan out well, you wouldn't reach the air at all? Maybe he was proposing. No, that was a weird thought for even you to think. He’s a star, not someone normal like you. You clicked off your tab and slammed your phone down onto your desk. God, you were a wreck. HE wrecked you. Emotionally at least..

bzzzt.

You ripped your phone up from the desk with your nasty, clammy hands. You were drenched in sweat.

read just now

jschlatt

I have a lot of respect for someone trying to make meaningful content. I've kept up with your messages since a bit ago. Doing good dude. Keep it up. Let me know when you do your next pod and I'll ft. If you want to go through with this we can get all the details and paperwork set up with my lawyer.

“‘Doing good-‘ ‘Keep it up’? HE’S SEEN MY VIDEOS?!” You clawed at your beet red, sweaty face. “Holy SHIT. HOLY FUCKING SHIIIIIIIITTTT!” your screamed like a little girl meeting a disney princess for the first time. That was a mistake, as it was met by angry thumping on the other side of your apartment.

“Sorry!” You yelled towards the wall. Your crotchety middle-age man neighbor hated your guts for being loud. It was broad daylight, God forbid you make noise.

cookkizkil

i really appreciate that! i adore the weekly slap :) you’ve been a great influence for me doing everything i do. especially the live pods. they’re a GREAT deal of fun for me, and i know you try to do content you enjoy.

I’m sure you’ve seen me with my best friend, if you’ve seen any clips or anything, but we chat just for fun. i can get all the paperwork done today! when would you be interested in collabing? and do you prefer to do a fun pod or a more philosophical leaning one?

jschlatt

Up to you. I’m already established so idgaf what we do, do your content for your socials. I’ll be the usual.

cookkizkill

usual what, if I can ask? Also, i know YOU know, but don’t expect to make more than a buck (if that) off this collab. just a warning lol. my email is [email protected]. send those bad boy legal documents over!

jschlatt

Me.

I’ll have my lawyer email you the forms. Money isn’t a motive here, you enjoy my podcast, I enjoy yours. Win win.

You almost pissed your pants.

"HE ENJOYS MY PODCAST?!" you absolutely screeched from your desk into your hands over your face. What WAS THIS? Was it a dream? A terrible, irresistible, divine dream? Your favorite person ever, whom you were utterly obsessed with, liked YOUR podcast? You slapped yourself so hard it would burn. Why? You didn't know, but by God, you came to your senses.

"I gotta get down to business. I need time with him. Content or not, this is going to fill every gap in my heart that ever existed. Holy shit. I can't believe this." your stomach fluttered inside of you, the weigh on your chest became crushing, all at the same time. "Holy fuck. I'm gonna meet schlatt. In person or online, one way, or another."

cookkizkill sounds great!!! let me get some plans pulled together over the next day or so and we can discuss this further. :)

-----------------------------------

-POV: Schlatt. 12:53 pm-

"She finally saw, huh?" he muttered to himself. He sat at his desk while he uploaded the latest VOD, hearing his phone buzz. He just guessed it was her. His phone didn't go off much. Just Tucker and him exchanging wordles every day, and that had already happened. What else could it be?

cookkizkill

hi again handsome! I saw that you accepted my dms; what's going on!

Well that was a let down.

"She's not freakin' the fuck out? Jambo, what the hell is this? Bitches love me. Why isn't she spamming me gibberish?" he chuckled to himself, rubbing the cat's head.

"She makes some good shit. She's normal too. Unless she's faking it, then whatever I guess." he scoffed. "Maybe.. nah.

Fuck it."

his fingers diligently typed a reply to you. He carefully worded everything, in the event you decided to screenshot, or let all of your 5 twitch streamers what happened. He scoffed again. "The fuck am I even doing? I know I shouldn't.." he backspaced a few letters, his breath hesitating as he stared at his screen. "..What would 200 people on youtube do to someone like me? Nothin'. It'll be fine. Bitch probably won't even say yes."

He thought back to about 6 months ago, when he first read your message. You were a frequent stream watcher, donator, and you messaged him everywhere, all the time. He knew it was you, your handle was the same on every platform. You were unmistakable. Obvious. Incessant.

~~~6 mo prior...~~~

"Damn. She fuckin' likes me, huh?" Schlatt looked at ted and showed him one of your many dms, holding his phone out to him. They both let out a deep chuckle, having a few drinks with Tucker at the end of recording one of the few Chuckle episodes left.

"Yeah bud. Just like the other 13 women that watch you." Ted snorted, sipping. "I do think it's sweet though, y'know? All these people genuinely look up to us sometimes. Means a lot to me." He took another large gulp.

"Let me see!" Tucker said in a drunken stupor. "I'm a member of this podcast, by God! Fuck you!" Ted pat him gently on the back as he started hilariously laughing after yelling at Schlatt.

"C'mon bud, I'll get you upstairs. You know your wife is waiting. She went to bed three hours ago." Ted chuckled softly, smacking Tucker on the back as he tried to stand up. "BRB schlatt."

"Yea, fuck 'em. Fuck you too tucker." Schlatt drunkenly chuckled. He looked back down at the message he showed his friends.

"well, maybe.."

His thumb hovered.

[accept request?]

"Nah."

Click.

~~~now~~~

jschlatt

He started to scroll through your Instagram. Photos of you, your favorite people, your cat, your car. You had a small black tabby and a shitbox of a car. You acted as if they were the best things in the world when you posted. Why? Grateful for the little things, Schlatt guessed. Maybe you grew up poor. Maybe.. you were just a good person.

You two were messaging back and forth for a few minutes. He let you know he didn't care about the money. You were a small influencer doing something he deeply respected: what made you happy. Now, it was all on you to get the podcast episode together. He would just sit and chat on it - no leg work needed. Easy money. Or lack thereof.

He went on your youtube. The only thing he kept up with was this. Vlogs, GRWM's (which he didn't particularly enjoy, but he wanted to see what you were all about) VOD's of the lives you deemed genuinely entertaining, recipe videos, everything.

"This chick's still got her whole damn life on the internet, huh?" he snorted in confusion. "The hell?" he glanced down at the very bottom of your channel, starting a year and a half ago. He hadn't seen this before.

"To the people who sparked my inspiration:" 15 min. 4 sec.

"Well, you got my interest sweetheart. I'll bite." he sighed with a small and unintentional chuckle. His finger hovered over the thumbnail of your sweet face.

Click.

"Hey guys! This will be one of the first videos I really get out there, but in the event I randomly blow up hehe, I needed to get this out!

I'm starting my freshman year of college soon.. I never wanted to go, but I know it's what I should do. I don't even know what I'll be going for. I don't really know what to do. One of my favorite people has a similar story - except he dropped out to follow his own path. I may end up doing the same. I don't know what my future looks like, but I do know I'm gonna do my best to GIVE myself a future, and to make it authentic. I want a community."

He listened to all 15 minutes intently.

You had him hooked.

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kiraavi · 3 months ago

Text

season by season, heart by heart

Note: Hello, it's been awhile and I guess we can consider this my return to writing fanfiction! I've been working vigorously on this fic for the past couple days and I truly hope you enjoy!! I do have some potential ideas for a part two but we shall see!

Happy reading! <3

CW: lots of fluff but also smut at the end!!

Summary: You've just moved into the neighbourhood and have taken a liking to the man who lives across the street.

Word Count: 6977

Ao3 Link: Read here!

The house was a bit of a fixer upper. You’d known this, though the realization had become painfully clear within your first few days of living there. The front porch steps were a prime example of its many issues, their uneven and wobbling state having tripped you up at least a dozen times already. The second step up, in particular, seemed less like a mere inconvenience and more like a malevolent force with some sort of vendetta against you. Sure, the house had its quirks, but the neighborhood more than made up for it. It was the sort of place that felt pulled straight from the pages of a storybook—white picket fences, perfectly manicured lawns, and the pièce de résistance; the man across the street. Handsome didn’t do him justice. He was the kind of attractive that made you momentarily forget how to breathe. Suddenly, those treacherous porch steps didn’t seem like such a problem.

You’d never been the type to spend much time lounging on your front porch, but lately, it had become your favourite spot. The cushioned bench on the deck became your perch, a book in hand serving as little more than a prop. You weren’t fooling anyone, really. He had to know exactly what he was doing. Mowing the lawn shirtless? That wasn’t just an innocent act—it was downright criminal. The kind of thing you know draws attention—the kind of thing you do because you want that attention. Tall with tan skin and muscles that rippled with each movement, working up a sweat beneath the sun's rays. Yeah, okay, you could definitely forgive the tottering porch steps.

Until you couldn’t.

The morning breeze was always a relieving reprieve from the summer heat brought on by the afternoons. Your alarm didn’t go off and you were left scrambling to get ready for work and out of the house. Taking the steps too quickly, one slanted under your weight and you were almost sent crashing to the ground, but you managed to catch your balance last second. “Shit,” you muttered under your breath.

“I could have those fixed by the time you get back, you know.” A voice called out and you looked up, locking gazes with him—the older man who lived across the street. He stood on his lawn, looking more gorgeous than he had any right to. The tank top he wore clung to the outline of his muscles beneath and streaks of grease smeared his corded forearms. The garage door behind him was open, the hood of the cherry red impala stored within propped up.

“Huh?” A single hum was all you could manage and you felt dumb. One look at this stranger and your mind was rendered nothing more than mush incapable of a coherent thought.

His eyes crinkled at the corners and a small smile twitched at the corner of his lips. If you could’ve, you would’ve taken a picture and hung it framed on your wall. They could use the decoration—Most of your stuff was still packed up in boxes. “Your steps,” he said, gesturing behind you, and you threw a glance over your shoulder as realization dawned upon you.

“Oh.” You said, turning to look at him again and you thought for a moment that you never wanted to look away again. “Wait, really? You’d… you’d do that?”

“Yeah, won’t take long.”

And sure enough, when you returned he was finishing up. Your gaze followed him as he stood up and turned to you. “Good as new.” He placed one foot on the plank for show, and it held sturdy under the pressure, no longer slanting.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” you said as you shut your car door behind you and approached, “well, I’ll start by saying thank you.”

“Consider it a housewarming gift,” he said with a casual shrug, “Miguel, by the way.” His voice carried a warmth that made your heart flutter as he extended a hand towards you. When you placed your hand in his, his calloused fingers closed around it, enveloping yours completely. Something as simple as a handshake shouldn’t have made you feel the way it did—That feeling that coiled in the pit of your stomach like molten lava. You should’ve been more ashamed of yourself, you thought. Instead you told him your name in return.

—

Months passed and autumn cast her influence over the neighbourhood, a slow and graceful descent as the leaves morphed into a kaleidoscope of rusty orange, warm yellow, and ruddy red hues. Summer’s slow and lingering death gave way to the crisp, bitter cold. In the mornings a mist settled low on the ground, disguising the wilting grass. Across the street you noticed two jack-o-lanterns had been set out at Miguel’s doorstep and you couldn’t help but smile everytime you caught a glimpse of the silly expressions carved into the pumpkins each time you pulled out of your driveway to head to work.

Since your first formal introduction you and Miguel had become friends, you think. You hope. He was always eager to help out with anything. Front door was squealing on its hinges? He would fix it. Car troubles? No problem. Leaky faucet? He could handle it. You’d begun to feel guilty. All this help and you’d given nothing in return. With a quiet sigh, you exited your car when your eyes landed on Miguel standing by his front door. His brows were furrowed and his shoulders tensed as he held his phone to his ear, his foot tapping impatiently on the pavement. He hung up, shoving the phone in his pocket as he muttered a curse under his breath.

There was a moment where you hesitated, shifting nervously and clasping your hands together for a moment before deciding to wave. “Hey neighbour,” you greeted, taking a stilted half-step forward. His eyes lifted and landed on you, and his gaze appeared to soften, so you continued your approach. “One of those telemarketers?”

“I wish,” he said as he rubbed the back of his neck, huffing out a laugh, “Gabi’s babysitter canceled last minute.”

This was it. This was your opportunity to finally repay him for all his favours. “Oh, have you got a hot date tonight?” You asked jokingly but he tensed up again, and you swore you could see the hint of a blush on his cheeks. Oh. Oh. Something twisted in your chest and your heart sunk to your stomach. Why did that hurt? It shouldn’t. You weren’t anything to each other. Not really. Just neighbours. The silence stretched between you for an unbearable amount of time before either of you mustered up the courage to say something.

“It’s-”

“I can babysit Gabi.”

“What?”

“I can… babysit Gabi,” you repeated, less confident this time. Maybe it was self sabotage—helping this handsome man attend his date, and maybe you’d regret it later, but the way his eyes lit up made it so very worth it. A small smile graced your lips.

Gabriella was a precious ten year old girl that lit up any room she was in. You’d met her briefly and seen her in passing. Always toothy smiles and enthusiastic waves each time she saw you from across the street. You watched as she rushed up to her dad, wrapping her arms around his middle in a hug. He ruffled her hair and you could almost tear up at how sweet the scene was. The look he gave her was one of pure adoration. “I'll be back before you know it, mija.”

“Thank you again,” he said, looking over to you but you hardly processed his words. He was dressed in a perfectly fitted dark charcoal suit and now you were, not for the first time, left wondering if the cruel fates decided to taunt you with him just to torment you.

“You seriously don’t have to thank me.” You gave a dismissive wave as you shook your head. “You do so much for me as it is.”

He nodded and lifted his arm to check his watch. “Well, I should be off then. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need to.” With that he practically peeled Gabi off of him to which she pouted before shuffling aside, reluctantly letting him leave.

“Want to carve a pumpkin?” The suggestion was sudden and out of nowhere. Gabi's face lit up as she turned to you, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she bounced on the balls of her feet. She tugged on your sleeve, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm. “I noticed you don’t have one on your porch, and we got an extra one from the pumpkin patch. I couldn’t decide, so Dad let me pick two. Now we have one to spare!” Her hands flailed animatedly as she explained, her grin widening as she tilted her head expectantly, clearly hoping you’d say yes. How could you possibly resist?

You both leaned over the counter, elbows resting on the edge as you concentrated on your work. Gabi watched closely the entire time, her nose scrunching in mock disgust when you playfully flicked a piece of the slimy pumpkin insides toward her before she burst into a fit of giggles. By the end of the whole ordeal the kitchen island was covered in pumpkin guts and the room was filled with Gabi’s laughter. She carefully lifted your jack-o-lantern and took it to the front door where she placed it on the pavement next to the other two. The sight warmed your heart. As the two of you winded down after dinner, you settled on the couch as she eagerly grabbed the remote to pick something to watch. You reached for a throw blanket and draped it over her lap.

With the movie chosen, Gabi leaned back and nestled against your side. You froze, muscles tensing as you shifted awkwardly at first before relaxing. Gabi’s fingers absentmindedly toyed with the edge of the blanket as her focus remained on the TV. Your eyes followed hers, drifting to the brightly coloured animated movie playing. Before long she’d fallen asleep, her breathing slowing into an even rhythm. About halfway through you heard the lock click and the front door swung open.

Miguel looked exhausted as he stepped inside, heaving a sigh the moment the door fell shut behind him. When his eyes landed on you and Gabi snuggled up on the couch, his steps faltered and his shoulders visibly relaxed. Running a hand through his hair, he set his keys down quietly on the foyer table.

“How’d the date go?” You asked, keeping your voice low so as to not wake the little girl who had fallen asleep at your side. He gave a shrug but offered little in the way of words as he approached. Leaning down, he scooped Gabi up into his arms and made his way upstairs before returning minutes later.

“Think I’m too old for that sort of thing,” he admitted quietly, breaking the silence.

You looked him up and down doubtfully. “Hardly,” you remarked and it was true. He was older but no less handsome for it. The line of women waiting for a chance with him was probably miles long. Still, a selfish part of you was glad to hear that his date hadn’t gone well. He gave you a look, one brow arched. “I mean, I’m sure there’s loads of women who would jump at the chance.” Yourself included, but you left that part out.

He took a few steps forward and sunk down onto the couch beside you, the cushions dipping under his weight. There was but a sliver of distance between his thigh and yours, not quite touching but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. His proximity was dizzying and you could smell the cologne he wore—something fancy and probably expensive but incredibly pleasant, and so very him. His knee bobbed faintly, betraying an underlying nervous energy despite his composed demeanor.

“I just worry,” he said before pausing, looking at you again. Miguel’s gaze lingered as his eyes searched yours, and his stare had a way of making you feel as if you were the only person in the entire world. “I don’t want to bring just anyone into Gabi’s life.”

His fingers flexed against his thigh and your hand itched to reach out—to take it and comfort him in some way you knew your words probably couldn’t but you held back. “You’re… you’re a good father, Miguel,” you said weakly, “Better than most.”

There was another beat of silence and you swallowed the lump in your throat as you fought the urge to break eye contact, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. But then he smiled—and it was the smallest of smiles, but it was also the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

You were absolutely doomed.

And you absolutely didn't care, so long as you could spend another moment with him.

—

The temperatures began to drop further, the frigid cold nipping to the bone every time you made the trek from the front door to your car or across the street. The first snowflakes had fallen, leaving a thin sheet of powdery snow over every surface outside. The spindly trees fell bare, their bark and winding branches encased in a layer of frost and icicles hung from your roofs eaves. You’d begun to bundle up each time you stepped outside. Over the last couple months babysitting Gabi had become a regular part of your schedule and one that you looked forward to. You hadn’t been planning to put Christmas lights up this year, but Miguel had insisted he do it for you after you spotted him outside on a ladder, hanging his own. That man’s generosity knew no bounds.

A knock at your door roused you from your thoughts and you hopped up from your couch to go answer it. A gust of wind met you and goosebumps rose along your arms as you squinted against the bright white outside. Miguel stood before you, not at all equipped for the weather, dressed in nothing more than a t-shirt and jeans. You gestured him inside quickly, shutting the door behind him.

“Where’s your jacket?” you asked, giving him an incredulous look.

“It was meant to just be a quick trip,” he exhaled, a sheepish smile tugging his lips. He took a moment to subtly observe your house. It was then that you’d realized he’d never step foot inside before, and now you were wishing you had tidied. “I, uh… was wondering if I could borrow some flour. Gabi is insistent on doing some holiday baking this year.”

“Oh yeah, sure,” you said, heading over to your kitchen, “I didn’t take you for much of a baker?” you remarked, throwing a glance over your shoulder. He shuffled in place before following you into the kitchen.

“I’m not…” He looked like there was something else he wanted to say, but he stopped himself. “Can’t guarantee they’ll be any good, but I’ll drop off some cookies when they’re done.”

“Need a hand?” you asked, reaching for the ceramic flour canister that sat on your kitchen counter, “I bake from time to time, and from the sounds of it, you could use the help.”

And so together you and Miguel made the treacherous journey across the street. He walked a bit ahead, glancing back to ensure you were okay as the icy wind whipped around you, slashing against him and punishing him for his lack of proper attire. You clutched the flour canister tightly, your boots crunching the snow with each step you took. The two of you breathed a sigh of relief the moment you stepped inside the warmth of his house. Gabi was immediately bounding down the hallway, calling your name before she made impact and wrapped her arms around you. You gave her back an affectionate pat, “heard you wanted to do some baking?” You questioned and she nodded excitedly.

It was chaos. The three of you really didn’t make a well coordinated team in the kitchen. There was flour everywhere, dusting every surface including yourselves, reminiscent of the snowy scene outside. Miguel was busy kneading sugar cookie dough with an expression so focused you had to withhold a laugh. You assisted Gabi with spooning the batter for a gingerbread loaf into a loaf tin. Afterwards, Gabi reached for the spoon to get a taste of the batter.

“Ah, there’s raw egg, Gabi,” you warned, snatching the spoon from her and watching as she began to pout.

“Dad let me try the sugar cookie dough…!” she whined and you tossed Miguel a glance, tutting when all he offered was a shrug and rueful look in return.

“You can eat all you want once it’s done baking, promise,” you reassured her with a gentle smile as you lifted the tin and brought it over to the oven.

At the end of an exhausting but certainly amusing two hours spent making more of a mess than actual baked goods, Gabi was off in the living room watching a cartoon while you and Miguel began to clean up. He stood in front of the sink and rolled up his sleeves, exposing his forearms as he began to scrub baking utensils and mixing bowls, water splashing onto the counter. You started by wiping down the granite countertops with a damp rag. There was something about it that tugged at something within you. It felt right to be there—in that moment of all places. It was comforting in a way you wouldn’t expect, and the sort of thing that you found yourself craving more and more as of late.

“Thank you… for everything. I hope you know how much it means to me—to us.” he said suddenly and his voice was soft as he spoke your name like it was something precious—like the syllables of it were to be cherished. The things you would give to hear him say your name like that again.

“You don’t have to thank me…” you said, swiping your arm once more over the counter before walking over and stopping at his side. It occurred to you that you’ve said those words a lot to each other over the short course of your friendship. You folded and hung the rag over the sinks edge before grabbing the bowl he was washing from his hands. Your fingers grazed his and it was electric, sending butterflies fluttering through your body. Pausing momentarily, you blinked before refocusing and grabbing a sponge. He reached for a spoon that needed rinsing.

“You have done a lot for me. Too much. Spending time with you and Gabi hardly feels like repaying a favour. She’s great.” Babysitting Gabi wasn’t a burden at all. She was a brilliant little girl and a joy to be around. You were sure he knew it better than anyone else.

You looked over to him, having to tilt your head up to catch his gaze and there was a sort of misty look in his eyes that made your heart palpitate in your chest. Just what was this man doing to you?

“She’s struggled a lot since her mom…” His words drifted off someplace else, hanging in the air between you like a physical thing. His grip on the spoon he was rinsing tightened as he gathered himself. You didn’t know much about Gabriella’s mother but you did know she wasn’t in the picture now, a fact that obviously affected Gabi greatly. “But since you’ve been around… she’s been happier.” And suddenly you were the one getting misty eyed. You jutted your chin aside as you took a moment to blink away the glossiness in your eyes.

“She talks about you non-stop,” he said with a chuckle and when you raised a brow, he added, “No, seriously. It’s a constant.”

You couldn’t help the quiet laugh that escaped you. If you were being honest, you’d never felt so elated. There was a warmth that rose and encompassed your entire being. It was perhaps the sweetest thing you’d ever had the privilege of hearing and as you looked into his eyes, you found yourself wishing the moment could stretch on for an eternity—just existing, doing something as simple as washing dishes by the sink while outside the glistening kitchen window, snowflakes continued to fall, flittering to the ground.

—

Spring had sprung, as they say. There was that loamy earthy scent that mingled with the smell of fresh cut grass. In the neighbourhood you could hear children playing outside, finally free from their bulky winter jackets and able to enjoy the warmth of the sunny days that had begun to become more and more frequent. Things began to come alive around you, buds unfurling into blooming flowers and the foliage returning bright and green.

To be honest, you weren’t sure how you ended up going on a date. Well, you did know. Spring was rife with all sorts of symbolisms for new beginnings, and maybe you got too caught up in it all when you decided to install a dating app. And perhaps hopelessly pining after your neighbour had something to do with the sudden desire to be fulfilled in that way. Maybe. Potentially. Definitely. Of course, dating was easier said than done and the date hadn’t lived up to your expectations. How could it when the only person you wanted to be sitting across from you at some fancy, stuck-up restaurant was Miguel? When you had looked across the table at your date all you could think was how desperately wished it was him. You felt bad.

The moment you pulled into your driveway, you pulled your phone from your purse and deleted the dating app. It was one part alleviating and two parts anguish. Maybe being doomed to yearn for a man who couldn’t possibly return your feelings wouldn’t be that bad. Leaning forward, your head came to rest on the steering wheel as you let out a dejected sigh. A knock on the window had you jolting in your seat. Heat rose to your cheeks and you exited your car to face Miguel who stood outside, looking concerned.

“You okay? Thought you might’ve passed out or something,” he said with a wry smile.

“I… yeah, I’m fine,” you said, waving your hand lamely. His eyes seemed to linger on you, drifting down your body, clad in a little black dress, for a millisecond. You thought that maybe you’d imagined it—imagined the way they caught on your hips and curves. He cleared his throat.

“Need a drink?” He asked before adding, “I know I could definitely use one.”

The house was quiet when you entered it and Gabi didn’t rush to you like she usually did. “She’s at a sleepover,” he said before the question could leave your mouth. Following him into the kitchen, he grabbed a bottle of wine from the rack on the counter. You moved toward the cupboard to grab two wine glasses while he popped the cork. You placed them on the counter with a light clink.

“I don’t know why I even bothered going out tonight,” you began and he froze momentarily mid pour, glancing over at you, “I guess I thought… maybe it would help.”

“Help with what?” He slid the glass closer to you and you grabbed it, lifting it to your lips to take a sip.

“I don’t know… feeling stuck? Like I’m waiting for something that’ll never happen.”

He leaned back against the counter and a thoughtful look crossed his face as he studied you. Suddenly you felt nervous under his stare, like he could see right through you and see all the feelings that had welled up inside you over the past year—the way you felt about him. “That guy was a total idiot if he didn’t see what was right in front of him.”

You sighed and shook your head gently. Your date wasn’t the problem. You were, and in a way, Miguel was too but you couldn’t say that, so perhaps it was best to find solace in the wine glass you held in your hand.

As time passed, the alcohol warmed your system and you were admittedly more tipsy than you would’ve liked to get. You couldn’t stop giggling at whatever Miguel said, leaning against the kitchen island while he stood across from you, leaning against the opposite counter. He suddenly set his glass down with a sigh. “You know, I wasn’t expecting to feel this way when you moved in…” his voice turned wistful and your next words lodged in your throat for the next beat.

“Feel what way?”

“Like I finally met someone who… gets it. Who makes everything feel easier, just by being there.”

And suddenly the house was swaddled in a suffocating silence. You blinked as you tried to process his words—as your mind went to war with your heart, trying to stop yourself from reading too deeply into his words but they made your poor heart pound violently against your ribcage. It was all you could hear, your heart beating, blood rushing.

“Miguel I—” you spoke, your voice a whisper now.

“And Gabi… she’s not the only one that’s happier when you’re around.” His approach was slow and stilted, pushing off the counter and taking hesitant steps forward. You should’ve felt cornered the way he towered over you. You swallowed thickly, at a complete and utter loss for words. A hand lifted, his knuckle grazing your cheek gingerly as though he were afraid to touch something priceless and delicate. “Why have we been trying to see other people when you’ve been right across the street this whole time?”

“Stupid, right?” You managed to say, your voice breathless. And he smiled, that gorgeous smile of his, his pupils dilating. When he leaned down and his lips brushed yours, it was barely a touch at first, as if he were testing the waters before diving in.

His thumb traced the line of your jaw and at long last he pressed his lips to yours, fully. It was magic. Or the closest thing one could get to magic. It started slow and gentle, and with the utmost care, but when you made a sinful little sound, it distorted and turned into something darker. The unadulterated hunger of a man starved. You knew that hunger well. You’d lived with it for months—constantly denying yourself the pretty idea that maybe, just maybe, he’d been craving this too. But you were here now and he was in front of you, impossibly close and all your foggy mind could manage to focus on. His scent, his voice, his lips on yours. His breath tickled beneath your nose and his body crowded closer, the lip of the counter jutting into the small of your back.

His hand slid from your face, sliding down your body languidly as though he were trying to memorize every dip and curve of your body. His hand rounded your thigh, and it fit perfectly into the groove of his palm as he hiked it up to his hip before hoisting you onto the counter. The cool granite sent a shiver through you and the kiss ended abruptly—far sooner than you would have desired. Your breathing was uneven and you peered up at him in a bit of a daze. He examined you for a long moment as if temporarily mesmerized, and you nearly lost yourself in the deep pools of his dark brown eyes. He closed the gap for a second time. It took no effort to give in to him—a heady, lightheaded decision, and one that was as inevitable as the seasons changing.

Miguel came to settle between your legs, your knees knocking against his hips. He withdrew but not for long, trailing tender kisses down the column of your throat until he reached your chest. The cut of your dress dipped low to reveal a tempting display of cleavage. Humming softly, his fingers toyed with the hem of your dress, tugging it upwards with an adamant intent.

“Miguel…” your voice wavered as he ran his fingers along the waistband of your underwear, daring to venture a step further. His teeth grazed the slope of your breast, his lips brushing over the spot in a featherlight kiss a moment later, as if in quiet apology. When you didn’t say anything else he continued further, hand traveling even lower to cup you. You shuddered and he pulled the fabric of your panties aside. His thumb pressed firmly over your clit and a soft sound escaped you as he began to rub slow circles over it.

“Been thinking about this all night, hm?” He whispered, dipping his fingers inside you. It was far worse. You’d been tormented by your own imagination for the better part of a year, and you had an inkling that he knew exactly the kind of effect he had on people. “Think your date had any idea you were thinking of another man the whole time?”

Your walls fluttered around his digits as he crooked them, his fingertips passing over that sensitive spot within you with each thrust. Any thoughts still floating around in your head vanished and you nearly choked on your breath as he spoke. “I— hah…!” you gasped. He was teasing you. Still, the better part of you wanted to deny his words even if they were spot on.

“Oh? Sorry, what was that?” he said with a knowing grin, his thumb returning to your clit as his other hand reached up to grasp your chin and tilt your head up to meet his gaze. “I didn’t quite catch that, cariño.”

“You’re… insufferable.” Your voice pitched higher in a whine that only goaded him on. He tutted and withdrew his fingers. Your hips jerked. The loss was sudden and frustrating. It left you shaky and desperate, but before you could protest your world spun on its axis. He lifted you into his arms and began the trek to his bedroom. Instantly, your legs locked around his waist and your arms slung over his broad shoulders. The steps creaked with each step, but before long he was dropping you to his bed.

You yelped, peeking up at him as you laid on your back. Stepping away, he gripped the hem of his t-shirt, making an obvious show of pulling it up and over his head. He was a fucking fantasy. Truly. The hard planes of his abdomen rippling stole your breath, and he chuckled when he caught you gawking at him. Next was his pants and boxers. Your eyes followed the trail of hair that led beneath his waistband. As he bent down to slide them off, his erection sprang free—thick, flushed, and somehow bigger than you’d imagined. Your gaze trailed the curve of his cock, following the prominent vein that traveled along the underside of his shaft and guided your eyes up to the flushed tip.

The advance he made was painfully slow. Taking a leisurely pace as he sauntered toward the edge of the bed. For a heartbeat, he loomed above you, gaze raking over you as if etching the sight into his mind. You thought he might make you beg for more, but instead he lowered himself until he caged you against the mattress.

Your dress became his focus again, the fabric slid up your thighs as he rucked it higher and slipped it off. Your lacy bra joined the crumpled fabric on the floor soon after. Heat flooded your cheeks when his eyes snagged on your bare breasts, darkening imperceptibly, then dropped to your panties. Those too were stripped away. He slid them down at a snail's pace like he was savouring each damn second. When he leaned back to take in the sight of your nude body, your heart threatened to beat out of your chest. There was pure reverence in his eyes when he looked upon you, and it made you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.

The heat of his mouth closed around your nipple before his hands even found your breasts, his blazing eyes slanting up to meet your gaze. It was the most sensual sight. He suckled gently while his hand gently pinched your other nipple. The heat of his body was laid over yours and you could feel everything—every hard line and ridge of his form pressed against yours—the way his hips subtly rolled against the edge of the mattress in an effort to create friction.

Pulling away from your nipple, he trailed lower. His lips skimmed the valley between your breasts, and down your navel where he paused to give your hips a firm squeeze. He continued his path of kisses until he halted and lingered just shy of where you needed him most. A gasp. A curse. The subtle hitch of breath as his teeth grazed your thigh. A twitch of your hips betrayed you, earning another firm squeeze from his hands.

“Need something?” He asked, giving you that smoldering look that made heat pool between your legs and your stomach flutter.

“Mhm…” you hummed, your mind too fuzzy to form and speak an actual sentence, but you could tell that it wasn’t good enough of an answer for him. Another kiss to your thigh. A gentle nip. Dangerously close and yet so, so far. Blood roared in your ears. Skin prickled along your entire body in anticipation as if already drowning in the pleasure you’d yet to receive

“Gotta use your words, nena,” he murmured. Something incoherent left your mouth; more of a jumble of mumbled syllables and huffs than words. But it revealed the frustrations he stirred up—the need he stoked but refused to relieve just yet, and that was a treacherous thing. He made no movement. Instead he continued to try and coax proper words from you. “Don’t get shy on me.”

“... need you, Miguel…” you whimpered again and this time he heard the words loud and clear.

“Atta girl,” he praised and the torturous teasing you had endured was suddenly so very worth it. He ran his tongue along the seam of your cunt, stopping once he reached your hooded clit. The first little flick had you choking back a strangled noise. He took it as a sign to continue, latching his lips around it and suckling with fervor. One of your hands landed and tangled in his curls, giving a light tug.

Miguel was relentless in his pursuit, lapping at your folds with a borderline animalistic lust. The sounds were obscene and wet. You would’ve been embarrassed if you had been capable of stringing together a singular thought. Beneath his ministrations, your hips rocked up into his face. He held them down firmly. Fire pooled low in your abdomen and when you came it was a shuddering thing. Static rippled through you and time seemed to slow.

“Yes…! Oh God- fuck… yes!” you cried out and suddenly you felt like you were falling, your breath getting away from you. When he retracted himself from between your legs and peered up at you, his chin was glistening with your arousal. Calloused hands glided up your sides, framing you like a work of art.

“Dios, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he rasped as he reached for his cock and notched the crown against your entrance, sliding it along your slit in a teasing manner before finally nudging inside. The clench of your walls around his shaft drew a groan from him. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

As he sunk deeper, inch by inch, he continued to speak. “This pretty little thing moves in across the street and I’m meant not to obsess…” you moaned in unison as he bottomed out, his tip prodding somewhere deep inside you.

His girth challenged you, spearing you open even as your velvety walls clamped down. His words—low, ragged, and filthy, somehow undid you more than the rest. You’d spent so much time believing, in your heart of hearts, that he didn’t return your feelings—that the chances of him feeling the same way were some sort of statistical improbability that was so out there it might as well have been an anomaly in the fabric of the universe. But now he was balls deep inside you, groaning and whispering dirty words in your ear. Funny the way things worked out.

Agonizing. The pace he set was slow and deliberate—each drag of his cock was anguish as he slid all the way out before starting with short, shallow pumps back. Soft mewls tumbled past your lips. And when he thrust all the way back in, the sound that left you was a quivering noise, nothing short of sinful.

A large hand gathered your wrists and pinned them above your head. Writhing beneath him, he huffed out a ragged breath as he picked up the pace. His hips snapped into yours. “Joder, you’re perfect…” he husked. He released your wrists before long and grabbed for your thighs, lifting them until they were pressed to your chest. The new angle of penetration hitting your front wall with each pass of his cock.

Shoving a hand between your legs, he massaged circles into your clit again as he lifted his gaze and met your eyes. He searched them for something, studying the furrow of your brow and the flutter of your lashes—memorizing the sweet sounds that fell from your lips.

“Please… ah!” you cried and you weren’t quite sure what you were pleading for. More. More of him. You wanted everything and he seemed more than willing to give it. Your hands splayed over his chest, nails scraping over the skin.

“I’ve got you…” Fingers dimpled the flesh of your hips as he yanked your hips down harder with each thrust, taking pleasure in the pathetic noises it drew from your lips. He watched his cock glisten, coated in your arousal, as it slid in and out. “Doing so well for me, nena…”

You could feel something building—warm and fervent. An ever tightening coil that threatened to snap and when it finally did, it was all consuming. Your body tensed, muscles going rigid before relaxing like a sigh. It was too much. It was not enough. The way your cunt spasmed around his cock as your pleasure crested caused his pace to stutter, turning into frantic, off rhythm thrusts as his control began to slip. His jaw clenched and his thighs shook as he fucked you through your orgasm and chased his own.

He slowed to a near stop, grinding deep and letting you feel him twitch and throb inside. His forehead fell to your shoulder. He appeared to shatter, his hips jerking as he released deep inside with a grunt. You could feel his breath flitting against your skin. He planted a kiss to your shoulder that grounded you both in the aftermath as you took a moment to just stay like that. When he pulled out, it was a slow drag that dredged a whine from you. He rolled off of you.

You looked aside to him. His skin was slicked with a sheen of sweat and his breathing was uneven. It was quite the state and you were sure you didn’t look any better off. The sight of the mess between your legs moved him and he leaned forward to press a kiss to your lips, one hand coming up to cup your face. His lips caressed yours, nipping at your bottom lip gently. It was no less passionate than the last, only less frenzied. He took his time, slanting his lips over yours before hesitating to pull away. There were no words as you chased him, closing the small distance he created. He tucked you into his side as your fingers idly drew circles against his pec.

“Since I moved in, huh?” It was your turn to tease him.

Closing his eyes, he groaned and you took pride in the fact that it embarrassed him. “I said that, did I?”

You giggled and he brushed a damp strand of hair from your forehead before planting a kiss there. Your heart thrummed and you’d never felt more cherished before than you did laying there in his arms.

—

Sunlight poured into the room through a gap in the curtains, casting the room in a golden glow that had you squinting as you stirred from your sleep. It took a few seconds for your mind to catch up. The arm around your waist tugged you closer, beckoning you to remember. And you did. Every last sensation and touch was ingrained in your mind and body.

“Good morning,” Miguel whispered, his voice raspy with sleep. You blinked up at him before a smile touched your lips. If you could spend an eternity with him you didn’t think you’d mind. And maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was far too soon to say, but you loved this man. You loved him and his amazing daughter who brought a kind of love you’d never known possible into your life. Season by season you’d fallen for him and the way he looked at you, bathed in the morning light, told you the one thing that you’d struggled to see for almost a year. He felt the same.

“Thank goodness for those porch steps.” you laughed quietly and his brows shot up.

“Are you letting some crooked porch steps take credit for this?”

You gave a shrug. “They helped, didn't they?”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head in amusement. He pulled you closer and laid his lips over yours in a tender kiss. His lips brushed yours ever so slightly as he pulled away just enough to whisper, “Whatever you say, cariño.”

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