#I suspect you kept some things between us | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

violetrainbow412-blog · 1 year

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Decoy [S. R.]

Spencer Reid x fem!reader

word count: 6.9k

summary: when you go after an unsub who catches students making out, the unit is called upon to resort to desperate measures. Or in other words, where you and Spencer become the decoy to catch a voyeur.

warnings: +16. Making out, mentions of alcohol, mentions of violence, insinuation of smut, sexual tension

Do yourself a favor and imagine Spencer in these clothes during the case

You sighed, completely frustrated, while you looked for the thousandth time at the blackboard with some information from the profile that you had made for the criminal in this case.

You believed that the unsub was a Caucasian man between 30 and 35 years old, whose motive was to spy on and photograph university students who were escaping in their cars to make out at night, then force them to have sex in front of him and finally kill them cold-blooded. You imagined that he was a person with a mediocre job, that he felt insufficient, and that his voyeuristic behavior probably came from sexual frustration, something that could be corroborated by the violence that he inflicted on the genital area of the students whom he stalked using a knife, his mark on all homicides. You also believed that perhaps the rejection or abandonment of his last partner (preceded by a bad streak from his youth) due to his impotence had been the triggering event for all his repressed impulses to come to light.

All the psychological analysis was fine, it wasn't something you hadn't seen before, but the hard part of all this? Because he only threatened and killed people, he didn't rape them, at first it was almost impossible to tell who it was. He already had 20 victims in total and you weren't even close to catching him. In the last scene he had made the mistake of leaving a fingerprint and Garcia had been able to trace his true identity: Oliver Davis, a guy who fits the description perfectly. Unfortunately, this turned out to be useless because beyond the accusations of being a pervert, the man didn’t have much information that would give a clue to his whereabouts, you had even called the job that he had registered and all you had obtained was that he had several months without working there, which coincided with the beginning of the murders. After that Rossi suggested that he probably lived in a trailer (old, due to his lack of employment) where he developed the photographs and kept his trophies. That only made more sense when you thought that it would make it easier to transport or escape in case things got messy.

But words on paper and intelligent conclusions were of absolutely no use to you. You needed a plan to catch him.

"Do you have something, Reid?" Hotch had asked. You had already interviewed some students, you had set up guard duty to look for any suspicious behavior and you had even shared the photograph of the suspect in the media, but nothing had worked; The only thing left was to carry out the geographical profile to know the area in which he was attacking and thus be able to search for possible targets.

“I triangulated the locations we have of his previous homicides and I'm guessing he hits in this specific area,” he muttered, pointing to a space on the map he had on his blackboard with his middle finger. “Considering it's an area frequented by the age group due to its proximity to the universities and that it has several parks that the students told us they use to drink or go out as a couple”

"So what?" Morgan said from his spot. "We just wait until he kills someone else and hopefully we're near the scene to hear the screams?"

“Maybe we can ask the cops to patrol the area for the unsub's car,” JJ suggested.

“He's smart, there's a trailer park right here. It wouldn't be strange to find one on the streets as well.” Reid was visibly frustrated like everyone else and he ran a hand through his hair with some despair.

Your options were running out and frankly you couldn't think of anything else.

“And if we give him a target?” Emily murmured. Noticing that none of you said anything, she went on to explain her plan, “We ask police officers to send any young people they see around to home so we force our unsub to get close to who we want”

"And what are we going to do? Hire a couple of college kids to stalk them?”

“We can use our own team”

"Not to offend you, Prentiss, but we are no longer in the prime of youth"

"We don't, but Y/L/N and Reid do" when you heard your last name you were surprised, but when you heard your friend's you practically froze. First you looked at her and then at the doctor, whose gaze reflected the same stupefaction as you "You two are young, you might look like students"

"Are you saying you want to send us straight into the hands of a sexual predator?" you couldn't be offended, after all, those risks were part of the job, but you did feel somewhat reluctant about the idea.

“Do you have a better suggestion?”

“It doesn't sound so bad” Rossi murmured “It's a smart move”

“Besides, we would be watching around and we would intervene before that madman got close to you. Once we catch him, the photographs and personal items that he probably has in his trailer will be enough evidence, in addition to the fingerprint from the last crime scene” to your surprise, Derek was also pretty convinced of the plan that Emily had just devised.

"Reid, Y/L/N, would you guys be up for it?" Hotch exclaimed with his usual serious tone, looking at you and then at your partner.

Thinking objectively, the suggestion was very good. But thinking about it personally, you felt worried about the danger you two would be running into… oh, God. It wasn't until then that you realized that the plan to catch the suspect involved the two of you making out like a couple of hormonal college kids.

You knew that the options that remained wouldn’t be as opportune as that and taking into account the temporary nature with which Oliver operated, in addition to the fact that he was already deteriorating as a murderer, it was most likely that he was already looking for new victims, so if you did that same night the chances of success were quite high. You were between a rock and a hard place and all you could do was look at him while the gazes of the rest of the room were divided between the two of you.

“I… I'll only do it if you say yes” you exclaimed in his direction, with a cautious voice and a fearful look. You knew your friend and you didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable in any way, even though you knew that both you and he knew that your personal interests would take precedence against the possibility that another couple of victims would lose their lives if you refused. It was your job, you had to do it.

"Are you sure you guys are going to catch him before something happens?" Spencer asked your boss. You thought that with his background the last thing he wanted was to end up kidnapped or seriously injured again, even though the truth was that he was caring just as much about himself as he was about you. He had seen the photographs and knew that women were the most affected by the murder weapon… he didn't even want to imagine something like this happening to you.

"Of course. You will have communication with us and if something goes wrong we will get you out of there immediately" Aaron answered and your friend sighed nervously and then looked for your approval. You nodded slightly and he delivered the verdict, to which everyone agreed.

He was still standing, but after that he slumped into the nearest chair as he listened to everyone brainstorming ideas for setting up the scene, distributing the crew, and what they would tell the local police to do to make the decoy effective.

At some point you lost the whole point of the conversation, to start thinking about what was implied by what you were about to do.

The feeling of attraction for your co-worker had been latent in you for a couple of years, but you had never confessed it to anyone to avoid creating tension in the team or suffering the humiliation of certain rejection. Also, you knew that a crush meant distractions from what was truly important and you had tried, in vain, to eliminate it completely. But even if it hadn't completely gone, you had known how to control it, only allowing yourself to look at him with loving eyes from time to time and avoiding being too confident with him during group drinking outings. You even limited physical contact, not because you didn't like it but because you knew your greed would demand more and more of you until it became inevitable to beg for his touch. But now all that good work holding you back was screwed because in a few hours you would have to be passionately making out with him.

Still with the internal crisis, you raised your head to look at him and realized that he too had been submerged in his own tide of thoughts, which you hoped would be more positive than yours. At some point Spencer felt you watching him and when his eyes met yours he gave you that tight-lipped smile that was strangely comforting, to which you responded with the same gesture. After that it didn't take long for everyone to leave the room to fulfill their respective tasks, but you stayed seated because you honestly didn't feel enough energy to move. Besides, you had nothing entrusted to you, you were the bait.

"Hey, are you sure you're okay with this?" Spencer asked you, once everyone else had left. He looked so tired of everything, but at the same time there was a kind tone in his voice about him that made you smile.

“It's just kissing, Spence. I think we'll be fine" you assured him, trying to swallow all your embarrassment and nerves "And you?"

"I agree. I just hope we get lucky today or we'll just have to keep trying”

"Reid, I need you to tell the cops what area we'll be in," Hotch interrupted you from the door. "You still have time to regret it," he added, looking at the two of you.

You immediately denied and after that Spencer withdrew from there in the company of Aaron. When you were about to drop you exhaled, completely concerned about the last thing your partner had said.

We will just have to keep trying. You didn't know if the idea excited you, or terrified you.

As night fell, Spencer drove the old pickup truck the unit had managed to rent for the two of you to drive into the park, with you in the passenger seat and a six-pack of beer in the backseat.

Although you were sure that it would be cold, you had decided to wear shorts and a button-down shirt that you normally wore for work, but that you had adjusted to make it look more youthful. Spencer was wearing an outfit that Morgan had gotten for him from a department store, simple jeans with a rather baggy cotton shirt and some nice boots that you didn't know where he got from, since in Quantico you had never seen him wear anything like that.

Both of you had showered at the hotel (separately of course) and you had made sure to brush your teeth and put on a good amount of deodorant and perfume before getting in the car. You had paid special attention to your appearance, not because it was necessary, but because you wanted to look perfect for him. Even with all this, you were a nervous wreck next to him, not saying a word along the way and only soft music from the radio filling the air.

When you stopped, the two of you put your headphones on to the channel the team was supposed to be on, and Morgan answered in the affirmative.

"Remember, he doesn't have to see the communicator or your weapon," Rossi spoke, who was also in the van, along with Prentiss and Hotch. "García will be watching with the security cameras and he will warn us if the trailer is coming"

"And meanwhile what do we do?"

"Pretend to be a couple, sit on the tailgate and drink beer, laugh, I don't know"

“Did you ever run away like that in college?” you asked, directly at Reid.

“Do you remember that I was like 16 when I studied at the university, right? I wasn't even old enough to drive, much less a car" he muttered and you gave a short laugh "I guess you did"

“I was too busy being the best in the institution to even think about going out and making out with idiots,” you replied, proud of yourself for that. “I mean, it's not like you're an idiot, but they were. You're very smart," you rambled, still twiddling your fingers, "Hotch, you guys will tell us when we're going to start kissing, will you?"

“When the suspect approaches, yes”

"Okay, well... then we have to go out, huh?" you muttered to him as you reached for the beers and tried to open the door to get out. You turned, expecting to see Spencer do the same as you, but noticed that he had lingered in the car for a moment, checking himself in the mirror and applying his lips with chapstick.

My God, could that man make you more nervous?

When he finally caught up with you, you went to the back of the pickup, where you opened the tailgate to sit down with a little hop. Spencer was tall enough to keep up with you just by leaning over the edge, where you watched him cross his arms. You were silent for a few moments, listening to the sound of crickets and cars in the distance.

"Do you think it's a good idea to drink?"

"Only a little. I'm having a hard time thinking while sober, I don't want to ruin the little reasoning I have left” you exclaimed as a joke. Or maybe you weren't joking so much "Just empty a couple of cans and leave them on the floor so he'll think we're really drunk." Spencer was about to do what you said when you noticed an important detail and called him over to look at you "Come here, let me fix your hair."

"What's wrong with my hair?"

"You're very well combed, it's not the image we expect" you carefully took his hand until it was close enough to pass the other through all his golden locks, messing them up enough to give him that relaxed touch that he should have. He looked so handsome, but not in the style of a fancy FBI agent but just like a young intellectual who went to parties and smoked weed “Like this. Perfect"

“Do you think we have to think of some backstory?” he asked and you looked at him with a frown. “You know, something about us. What degree are we studying, what are our names…”

"This is not a play"

"It's rude to eavesdrop on conversations, Prentiss," you said visibly annoyed, although looking at your partner that expression softened "As you wish, Spencer. Although being honest, I would say that you study… literature”

"Really?" he exclaimed with slight enthusiasm. You knew that his mother had been a teacher in the subject and you wondered if he had ever considered it.

“Morgan wasn’t wrong to choose those clothes for you. It suits you” you complimented him and Morgan whistled from the other end of the line. You felt like you were having too much fun for the situation you were in, but you needed to talk about something else to put off the reminder of what you had come to do for as long as possible. “I think you would have that hopeless philosopher/romantic vibe who flirts by whispering memorized poetry in your ear.”

“I actually know some good ones”

"Sure you do" you smiled gently, suppressing the thought of him sighing close to your neck at Bécquer "I'd probably study science or something."

"The unattainable scientist with whom the captain of the soccer team has a secret crush, but she is completely unaware"

"Where did you get that? From a 90s movie?

Spencer's laugh was one of your favorite sounds and today that was precisely not helping your situation. You felt intoxicated by how handsome he looked, like you'd discovered a side to him that no one else had, and the thought of kissing him made you tremble a little with anticipation.

“Do you want to share a beer?” he murmured, carefully opening the can and offering it to you first. You knew your partner wasn't the most enthusiastic about doing anything that involved germs, so it made you feel good that he took the lead. You took a big gulp of the drink to gather something of value and when it was his turn to drink he kept looking at you intently, you would even say that he seemed entranced.

You had made sure you were in a strategic position, with enough light for the unsub to see you and quite lonely, except for the patrol cars and the van that had been positioned at a safe distance.

“How does voyeurism develop?” you asked quietly, with genuine interest, as you shifted a bit to get closer to him.

“Voyeurism usually begins in adolescence and since during that age it is usually seen with greater tolerance, there are people who continue with these behaviors until adulthood. When voyeurism is pathological, they spend considerable time looking for opportunities to watch, often at the expense of not fulfilling important responsibilities in their lives, and people reach orgasm by masturbating during or after watching. Although if you think about it a bit, everyone is a bit of a voyeur."

"Why you said so?"

“Many men and women enjoy viewing pornography, which can be classified as voyeuristic behavior. It's not a worrying thing, but it's interesting to think about it” he explained, with those expressions on his face that he had every time he shared knowledge with you. He liked that about you, that you were always willing to listen to his data and statistics even at the most inopportune moments.

"I'm still a little scared that Oliver is trying to do something to us."

“I have my gun. If he tries to do something to you, I'll use it" you knew that killing the unsub was always the last option Reid considered, so you widened your eyes a little to show your surprise "All lives are worth, but when that life has already taken so many and it puts you at risk, I would not doubt it. You have nothing to worry about” he assured you and your heart warmed a little at feeling so protected.

"Do you know if Oliver attacks at a specific time?"

"No, he doesn’t. Just as we can be here for ten minutes, we can also be here all night."

You exhaled loudly, before taking another gulp of beer.

“Drink some, boy. I feel kind of selfish around here."

"I am nervous"

"And why do you think I'm drinking?" you exclaimed wryly, still holding out the can to him, and when he finally agreed he drank a little more than you expected “Have you ever…” you started to say, but suddenly remembered that literally the whole team was listening to you. If the answer was embarrassing, you didn't want to hear Morgan and Emily taunting you all week, so you covered your microphone for a moment and spoke again, but so quietly that only he could hear you. "I suppose you kissed someone, did you?"

"Yes," he said quickly and you sighed with relief. It comforted you a little to know that it wasn't his first kiss, because you didn't want him to have such a bad memory “Do I look so inexperienced?"

"No, that's not what I meant" you smiled "You're handsome, I know you've probably kissed a couple of girls"

"You don't need to tell lies, you know I'll kiss you anyway"

"But it's not a lie. I really think you're handsome" you confessed, gathering all the courage in you, while you smiled at him in the most serene way possible "And if we weren't literally waiting for a murderer, you know I'd be happy to do this with you"

"Smooch me?"

"Having this bad date attempt, Reid," you hissed, flushing red, as you slammed your palm into his forehead with just a little bit of force. Spencer seemed quite pleased that he made you nervous, rather than the other way around, so he grinned, “Though I think we should have brought food. I'm starving,” you pouted, swinging your dangling legs back and forth.

"That's not a picnic, Y/N"

You hated for a second that everyone was so intent on the conversation. A part of you wanted a moment alone with the brunette, even if it was in the midst of such a strange situation.

You began to talk pleasantly about things completely unrelated to the case for a couple of minutes, staying where you were, until Hotch's interruption made you jump a bit in place.

"Garcia intercepted an approaching trailer, get ready” your heart immediately sped up and you noticed him tense beside you, too, probably with the same thought flooding his head.

"Okay, come closer," you exclaimed, trying not to panic, as you spread your legs a little to allow the man to step into the space between. He wasted no time and just as you wrapped your hands around his shoulders you heard the sound of another car pulling up.

"Is that our unsub?"

"It is"

You were about to turn your head to peek when Reid grabbed your cheek and stopped you.

"He's smart. If you look at him, he'll realize it” he reminded you with a serious voice. You were so worried about everything that you were forgetting about your training “Okay, so I… Is it okay if I put my hands here?” he asked with a different tone, nervously placing both hands on your waist. You had always admired the size and anatomy of those hands, but until now you had not had the pleasure of feeling them on your body in this way.

“Tonight everything you do is fine. I promise"

"It would be a good time to start, he'll see you" Emily reminded you and you could only sigh shakily.

You two were adults, why were you so scared about kissing?

"Close your eyes" Spencer whispered to you, masking his nerves better than you "I'll kiss you, just close them," he asked you and you did.

You felt his body lean against you a little until his chest almost touched yours and then his lips shakily pressed against yours. You would always remember your first kiss, which in essence was such a brief caress that you didn't even know if it could be counted as one, the one where he wordlessly asked your permission to explore your mouth. Still with your eyes closed, you pulled him by the neck towards you and started a new kiss, a little more confident and deep this time, allowing you to savor the beer mixed with strawberries and that strange flavor that each person has.

“We…” you started to say, once you separated “you have to do it slowly, what he wants is a show” you exclaimed. Spencer felt unable to say any words and your hands caressing him so deliciously wasn't helping at all “Slow,” you repeated.

You arched your back a little to get even closer and when you finally looked up you met his caramel eyes. You needed a moment to recover and you unconsciously licked your lips, as if you needed to pick up and savor his presence in your mouth again, something that didn’t go unnoticed by his attentive look at your movements.

It didn't take long for you to give up, as beginning the third kiss you felt that you no longer had any control over your body, your heart, or your mind. And while it was true that neither of you were experts on the subject, you guys managed pretty well as the seconds ticked by. Spencer gasped as he simultaneously felt you pull the hair from his neck and caress his lips with the tip of your tongue, while you were taken by surprise when his hands left your waist and lowered to the height of your hip, where his thumbs gripped firmly on the clip of your shorts.

There was a kiss, then another and another; they became too many to count. You didn't want to touch him anywhere and at the same time you wanted to touch him completely, in the grip of the fantasy that this was real and not just a performance. And even if you were aware that it was all fake, that would probably only have encouraged you to enjoy something to the fullest that you knew would never come back. Amid everything you didn’t know which of the two situations would be worse.

The sound of your lips colliding became so obscene that you were embarrassed, but you had no plan to stop. Your hands slid gently down the length of his neck until you reached his chest and cupped the soft cotton of his garment in your fists to make sure he didn't move away from you. The heat of the moment just went up and up, but a voice on the intercom brought you back with a jolt.

“He started the trailer. He's going to go"

Spencer closed his eyes in frustration, and you sighed. From the position he was in it wasn’t possible to get around him without being seen, so keeping all his attention was on you and him.

Maybe you weren't doing it right? You wondered what the hell this man wanted to see if you were practically eating each other, but suddenly you remembered that his motivation was even more sexual than a couple of wet kisses. Maybe he was getting bored because he needed to see that you were about to… well, do it.

"Take off my shirt," you said immediately, still too close to his swollen lips and looking right into eyes that seemed to be pitch black.

"Take... what?"

"Take off my shirt" you repeated, with a tone that made the man shudder completely. With the hands that were still holding his shirt you pulled him to you and he held his breath “And kiss me better. Like you really want me"

But Spencer didn't need to pretend that he wanted you.

He made you completely dizzy when he began to kiss you so hungrily and you managed to keep enough composure when you felt one of his warm hands travel under your blouse, limiting yourself to letting out sighs that were drowned against his lips. But what finally caused you to let out an indiscreet and unwelcome moan was when he pulled you by the hip until you were on the edge of the tailgate and you could feel the growing bulge in his pants pressing against you. Spencer had almost managed to suppress his, but in the end, you having your own situation down there didn't help one bit.

His trembling fingers fussed with the buttons on your shirt until it ended up somewhere on the floor at incredible speed, leaving you half-naked before him and the collection of FBI agents standing around. You might have been embarrassed if your brain could connect two coherent thoughts, but you'd lost that from the moment Dr. Reid first dared to kiss you.

You carefully guided his hands to the beginning of the curve of your breasts and now you both sighed in unison, feeling goosebumps on every inch of your skin. You pushed yourself forward just for the satisfaction of hearing that guttural sound again and your prayers were immediately answered, for it was enough for him to feel the slightest friction and he would go crazy. It was inappropriate to need him like that, but you couldn't help it.

Holding your lower back, he leaned over you and at the same time pulled you towards him until your breasts collided with his chest. In that position, your neck was exposed and your partner’s hot lips didn't hesitate to go down there, while you sighed agitated just at the height of his ear. Spencer asked you, between each kiss, to look in the direction of the trailer to see if he was still there and as you could you answered yes, which was victory enough for both of you.

As he could, he maneuvered to lay you down carefully on the cold metal of the truck without stopping kissing your neck, and by inertia you wrapped both legs over his hip. When you were hidden by the panels of the pickup he finally looked at you.

"I hope it's enough to get his attention," he said, sounding as agitated as expected, and although the circumstances meant that you two would be taking a break you flatly refused, pulling him back to kiss him.

That kiss did take Spencer by surprise and it was perhaps the sincerest of the night. It wasn’t as passionate as the previous ones, but rather it was loaded with softness and you would even say that a hint of supplication. You were begging for him not to stop, for the night to get stuck in an infinite loop where the two of you could kiss for eternity. And suddenly you felt how he, who had been so tense the whole time, completely relaxed against you, as if he understood exactly what you wanted to say. His hands came to rest on the sides of your head to be able to kiss you more comfortably and you dared to take him by the waist with the same care that you were kissing him, feeling even above the cloth the softness of his skin.

And then he broke up with you. You feared you had done something wrong due to the suddenness of the movement and your frightened eyes searched his gaze for a sign of the reason, without finding anything. He just looked at you with something you couldn't describe, but that made you feel butterflies fluttering all over your stomach... and he stayed like that for a few seconds: just looking at you, as if he wanted to memorize all your features.

You opened your mouth to say something, but your words were drowned in a new kiss, totally different from the previous ones. Spencer was taking time with him, trapping your lower lip between his and sucking on it gently, pressing himself a little more against your body, sighing heavily into your mouth.

Your hand was already running up his side to make its way to his cheek just as screams filled the silence and you hugged him reflexively. The screams had come from Morgan, who had already moved across the park to take down the unsub and was now wrestling with him to get the knife out of his hand. Spencer hesitated for a moment if he should come over to help, but he preferred to hold you better against his body to protect you and wait for Emily to place the handcuffs on the man under her partner's knee.

From a distance you saw that he only brought with him, in addition to the knife, his camera, and a small backpack with some other murderous instruments that they managed to confiscate without any problem.

"All clear, we've got him," Hotch spoke over the radio. As you exhaled in relief too many emotions washed over you, combined with the adrenaline coursing through your body and the arousal still flowing into your crotch.

"Are you okay?" Reid's gentle voice called to you, as he pulled away to check with his eyes that everything was in order. His hair was messy and his lips were so swollen that it was almost painful to look at the image without launching yourself to kiss him again "My God, your shirt..." he said, completely embarrassed, as he bent down to pick up the garment. You looked him up and down and blushed when you noticed how tight his pants were, feeling your stomach turn a little. When he got up, he took the opportunity to look at your chest covered only by the black lace bra and a big gulp of saliva went down his throat.

You thanked him quietly and put your shirt back on, feeling the sneaky glances Spencer was giving you, just before Hotch walked up to you.

"How are you?"

"Very good, excellent" you stammered.

You could perfectly feel your swollen lips, the light sheen of sweat on your face, the heat flowing from all the places Reid's fingers had been, and the abundant moisture between your crossed legs.

After Hotch congratulated you on your performance, the two of you walked as best you could toward the rest of the agents, who were already placing Oliver on patrol. Another group was analyzing the trailer and they managed to pull out enough evidence about the murders that would be very useful in prosecuting the man.

"All good?" Emily asked in your direction, once things had settled down and the rest of the team had gathered in a circle by the van. You and Spencer just nodded at the question.

“I honestly think I'm going to need therapy after what I heard,” Dave murmured, so serious that you couldn't help but burst out laughing.

"Don't you even dare make fun of this"

“No, we won't. I'm just saying you guys seemed to be enjoying it there."

"That's supposed to be the plan, right?" Spencer said nervously, finally daring to look at you and looking away almost immediately as he smoothed his hair back.

Once your boss said you could retire you escaped in a patrol car as fast as you could, wanting to get home so you could take a cold shower and soothe what wasn’t satisfied by the man. You could hardly sleep that night, still haunted by the ghost of the kisses you received from your gorgeous coworker, and the next morning you hoped that double coffee would do the trick. But apparently you weren't the only one who thought so, because at the same time that you arrived Spencer Reid crossed your path.

"Hey," he said, in that high-pitched voice that came out when someone caught him off guard, "How are you?"

"Fine, and you?"

"Fine too"

You knew that the two of you wanted to talk about what happened, but it only took one of you to have the courage to speak first. At the same time your phones rang indicating a message and you mistakenly assumed that it was JJ contacting you to announce a case. What was your surprise when you opened the file and found a collection of photos from the night before. You knew from Spencer's face that he had received the same thing.

"Garcia did you… did she send you the same evidence?"

"That's right," he said nervously. You had to admit that if Oliver had one quality it was that of a photographer: you were sensual and perfectly captured the desire that had existed between you. Well, the one you had pretended to feel… right?

Spencer held his breath as he came to a picture of you topless in which his hand was practically on your breast, immediately remembering how that had felt. He just hoped his memories didn't affect him too much or it would be embarrassing enough to walk into the boardroom with a boner.

"They're good," you said to the air and he suppressed a laugh "But I can delete them if that makes you feel uncomfortable"

“No, no, I… I think I want to keep them too. After all, the bureau will have them in the files as evidence of the case, I prefer to have access too”

"I just hope she doesn't send them to anyone else, I wouldn't want to see my bra photos going around."

“I'll tell Garcia, don't worry,” Spencer murmured, rushing to type something on his phone.

While you waited for him to type you took another look, feeling your whole body heating up again at the memories. A part of you was grateful to have such material in your custody.

"I never thought of being the protagonist of an erotic photo session and here we are," you said ironically.

“Speaking of which…” Spencer started to say, “Not the erotic sessions by any means, don't think I'm planning on inviting you to one or that, because it would be super weird and inappropriate, but I was thinking if… huh…”

“Sell them online? I thought so too, but it depends on how much profit there is. Garcia can help us find the highest bidder and not get charged for tampering with evidence."

"What? No!" he said, completely shocked, and you laughed because you got the reaction you expected with your joke "Why would we do that?"

“Just kidding, Reid. Those photos are something I prefer to keep to myself" you clarified and your smile made him feel shy "Seriously, sorry for interrupting you. What did you want to tell me?"

"What…? huh, yes, right. It's just that this morning I was thinking about what you said yesterday, about how under normal circumstances you would have liked to have a bad date with me, right? and it just kept spinning in my head, so I was asking if you wanted to go for a drink sometime. Not like a date, of course, I'm not saying it is if you don't want to. I can just be like… well, go get a drink. As friends"

Yesterday Spencer had practically eaten your mouth and now he was nervous about asking you out. So adorable.

“You're not doing this just as compensation, are you? because you know that it is not necessary…”

“I do it because I want to. And I want to believe that… that I didn't misunderstand what happened yesterday."

You no longer even cared that it was unethical to date team members, or that if things went wrong, you would probably go into the worst of depressions. What mattered to you was that Spencer was interested in you, even if he had implied it, and that he was asking you out alone with him. Just the two of you, with fun and alcohol involved, without gossipy colleagues or mortal danger.

"Then I'd love to, Reid."

“Wow, excellent then” he smiled, feeling lucky that you agreed “I know a great bar near here, the atmosphere is generally calm, I like it because they don't play loud music. What day is right for you?"

“I'm available any day you want” you responded genuinely, grinning from ear to ear just being around him. That was the effect Reid had on you.

It was stupid to try to deny that you were still attracted to him, especially since now you had a taste of what he could do with you. You wanted to kiss him again, of course, but you were also anxious to earn that completely adoring look you'd received the night before.

“Today?”

"Yeah, why wait?" you responded, more excited than you wanted.

“Hey, I didn't ask you, but I wanted to know if I didn't go overboard with you last night. I mean… did something bother you?”

It was a smart move, you could see it clearly. It was obvious that Spencer cared about you, but you also picked up on his intentions to find out if you were interested in him too. Well, that's how it was from your perspective, because that probably would have been your motivation being in his place.

Even if it wasn't the case, you weren't going to miss the opportunity to take a little advantage of the situation.

"The kisses on the neck were something he definitely didn't expect, but they weren't unpleasant at all," you assured him, feeling your cheeks heat up again. "Did it feel good to you?"

"It did"

"So everything's perfect," you murmured, shrugging off the matter. But you both knew you couldn't see each other in the office and acted as if nothing had happened.

Something had happened. Those kisses had only fueled the tension that had always existed between you but that you wanted to ignore.

"Do you want to go after work, then?"

“Sounds good to me”

Spencer gave you one last smile and then went to prepare his usual cup of sugar with a dash of coffee. All day you were thinking about him and more than once he caught you looking at him, but you didn't even care.

So, at nightfall, with a few drinks on you and more courage in your body, you finally confessed that kissing was something you had wanted to do for a long time. You almost didn't believe it at first, coming from him, but when you finally accepted it, it wasn't hard at all to rush at him and kiss him feverishly. And this time there did not impede for you to give free rein to your desires, which led you to the soft mattress in your friend's house and kept you awake until a few hours before dawn.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #dr spencer reid #matthew gray gubler #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #jason gideon #JJ #penelope garcía #david rossi #emily prentiss #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid smut

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coryosbaby · 7 months

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ꜰᴜᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴍʏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴘ !

♡ content warning . dubious consent, mentions of drugging, sex work, breeding kink, cum play, weird usage of condoms, dom! Coryo

You didn’t know how you ended up like this.

Being an escort wasn’t an easy job. There were times when you were completely disgusted at the men who approached you (if not all of them). Coriolanus was supposed to be a normal client— someone that would fuck and go. Even with his ranking, you never suspected that he would… keep you.

You had had a few weird clients— some asked for the most vulgar, filthy things. Some of them followed you around before your boss had told them off.

But none of them have ever took you home.

You usually weren’t this stupid, this hazy minded, but Coriolanus had scooped you up with his wit and his charm and a bottle of something you hadn’t had before the economy went downhill. You had heard of him— of course you had—- the powerful, handsome, and extremely intelligent, Coriolanus Snow. And before you knew it you were being tossed onto his king sized bed and his tongue was scraping against the roof of your open mouth. You didn’t even have time to gape in drunken wonder at his enormous bedroom— all you could think about was the cock gliding in between your legs, meaty and thick and wet. He had become completely bare to you, regardless of your opposing position. You were still clothed in your pink floral dress and your basic cotton panties.

Coriolanus’ lips grazed over your jugular, his tongue nipping at your skin. You had never been this hot for anyone, especially not a client. Your panties were soaking, your clit was throbbing and you needed to cum. What was happening to you?

“Cor…” you tried to slur out, as your eyelashes fluttered.

“I know.”

His voice was incredibly gentle, and his big hands groped your tits through your dress. He lifted up the hem, made sure to expose your panties to him, and groaned. You could feel his precum smear against your thigh as he ground his aching member against you.

“Can’t even say my name, can you?” Coriolanus continues. “I have an idea. You can just call me Coryo. Short enough for your little brain to remember, yeah?”

Coryo. It was a nice name. A perfect name.

You moaned out when you felt the cool air hit the peaks of your puffy and swollen nipples. Coriolanus—Coryo— was peeling your dress off of your body. When the fabric was thrown across the room his mouth latched to one of your nipples. You mewled, hands going up to grasp his blonde curls, your chest very sensitive all of a sudden. You could feel that familiar organ probing at your folds, and— when did he put a condom on? You didn’t know, but relief would’ve coursed through you if you weren’t so aroused that you were practically drooling.

“Want it,” you whined out, scraping his scalp with desperation. “Coryo. Please.”

Huffing out a laugh, he reached down and wrapped his hand around his shaft. He gave it a few tugs, made sure the precum pearled over and made a sticky white stain on the inside of the latex. He used the tip to part your pussy lips and find your hole. He pushed in, slow at first, but your pussy was so wet from whatever he slipped in your cup that it was almost easy. Even with his overwhelming size, your cunt accepted his cock greedily, sucking him inside your tight canal. Coryo groaned, practically going cross eyed at the feeling of your warm, wet pussy.

“Never had a cunt so tight,” he grunted against you. “even with all the men you sell yourself to, you’re still squeezing me like a fucking vice, sweetness.”

Your mouth dropped open, his words making you impossibly hornier. Usually you would be offended by such a vile statement, but his big cock was throbbing and wading through your walls with such precision that it had your legs shaking.

And Coriolanus had this charisma about him— something that made his words even more powerful than most. And after that statement, he just kept talking.

“Oh, Angel. My good, special girl,” his thrusts were impossibly fast now, the plap plap plap of his balls slapping against your sore and raw fucked pussy making you cry. “You’re mine now.”

His. His, his, his. Your fingernails dug into him, his chest touching yours sending tingles all throughout your body, and he kept spewing out dirty innuendos. You never thought being fucked could feel this good. His fingers reached down and rubbed your swollen clit, and it was like magic, the way your pussy spasmed and your orgasm washed over you. Seizing up, you mewled out his name as you came on him.

Coryo was mesmerized by your cunt squeezing him so tightly. Your pretty folds, lips spread out and wet, your hole sucking him in like he was meant to be there, like he was meant to fuck his cum into your womb, it was all so much. No amount of classism could keep him from you. Not after this. District or not, he would make you his gorgeous little wife. He would give you everything, love for you, kill for you. With the thought of this possession towards you, his hips began to stutter. Your eyes were closed, but you were still humping yourself against his awaiting thrusts. His balls drew taught, and he could feel his awaiting cum begin to flood the condom wrapped around his length.

No. No, no, no. This wasn’t right.

Not to Coriolanus. Not now— your pussy needed to be fucked full of his hot cum. You needed to be bred. And he was going to keep you and make sure of it.

Coriolanus watched your fluttering eyelids, the small smile grazing your features as his thrusts slowed. Something primal coursed through him, and he slowly pulled himself out of you. Watching your gaping hole made his cock twitch again, and he used his fingers to slowly twist the condom off of his cock. Full of his cum, he spread your lips with two fingers and turned the latex upside down. His spend dropped out of it and onto your used little hole, and you whimpered out as his cum splashed against your cunt.

“Coryo? What’r you doing?”

“Just getting you nice and wet for me, little bird. Close your eyes.. let me fuck you again.”

And like clockwork, his cock was probing your entrance for a second time— his sticky cum being pushed into your fertile womb by the tip of his pink mushroomed tip, his balls making more seed for your perfect pussy, and he was claiming your spent body with everything he had. <33

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #Coriolanus snow x fem! reader #dark! Coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus snow fanfic #Tom blyth #coriolanus snow blurb #the hunger games #thg #the ballad of songs and snakes #the ballad of songs and snakes fanfic #the hunger games fanfiction

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felassan · 16 days

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Snippets 🐺💜

John Epler quote: "There’s a difference between playersexual and pansexual. All companions are canonically pansexual." [source]

The opening cinematic Varric narrates at the start of the game plays before CC. "Following character creation, Varric's narration continues, revealing that he's put together a group to stop Solas, having recruited our character and a handful of others so far." [source]

Despite the action-heavy focus, positioning is absolutely key, and using careful timing to hit multiple foes at once can be the difference between victory and defeat [source]

"In-between fights, Varric and the other characters, including your fully-voiced protagonist, discuss events that are unfolding and different things that have led up to this moment. Epler notes for the preview that with how much time has passed since prior games, the team wanted to carefully throw in some reminders without it feeling like ham-fisted exposition." [source]

"The Dread Wolf's ambitions have already been laid bare, but I strongly suspect there's more going on, and Epler cryptically hints that not everything will be as it first seems" [source]

Mages can move instead of standing in one place, allowing them to get up close and personal with enemies - a major game-changer for magic users [source]

Faction choice affects in-game moments between other factions and locations, as well as characters [source]

"When they were creating this area, they kept that in mind and looked at other locations to figure out how they could make it more grand. They developed the entire area based on a comment someone said in a past game, and if that isn’t dedication to lore, I don’t know what is" [source] (re: Minrathous)

In this demo the press saw femme Rook! [source]

The standard three square hotkeys look like an updated version of past ones [source]

"It sounded like there is also a system that allows hints during battle, like when something is a certain range, etc., that they said could be turned off" [source]

"In cutscenes, rain dripping down a building, blood on someone’s hands, or stepping into a puddle looks outstanding". "Things like clothes and hair are dynamic and move with you" [source]

"what at its core is a beautifully told story of revenge, regret, and the complexities of good and evil" [source]

During the interrogation scene in the bar with the shady bartender, Varric pins her to her own station with a crossbow bolt in order to interrogate her. Rook and Varric then go scrounge the city for clues [source]

Re: using body sliders in CC - "It looked incredibly easy to maneuver around and create a body that is either close to that player's real personage or their ideal fantasy self" [source]

Companions "will not only be influenced by your decisions in terms of how they treat you outside of combat, but closeness to party members will also change how they fight, with those closest to Rook more useful and lethal in battle" [source]

"Our presenter said that each specialization was pretty much as deep as a job" [source]

The game will not be available in India. [source]

The game has a Quality mode and a Performance mode on PS5 and Xbox Series consoles. it runs the latest version of Frostbite, targeting frame rates of 60fps in Peformance and 30 in Quality [source]

They will have more to share on both graphics modes for consoles in the coming months. [source]

David Gaider quote on the portrayal of Anders' orientation in DAII:

DA2 writer David Gaider told Kotaku in February this was meant to distinguish Anders’ relationship with male or female versions of Hawke, but recognizes this comes off like the mage’s identity was a switch to be flipped in hindsight. “Unfortunately, we just didn’t have enough time to get enough feedback and iterate on those situations,” he said. “We would hit a particular interaction, we would make a judgment call either as a group or the writer on their own, and that was it. There was no time for anything more than one gut-check, which is probably not the way to go.”

edit: forgot to add src for last one sorry. its here

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #lgbtq #solas #long post

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yourejinx · 2 months

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Wasted Times

CASSIAN X F.READER

Warnings: SMUT, little plot. A bit of angst. Minors do not interact.

A/N: a little something, not proof read. I'll be editing tomorrow. Comments are welcomed 👏🏻

You used to think he found you pretty, always sticking next to you or seeking your company, you're fairly sure he even flirted with you sometimes. In his own not-ever-gonna-out- right-tell-you-what-I- mean–way, but you could tell there was something there. That's until the middle Archeron sister came into picture, with her beautiful doe brown eyes and soft silky-looking skin, her pink lips and long curls. Elain was a vision. Azriel was completely mesmerized with her, and it stung like hell to sit and watch as he leaned into her ear to whisper the mother knows what, his fingers delicatedly brushing her bare shoulder.

You sighed and drowned the dark liquor of your glass in one gulp. You were so tired of this shit, wouldn't have made it through half the dinner without Mor and Cass there.

"Everything alright sweetheart?" Cass asked loud enough just for you to hear.

"Yeah, I'm just bored." You smiled dismissively, hopefully convincing enough to ease the worried look he was giving you.

"We should go to Rita's" Mor chipped in, just in time to save you from interrogation.

"Yes! The three of us hadn't been out alone in ages." You agreed quickly, really needing any excuse to get the fuck out of the house.

Cass chuckled. "Yeah, last time I don't really remember how we ended up at Helion's door. Rhys had to go get us."

You laughed, a real sound this time and Cassian's eyes sparkled in amusement. He was always there for you, through thick and thin, ever since you met him. It was instant, the connection between the two of you, he knew you better than you knew yourself. Your best friend, your personal ray of sunshine. You had a feeling he suspected of your...affections towards his brother but you always managed to play it out small, just a friendly teasing. He wasn't a fool though, but kept quiet about it.

"What do you say Cass, are you up to some fun?" You asked, a smirk tugging at your lips.

"I'm always ready for a night with you sweetheart." He winked and leaned back in his chair.

You weren't entirely sure if it was the wine you had been indulging in all night, or the fact that it's been a while since someone flirted with you but your cheeks turned a light dusty pink at his words. Body feeling a little tingly. It wasn't uncommon for Cassian to flirt with you, he was built like that. He pretty much flirted with everyone. But something felt different tonight, maybe the fact that you were feeling a little unsure about yourself as of late, given that a certain shadowsinger had started to pay attention to more... beautiful, delicate things. So you didn't question how the General's words had affected you. You let yourself enjoy it, make you feel good. Cassian always made you feel good.

You rolled your eyes at him and gave him a playful smile, taking a sip of your glass.

Mor almost squealed in excitement. With Rhys and Feyre navigating their new parenthood, Amren and Varian barely leaving her apartment, and Azriel annoyingly pinning after Elain, there wasn't really much fun going on for your blonde friend. You had been over working a lot to be honest, anything to keep away from the house and the irritation that came lately when crossing paths with the shadowsinger, but you were tired and you missed your friends. So you finally decided to come home and a night out with your two best friends sounded esplendid.

"Alright then, let's go" you stood up, pulling Cassian with you, Mor on your heels. You waved your friends goodnight from over your shoulder. Not lingering to see hazel eyes trailing after you.

--------------------------------------------------------

"Is it me or is tonight more packed than usual?" You shouted over to Mor, making your way through the crowd of sweating bodies to the bar across from the dance floor.

Mor chuckled, pulling out a seat for you and signaling for the barman to come over. "It's Friday, of course it’s packed. How long is it since you last went out?"

"Two months, I guess? Since I took the job on the border" you shrugged.

"So, almost three months," Cassian added. Mor sent him a smirk.

"But who's counting, right?" She joked, Cass just rolled his eyes at her and ordered our drinks.

"Aww, did you miss me Cassie?" You prodded playfully at his shoulder. A smirk stretching across your red tinted lips.

"Of course I did, smartass, I didn't know the House could be so silent without your incessant morning rants!" He smiled. You smacked him in the arm. "Ouch! That hurt"

"I didn't even hit you that hard, you're just being a big Illyrian baby." You rolled your eyes, taking a sip ro your drink.

"You love me anyways," he threw an arm around your shoulder. "but for real sweetheart, don't take any more long ass missions for a while."

A warm, real smile made its way to your lips. "Don't worry Cass, I don't intend to."

"Good. Cause Azriel's been a real pain in the ass, I can't stand him anymore on my own." He chuckled.

Your smile weavered a little at the mention of the shadowsinger. "Ugh, don't even start. But let's not talk about him, yeah? I wanna dance."

Cassian opened his mouth but before he could answer, you were already tugging Mor towards the dance floor.

The night passed by between drinks and laughter and dancing, you were currently sandwiched between Mor and Cassian, swaying your hips to the dark tune of the rhythm, arms thrown around the shoulders of your blonde friend, back pressed against Cassian’s hard chest. It was hot and fun and you’ve never felt so free and careless, maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe the heat of the hands resting heavily on your hips was starting to mess up with your head. Either way, you felt bold and beautiful, a taunting smirk adorning your lips as you caught the eye of some male across the room. He gave you and Mor a run over, biting his lip as he made his way towards you. He was handsome, not quite as breathtaking as the males in your family, but he had some pretty attractive features. Sharp jaw and glinting dark eyes, and he looked confident enough that he had found his entertainment for the evening. You smiled playfully at Mor, angling your head to the male as if not to be so obvious, she looked over her shoulder, blonde curls like melted honey dripping over her back and flashed him a devilish smile. That’s when you knew you were out of the game. Mor was beautiful, ethereal. There was no comparing your darkness to her striking beauty, even the shadowsinger had favored her over you, some time ago.

Why had your thoughts taken such a pitiful turn? You were having a good time right? you wouldn’t let your insecurities take root in your head once more, you were here to avoid them after all. Still, you faltered in your steps as the male gently tapped Mor’s bare shoulder. You couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed, unconsciously leaning in on Cassian. Mor, completely oblivious to the downturn in your mood, gave you a playful wink and headed off with the male.

“Nevermind him,” rang Cassian’s deep voice in your ear, “he doesn’t know what he’s missing.” He gave a little squeeze to your hip, breath fanning over your neck and causing goosebumps to erupt in your skin.

“Doesn’t he now? He’s got his hands on the big prize tonight” you murmured.

Cassian’s grip on your hip tightened, pulling you even closer to him, right hand splayed dangerously low on your abdomen. “He’s so beneath you, sweetheart.”

You let out a sigh, finding comfort in the heat radiating off of his body. Cassian’s strong arms enveloping you almost possessively, hiding you away. “Cass,” you called him softly, half turning to face him, “dance with me?”

He flashed you one of his signature smiles and leaned down to press a kiss to your shoulder, “For as long as you want.”

You didn’t really want to think about why you felt so compelled to believe Cassian’s words, it was like everytime he reassured you, you got this warm feeling in your chest that spread throughout your body, all the way to the tip of your toes. You felt lighter, confident, pretty…even, in his presence. There was this sense of sincerity about him, and Cassian –your Cassian– would never lie to you. So you relaxed in his embrace and allowed yourself to get lost in the rhythm again, enjoying the way he seemed to understand your body better than anyone, smoothly following your movements.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was around the sixth glass of fairy wine when Cassian decided that maybe you had had enough to drink, and maybe it was time to get some fresh air. He wasn’t entirely sure the suffocating heat was due to the way-too-packed dance floor or because you had been grinding down on him all night. If he had to be honest with himself, it was probably the latter. He couldn’t understand how did you dare think so low about yourself, in his eyes you were the most stunning female he had ever met, but tonight with that unfairly short, tight dress that hugged all the right places? You were absolutely ravishing. Full plump red lips so close to him, he had to refrain from kissing you until they were bruised and swollen.

“You know what I really want?” you asked suddenly, pulling him out of the trance he had been for the last ten minutes. Your head was resting on his shoulder, eyes glazed and heavy looking up at him. He swallowed, you were definitely tipsy. You’d never look at him like that otherwise.

“What do you really want?” He asked, shamelessly tracing the shape of your mouth.

“A piece of chocolate cake,” you pouted. That pulled a laugh out of him, he wasn’t expecting it.

“You’ve got chocolate cake at home,” he answered, still smiling at your frowning face. “I bought you some this morning, when I heard you were coming back.”

You beamed at him, and Cassian’s heart made a flip in his chest. It was as if he had told you the secret of the universe itself.

“Really?” you asked, smiling widely. He chuckled. “Can we go home now?”

“Yeah, let's get you that chocolate cake sweetheart.”

With one arm securely wrapped around your waist and the other hooked under your legs, Cassian lifted you up easily, as if you weighed the same as a feather to him. A small gasp escaped your mouth once he took to the skies, it never failed to amaze you how truly powerful he was. How disciplined and graceful, even. There was nothing brute about Cassian, despite some awful claimings from equally awful people. This sight of him, the wind in his hair, strong wings on full display, was nothing short of a masterpiece.

As if sensing your ogling, Cassian looked down to meet your stare with a bashful smirk. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You know Cass, you're my favorite person in the entire world.” you whispered, smiling up at him.

His smirk widened. “Oh, you're so drunk.”

You frowned, a little pout forming on your lips. “I'm not drunk. Just tipsy with no filter.”

He chuckled. “I thought Az was your favorite.”

Your frown deepened and Cassian swore your body had stiffened a little. “Why? We barely talk anymore.” You scoffed.

Cassian gave you a sympathetic smile. “He's just been busy,”

“Yeah, whatever.”

And just like that your mood had gone back to the beginning of the night. Sour insecurities resurfacing in your head. It wasn't Cass’ fault though, he's been perfectly charming the entire night. It didn't sit right with you, this awkwardness surrounding you. “He didn't get me chocolate cake though, so you're still my fav.” You tried lifting the mood with a tentative playful smile. He mirrored it, but still he caught your change in demeanor, having fallen silent the rest of the ride home.

Even once inside the House of Wind, comfortably sitting on the counter top in the kitchen, eating a slice of cake, shoes discarded on the floor. You hadn't uttered another word, too lost in your thoughts.

Cassian observed you intently, eyes downcast, hair a little windswept, full lips engulfing the last bit of cake. He swallowed. He didn't understand his brother, how could he resist when you so openly flirted with him? Had it been him on the receiving end of those heated stares shared during training, he would already have you pressed against the nearest wall, devouring your mouth until you couldn't breathe. There was no denying the beauty of the middle Archeron sister, but you? No one could compare to you. Long dark lashes, beautiful plump lips, the subtle sun-kissed glow of your skin… and those thighs. Those godsdamned thighs, you could choke him to death with them and he would die a happy male.

Yet, you didn't seem aware of the effect you had on males —and females as well— whenever you’d walk into the room.

“What are you thinking about?” He asked, low enough not to startle you.

“Am I not pretty enough?” You blurted out suddenly, as if you couldn't contain the thoughts inside your head anymore. Feeling embarrassed about how that came out, you averted your gaze away from him.

“Why would you think that?” Cassian asked softly, a small frown taking form in his face. When you didn't answer he moved to stand directly in front of you. “Sweetheart look at me, please,” his hand came to cup your chin, forcing your head up and causing your eyes to meet.

“It's just..” you huffed, mouth forming a small pout. “I'm not exactly soft and delicate, my body is too strong and maybe I laugh too loud,” You bit your lip trying to stop the spiraling of your thoughts. “I’ve never been…courted, I've had sexual partners, sure, but none of them had wanted to stay. No one has approached me for a while and tonight I thought– but of course not, Mor was there and she's stunning like the sun! I don't know, maybe I'm not feminine enough, that's all I'm saying.” You shrugged, trying to downplay it.

“That couldn't be farther from the truth. You truly have no idea what you do to every male in Prythian that sets their eyes on you.” He declared, looking so intensely at you that you couldn’t look away. The hand that was cupping your chin had moved down to rest on your waist and you sucked in a breath at the sudden rush of heat that act alone had caused to spread all over your skin. “You have no idea what you do to me.” Cassian’s voice had dropped to a low deep purr that had you feeling dizzy. “Breathtaking is not a strong enough word to describe your beauty. You don't think you're soft and feminine?” His free hand dared to trace a path from your hips up to your ribs, stopping just below your breasts. “I can point out a few soft and feminine spots if you wish.”

His eyes had taken a darker tone and you swallowed dry, feeling all tingly where his hands were currently resting on your body. Cassian was beautiful, perfect. You had always known that, but you would have never thought this male to have an attraction towards you. It was simply impossible, you've been best friends for as long as you remember, he had seen the ugly in you, the dark, awful sides of you. And in contrast, you've seen him take gorgeous lovers along the years. So you never gave it much thought, contempt to have him as your partner in crime, your own personal sun. But there was no denying the way he was watching you now, such hunger in his darkened gaze; there was no denying the way your mind and body were reacting to him either.

You didn't know when you had leaned in closer, or had that been him? Your hands were resting on his chest in a poor attempt to keep some composure but you knew he could smell the sweet vague scent of arousal coming off of you. Your face heated up, a faint blush all the way to the point of your ears.

When you didn’t say anything he added: “D’you wanna know why no one dares to approach you?” His breath fanned over your face. “That’s on me, sweetheart. I can’t help it, whenever I’m around you and some poor excuse of a male even thinks he might be worthy to touch you, my blood boils in my veins and I become violence incarnate. I know that. No one would be stupid enough to defy me.”

“But– but why?” you choked out. Too stunned to act cool.

He chuckled, a dark, dangerous sound. “Why? Because I want you. Because I dream about you. Because I need you.”

You tilted your head slightly upwards to stare at him, mouths mere inches away. There was such raw devotion in his eyes, it unleashed something primal from within you. It burned and ached more and more by the second, desperately wanting to be free. Oh, you wanted him. All of him.

“Then have me. Show me all the soft spots you like,” you whispered.

Cassian growled low, “I'm gonna show you just how beautiful you are.” And then he crashed your lips together in a hungry kiss. He kissed you deep and rough, hands tightly holding your hips and bringing you closer to the edge of the countertop.

Your own hands came to rest at the nape of his neck, fingers twisting and tugging at the strands there. You bit down on his lower lip, immediately dragging your tongue over it; groaning softly, he grabbed handfuls of your ass, kneading the flesh there. Arousal shot through your body, all the way to your core, thighs clenching together. You were almost certain your panties were drenched.

“This I like,” he managed between kisses, landing a spank to your left cheek. You gasped and he took the opportunity to explore more of your skin, kissing and nibbling that sensitive spot on your neck. He went lower, licking at your collarbones and you arched your back to give him more access.

Rough, calloused hands slid the thin straps of your dress down your shoulders, exposing your breasts to him. Cassian wasted no time attaching his mouth to your right breast, swirling his tongue and biting softly at the perked nub. Expert fingers twisting at the other before switching between them. You moaned loudly for him, hips jerking, searching for friction.

“These I like,” he said, releasing your niple with a sinful ‘pop’. Then his eyes darted down to your legs, forcing them open with his hips. Your dress had ridden up your hips, lace panties on full display for him. The fabric was soaked and Cassian growled at the sight. All for him. He fell to his knees before you, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs “but these,” he murmured in between love bites. “I love these,” The General moaned before ripping your panties off and letting his tongue drag a long strip up your folds.

“Oh Gods” you couldn't help but moan out loud, fingers finding their way into Cassian's hair and pushing his head further in between your legs. Hips desperately chasing after that sinful, skilled mouth of his.

He chuckled darkly and the reverberations caused pleasure to shoot up your spine, eyes fluttering shut. You were almost sure you could touch the sky with your hands when he sucked harshly at your clit, and all thoughts emptied from your mind. It was just you, and Cassian, and the mindnumbing pleasure coursing through your veins as he fucked you with his tongue. It was all too much, too hot, too messy. His mouth felt so warm on you, fuck, drinking up your juices like he might die of thirst. You couldn't get enough of him, how did you get so long without succumbing to his charms?

Cassian groaned as yet another wave of arousal came gushing out of you, licking it all up, not a single drop to waste. Your taste was divine, he thought he may be high on it, head empty except for the carnal need to make you come undone on his mouth, and then fuck you into oblivion. He was so painfully hard, he could’ve just cum right there at the sight of you above him, looking all fucked up and he had yet to take off his pants. He could feel how close you were as your whimpering grew louder, head threw back in pleasure, too lost to notice the lone shadow that had made its way towards you. Cassian growled in warning, wings flaring proud in a display of dominance as he heard the light footsteps approaching. “Mine.” He seemed to growl on your skin, and you felt yourself tripping over the edge when you locked eyes with the intruder. A plea of The General’s name on your lips.

“Cass please, I'm gonna–” your release barreled through you with blinding force. Cassian rode you through your high, never faltering until you came down.

When you opened your eyes the intruder was gone. It was only you and Cassian in the room, he was smiling brightly at you, your heart gave a flip at the sight. He was still on his knees, lips shiny with the remnants of your orgsm, eyes still full of lust. He was so beautiful. You couldn't resist but to urge him up and kiss him breathless.

“I take it, you liked it” He murmured amusedly, hands still roaming over your body.

“Very much so, yes.” You smiled, leaning in for another kiss. He pressed himself against you, hard and ready, making you moan again.

A sudden new wave of lust (and a tinge of longing) invaded your senses, followed by a tentative tug. You gasped into his mouth, breaking the kiss to look up at him.

“You're…” you mused in awe, not able to form a coherent thought. His smile only grew wider and he dragged his mouth leisurely down your neck, biting softly.

“I'm not half done with you yet, love.”

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar fandom #acotar series #acomaf #acowar #cassian acotar #cassian x you #cassian #cassian x reader #azriel x reader

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buckybabesonly · 1 year

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Disillusioned

Summary: Every time I tried to take a step closer, he took a step back. Falling in love with Bucky Barnes was easy, but the distance he kept between us was torture.

Pairing: Bucky x female!Reader

Genre: Angst, happy ending(?)

Warnings: Smut! And minor character death

Length: 3.5k

A/N: My love for Bucky/Sebastian Stan has inspired me to write again 💕 Enjoy (I hope)!

He was having a nightmare.

Bucky didn't often agree to stay the night - I suspected this was part of the reason why. I woke up to sounds of grunting and the loud grinding of his jaw, my bleary eyes adjusting to the view in front of me.

Moonlight illuminated his profile, his eyes shut and brow furrowed, a thin sheen of sweat on his face. He was still asleep, his fists clenching the sheets as I slowly extended a hand.

"Bucky," I whispered, my voice hoarse. I cleared my throat, touching his naked shoulder gingerly. "Bucky," I repeated louder.

He stirred then, eyes snapping open. He almost looked shocked to see me in bed with him, as if he'd forgotten where he was. He pushed himself to sit upright with a sharp inhale, jaw still clenched.

"Are you okay?" I asked, propping myself up with one elbow, concern laced through my voice despite the exhaustion.

"M'fine," Bucky replied in a tone that told me he was most definitely not fine. He wasn't even looking at me, his blue eyes looking at the wall, distant, as if he was recalling an unpleasant memory. Or as if he just didn't want to look at my face. "I gotta go."

"Now?" I glanced at my alarm clock. It wasn't even 4am.

"Yeah." Bucky stood up, and I blushed despite myself at his naked form. My cheeks burned further as I recalled the particularly heated session we had just a few hours ago, both of us collapsing into a sweaty mess. I had whispered a Please, can you stay? to him before I was lulled into sleep, surprised when he had simply grunted and stayed by my side.

"Wait, Bucky - " I reached out instinctively and held onto his right hand, which felt colder than his vibranium one when he almost instantly snatched it away. I faltered, biting down onto my lower lip. "Can we - what's the rush?"

This happened all the time. Whenever I was lucky enough to have Bucky fall asleep by my side, more often than not, he would wake up from the nightmares and just leave, no matter what the hour was. We had never even slept through a sunrise together.

"I have things to do," was his response, his eyes never once meeting mine.

I clutched the sheets against my torso, feeling the all-too familiar cold, creeping feeling in my chest. That feeling of rejection, the feeling of unhappiness when I remembered that Bucky and I weren't really anything, not really. Not quite friends, not quite lovers, and definitely not a couple. He had made that clear.

"Can we just talk for five minutes?" I asked quietly as Bucky hurried to get dressed, his clothes flung haphazardly around my bedroom.

"About what?"

Anything, I wanted to scream. What do you call it when you are so unbelievably in love with someone, so desperate to keep them in your life that you are willing to just be someone that they came to whenever they wanted some casual company, a warm body, some fun? The word I was searching for was "pathetic", probably.

"Do you want to talk about your nightmares?" I asked, picking my nails nervously. I watched as Bucky paused pulling on his shirt for just a millisecond, almost as if he was caught off guard by my query.

"I don't talk about them," Bucky said after a moment, shaking his head.

"Don't you think you might feel better if you -"

"Look," Bucky said sharply, turning to face me. His stern expression softened ever so slightly at the sight of my face, which no doubt looked as torn and pitiful as I felt in that moment. I knew that I had no place to act as if I could help him in any way - what could I possibly do for him?

Bucky's lips formed a tight smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"I appreciate the concern. But there's nothing you can do to help me."

Right. Just as I thought.

For some reason, this statement almost made me want to cry. It was another subtle reminder of that tiny spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, I had some small weighting to Bucky's life. Maybe I wasn't just a girl that Bucky came to when he wanted to let off some steam. A spark that was always being snuffed out like a candle.

Bucky left quietly and without so much as a goodbye. The room felt so much emptier without him in it.

Sometimes, I felt that Bucky might genuinely care for me.

Whenever he came to see me, it wasn't always just sex. Sometimes we would spend time together doing things like a normal couple might do - he would help me with random errands, have dinner with me, sometimes even tell me stories from his past, a glimpse into his history.

But it was hot and cold with him. Whenever I dared to let myself believe that Bucky was opening up to me, he would suddenly slam the door shut and leave me out in the cold again.

Bucky Barnes made me weak. I was so willing to give my heart to this man who didn't even know what to do with it.

We were in my apartment on a Sunday afternoon as he tinkered about with the plumbing in my bathroom, offering to help me fix it when he saw that it was leaking. I watched with a small smile on my face as I handed him various tools, watching his face scrunched up in concentration.

My phone lit-up, chiming suddenly with six consecutive notifications. Bucky saw my grimace as I glanced at the screen and switched it to silent.

"What's that?" He asked, grunting as he inspected the bathroom pipes, turning his back to me.

"Um." I paused, my tongue darting out to wet my lips. "This guy that my sister is trying to set me up with. She gave him my number and he's been pestering me." I tried to keep my voice light hearted, but the words fell out like lead. My statement was true, but I couldn't care less about this guy - I couldn't even remember his name. I was just playing the childish tactic of trying to make Bucky feel jealous.

Bucky's hands stilled, just for a second, before they resumed their movement. He couldn't have sounded less interested if he tried when he responded, "Give it a go."

I blinked, my gut twisting.

"What?"

Bucky shrugged. "Maybe dating someone will do you some good."

My heart dropped to the bottom of my stomach. I didn't know why I was always so keen to self-inflict this pain. It was as if I needed to constantly remind myself that Bucky just didn't want me in that way, until I would get the message.

"Yeah. Maybe."

When Bucky fucked me that night, he held me tighter than usual.

His forehead pressed against mine, our lips pressed together in an angry kiss, his tongue wet and hot in my mouth. He thrust inside me again and again and again, hips snapping as his hands circled themselves around my wrists, holding them above my head.

His mouth opened and he gasped, my back arching with pleasure as his cock continued to slide in and out of me, searching for release.

He came inside me with a moan, his mouth latching onto my neck to leave a hickey, marking my skin, his chest shuddering on top of mine as he came down from his high.

As usual, he left shortly after despite my quiet request for him to stay.

When my friends asked me how I would be spending my birthday, I lied and said I just wanted to spend it alone. Alone with Bucky.

I was delighted when I asked Bucky if he would have dinner with me on my birthday. He nodded and promised he would be there.

I sat in my apartment, clothed in a little red dress that I was sure Bucky would like. I was bouncing on my feet in excitement when he finally knocked on the door, and I beamed at him when I answered.

He was dressed in dark jeans, navy shirt and my favourite leather jacket of his. He looked me up and down, the corners of his lips quirking up into a smile.

"You look pretty," he said unexpectedly, his voice sincere.

I blushed, my cheeks on fire. "Thank you."

This was exactly how I wanted to spend my day. With Bucky, having dinner in a tiny little French restaurant that we had both discovered one day months ago, walking along the river afterwards as the sun set. I wanted to hold his hand so much, wanted to cling onto his arm, but I knew better than to do so.

"I need to tell you something," Bucky said solemnly as I smiled. I felt so unbelievably happy with him in this moment. This was one of those moments I managed to tell myself that I could accept being his not-quite-a-lover-and-not-quite-a-friend as long as he was by my side.

"What is it?" My smile faded slowly as he met my eyes, his expression stoic.

"I want you to be happy," he said carefully. "You deserve it." The words hung in the air as I waited for him to continue, not even daring to guess what he really wanted to say. "I know how you feel about me."

"How do I feel about you?" I challenged softly. I had never said the words out loud, but I knew that he knew. I just wanted to hear him say it.

"I know you love me," he said after a long pause. The sound of the water filled the silence as I looked at him, unsure of what he would say next. "I want you to be happy, but you know I can't give that to you."

There was a long, strained silence. "Why not?" I asked, my chest tightening. I knew I was being stupid, pathetic even, just by asking the question. "You never even gave us a chance."

I don't deserve one.

"You knew from the beginning that this could never be anything more than what it is," Bucky said, his tone gentle but his eyes hard.

"Why?" I repeated, frustration bubbling.

"Because I don't do relationships," Bucky retorted, voice now sharp. His words stuck themselves into me like needles. "I want you to be happy, really. Truly. But I can't give you a happy ending."

Why did it feel like he was breaking up with me when there was no relationship to break in the first place?

"So now what?" I whispered, trying desperately not to cry. Not in front of him, please. I wanted to know if he ever felt anything for me. I wanted to know if there was ever a time where he might have considered loving me back.

"I'll be leaving the city tomorrow. For good."

I had no right to ask him to stay. Bucky Barnes was his own person, and he would do what he wanted to. I was inconsequential, a nothing. I had let myself become so caught up in this fantasy and my stupid hope, setting myself up for failure.

"Okay."

Love was such a fucking trap. Bucky had tried the whole dating thing in the past, naively thinking that maybe, he could actually find someone and get a taste of normalcy. Before he met her, he had dated a few different girls, but something never felt quite right.

And then she exploded into his life, all smiles and positivity and everything that Bucky might actually need and want.

It fucking terrified him.

He fell in love so quickly with her. It felt so easy, so right. But as soon as he made that realisation, he also knew - love was dangerous. She was so delicate, so trusting, Bucky felt like he wanted to be around her to protect her always.

But having her meant that she would always be in danger. There would always be a threat, lying dormant, until one day something would happen to her. As long as Bucky cared about her, she would always be something to lose.

Sam said he was being dumb. That he was hurting her by teasing her with Bucky's presence and yet always being just out of her reach.

Bucky was selfish. He just didn't want to let her go, even if it meant that every time she took a step forward, he would take a step back and watch her heart get crushed.

But it wasn't sustainable. He knew he had to bite the bullet and leave eventually.

He just told himself that he would do it the day after. Or the day after. Or the day after that.

He just always wanted one more day with her.

Bucky had left two months ago.

Those two months passed by like my own personal hell. The calls left unanswered, the texts left unread. I felt so pathetic as I stared at our WhatsApp conversation, my words being fired off despite telling myself that I shouldn't.

Wed 7 Dec - How are you?

Fri 9 Dec - Where are you right now? Thinking about you.

Mon 19 Dec - I know you won't answer. I don't even know why I bother you text you these. I just want to know if I ever meant anything to you.

Sat 24 Dec - I think I was so stupid to love you.

I don't know what else I expected. He was the famous Bucky Barnes, one of Earth's mightiest heroes. He was busy saving lives and doing dangerous shit, and I was - what? Some random girl who just happened to be there at one point in his life. If it wasn't me, it would have been someone else who had ended up as his fuck-buddy.

The realisation was heart-wrenching. He could easily take off and leave, never answer the phone or my messages, because I was never anything important to him. He could write me out of his life, because I was just a page in his novel. To be forgotten about.

I heard about Sam's death half a year after Bucky had left.

It was plastered across the newspaper headlines. Sam had been killed on a mission in Siberia, a mission headed by himself and Bucky. The moment I heard the breaking news on the radio, my heart stopped, the grief threatening to crush me.

There was a public memorial in Washington, D.C., near the National Mall. I attended alone, travelling there alongside hundreds of thousands of other people, strangers, all wishing to pay their respects to the Falcon.

I didn't expect to see him there. I was so confident that he would be mourning him privately, away from the public eye, away from all the people.

I thought I was hallucinating when I saw the dark figure leaning against the passenger side of my door, cap on his head, leather gloves tight around his hands. I didn't even need to meet his eyes to know it was him.

There were no words exchanged. He got into my car silently as I did the same, barely daring to breathe lest he suddenly dissipate into the air like an illusion, as I was convinced he couldn't be real.

It wasn't until we got back to my hotel that he snapped. The door closed and he was there, crumpling into my arms, his own wrapped around me tightly, his face buried into my shoulder.

His tears wet my skin, ragged breathing loud and in agony.

"I'm so sorry," he moaned in a pained voice, his arms squeezing me so hard that I could barely breathe. "I am so sorry."

"Bucky," I whispered, feeling his warmth against me as I finally dared to accept that he was really here. He was really, truly here. "I got you. It's okay."

"No," he gasped, his tears soaking my shirt. I had never seen him cry before, and the vulnerability broke my heart. "I can't lose you too. I can't lose you."

His knees buckled, dragging me onto the floor with him as he cried, his arms never once letting go of me. My hands lifted to stroke his hair as his chest heaved with painful sobs.

This was the sound of a broken man. The sound of someone who had lost Steve, and now Sam, and the floodgates had finally broke.

He lifted his head to look at me, eyes bloodshot and his hands raised to cradle my face. I felt so overwhelmed by all the emotions in my heart - grief, confusion, love, relief, sadness. Everything all at once, crushing my ability to think straight. Everything felt surreal, happening at a pace that I couldn't keep up with.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered. "I wanted to keep you safe, wanted to keep you - keep you alive, want you to have a normal life, and I ruined everything. I ruined everything." The words streamed out nonsensically to me. "I had to leave, had to go before things got too bad, but I was so stupid. Being so fucking stupid. I can't lose you too. I can't lose you."

"James, breathe," I said gently, staring back at him and trying not to reveal just how worried and perplexed I was.

"You knew, right? You had to know how I felt about you, deep down," Bucky asked, pleading. I didn't answer as he continued to sob - I simply held him, letting him cry against me.

Nightfall came, and Bucky had quietened. You were both lying on the bed, fully clothed, his hand clutching yours tightly. The feeling felt unfamiliar and right at the same time.

"I have always loved you," Bucky said quietly, his eyes staring up at the ceiling.

My breath hitched. He's lying, the voice of doubt said, loudly and clearly in your mind.

"I fell in love with you. How could not?" He continued, his voice pained. "But it terrified me. The feeling of being in love, of having something to lose. The knowledge that I am what I am - someone with a history, with blood on my hands, knowing I've done unspeakable things that I am so afraid for you to find out about."

I turned my head to look at him, not quite daring to believe what he was saying.

"You have no idea." He looked at me finally, his eyes still wet and tortured. "I wanted to let you know how much I loved you. I wanted to be happy with you. But I couldn't."

"Bucky..."

"But I'm tired of running away," he said quietly, shaking his head. "Leaving you was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I don't think I can survive without you." He laughed suddenly, humorlessly. "Is that selfish?"

"No," I replied instantly. My stomach swirled, and I knew he could see the doubt in my eyes with just one look.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

I remained silent for a long minute before I finally answered. "I just don't understand how you could love me."

I flinched at the rage that flashed across his face. Not quite anger at me, I realised, but fury at himself.

"I made you think that I didn't love you back," he said tersely, fists balling up. "And I will never forgive myself for that. I was playing hero but actually I was just being stubborn. Being so unbelievably stupid."

He rolled over to position himself on top of me suddenly, eyes fixed on mine. He propped himself up above me with his hands on either side of my head, eyes pleading.

"When I met you, I had no idea I could feel this way for anyone. The way you smiled at me, the way you understood me, the way you made me laugh and the way you cared. When you fell in love with me, I could feel it. I felt so special to be the one you chose.

I told myself that I couldn't let you in. I couldn't let it get too far. I couldn't tell you about myself, about my childhood, about the terrible things I've done, about the good things I've done, about the hopes and dreams I had for the future. I told myself that if I let you in, it would be too real. You would be someone that I could lose, and if i lost you, it would kill me."

"So you would rather just leave me?" I whispered, my eyes welling up at the memory of the long six months I'd endured without him.

"I thought I was keeping you safe," he replied, eyes closing briefly as he gritted his teeth.

"You broke my heart," I said simply. The statement wasn't made to hurt him, but rather just a declaration of the truth.

"I don't know what to do," Bucky said, shaking his head as his eyes revealed the conflict in his mind. "I don't want to be apart from you anymore. But I don't want to risk putting you in danger. As long as you're with me, you will always be in danger. I don't know what to do," he repeated, looking so anguished that I wanted to cry all over again.

"Please just stay," I pleaded. "Please stay with me."

Bucky kissed you finally, his chapped lips against yours, melting into you as soon as they met. He sighed shakily, as if he was finally home after a long day.

"I'll stay. I'll protect you with everything I have. I promise."

#bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky angst #bucky x female reader #bucky fic #bucky barnes angst

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miss-fanfictions · 11 days

Text

Sundays at the Library | Part Two

Part One

Pairing] Spencer Reader x glasses wearing! shy! librarian! fem!Reader

Synopsis] Despite Spencer's best efforts to keep you his Sunday solace, you become all he can think about.

Warnings] Gruesome descriptions of typical CM gore, references to sex, Spencer's POV, insecure/anxious reader, poetry excerpts, like 3k of Spencer pining over reader (sorry not sorry), tech stuff I know nothing about

Word Count] 14.1k

Author's Note] These are links to the poetry from this part: "Your laughter", "The Insect", "And because love battles". Though I use important excerpts, I would highly recommend reading these because I reference them throughout. Sorry to make you do homework but I promise it's cute bc Spencer is falling in love through poetryyyy.

Spencer spent four days in Seattle, but he would be lying if he said that was the only reason he didn’t get to finish all ten of his library books by Sunday.

He read one book last Sunday evening while sipping tea on his couch and then he read two of them a day from Monday to Wednesday in between his work hours. Early Thursday morning Penelope rallied the troops to the conference room to explain that they were going to Seattle because four women had been found butchered. No case was easy exactly, but this one was especially hard. The women were found in horrific states, cannibalism was suspected, and Spencer was in charge of doing the geographic profile. The problem was the unsub was very criminally sophisticated and it seemed like he had no comfort zone, so Spencer was struggling. To top it all off, one of the victims' mothers had broken down wailing in the police station, right in front of Spencer’s map, begging for someone to find her daughter's killer. . . and the rest of her remains.

Spencer had nothing he could say to the poor mother. JJ ended up trying to comfort her, old instincts from her liaison days kicking in. He went back to his hotel room that night and cried. It’d been a while since he cried on a case, a few months or so, but it happened every so often with bad ones, mostly children. So he let himself cry on the loveseat in the corner for a few minutes before taking a shower, putting on some soft PJs, and crawling under the covers of his double bed. For a while he stared into the ceiling picturing the map, the circles he drew, and the pins he placed on it. Half the pins marked an abduction site and the other half signified where a body was found. If he concentrated too hard, he could see the bodies in the morgue: their blue lips, sheet like skin, the carved out flesh.

Most people would assume there was no downside to an eidetic memory, but Spencer knew there was. He could remember every horrendous, gruesome detail of a crime scene, a victim's injuries, an unsub’s taunts. It all haunted him, swimming around in his vision and fogging his brain when he wanted peace. Reading helped because it kept his brain busy and his head clear. When he couldn’t take the horror anymore, Spencer leaned over the side of the bed to his go-bag on the floor.

Inside was a couple outfits, sleepwear, his usual toiletries, and a few of his library books. He wasn’t sure how much time he would have, so he brought all three of his unread ones. When Spencer unzipped the bag, he remembered he brought four borrowed books. The Poetry of Pablo Neruda sat atop the rest of his clothes and books. It must have floated to the top as Spencer rooted through the bag for his comfiest pajamas. He hesitated to bring it up onto the bed, thumbing the curling corners, but eventually took it into his lap.

Spencer wanted to read the book as soon as he got home from the library. He actually almost blew a stop sign he was in such a rush, which Spencer never did because he was a very careful driver. Some—Derek—would call him too careful, but there wasn’t such a thing as too careful. However because he was so reckless and excited, Spencer couldn’t bring himself to read the book. It was too distracting, too enticing—he couldn’t allow himself the pleasure of it because it would consume him. Already you were nagging his thoughts, distracting him from his day, his job, and he had to curb it somehow. He certainly couldn’t feed into it by reading the book you gave him. So, he decided he would wait until Saturday to read it so you would continue to just be his solace on Sundays.

But Spencer wanted a distraction, he needed one really, and he wanted it to be you. He opened the book and immediately smiled as he was met with your handwritten notes in pink pen ink. He couldn’t explain why the loops and lines were so you, but they were, and it only made it easier for him to hear them in your gentle whisper.

Spencer read 20,000 words per minute, but he read close to three per minute as he combed through the poems and your little comments and analyses. He savored them as much as he could, because he could only read them for the first time once and never again would they be so fresh and sweet. Every other line his heart would flutter and his breath would pause as he searched between the stanzas and in the margins for your own reactions.

Pablo Neruda wrote some powerful political poetry in support of the Communist Party in Chile, but it was only a sliver of the book's poems. The rest of the pages consisted of beautiful and heartbreaking romance poems. As he read them, he thought of you. Because you’d given him the book, of course, and it was your thoughts scrawled out on the page right alongside Neruda’s. In his drowsy head, the words merged, printed black and scribbled pink swirling, and suddenly the woman Neruda was talking about was you. You were the woman he longed to forget, but would forever plague him. You were the woman made for his arms, his kisses, his soul. Your body was the journey his hands itched to make.

But Spencer couldn’t think that of you. When his eyes would glaze and your image would appear on paper, he blinked quickly and rubbed his eyes raw. It was wrong to think of you like that because you were an acquaintance—a friend at best. He had no right, even if you’d given him the book. He thought then about why you’d given him the book. Sure, it was because he reached his check out limit and could always read more, but why had you given him this book? It was clearly a favorite by how worn and full of notes it was, but the notes were your deepest thoughts on love. Obviously he would consider you as he read them.

He tried not to though, he really did, until he came across “Your Laughter.” Upon its title alone your giggle echoed in his ears and he leaned closer to the lamp light to read it unobstructed.

“My struggle is harsh and I come back with eyes tired at times from having seen the unchanging earth, but when your laughter enters it rises to the sky seeking me and it opens for me all the doors of life.”

Perhaps he had imagined those other women Neruda wrote about as you, but this was you. Your laughter gave him life, comfort, and he was starting to think he couldn’t be without it. Every stanza solidified it in his mind that he loved your laugh, that he would take it over bread or air, because in the dim library it stole him away from the world and relieved his burdens, if just for a moment. He finally fell asleep in the early hours of the morning with the page open on his chest.

—

On Friday morning Spencer woke with you on his mind, and that couldn’t happen. He had to banish you from his head, lock your memory away in a deep, dark vault just to get his work done, because every time he saw a flower, or a book, or even heard a laugh, he was thinking of a line from The Poetry of Pablo Neruda and you were that poetry. He had to stuff the book at the bottom of his go bag and swear off it until the case was finished—and he did. He redirected his entire focus back to his map, pins, and circles.

But every night when he went back to the hotel, depressed and exhausted, he sought the book out and found comfort in your words. He fell asleep to them and dreamt your thoughts, then woke up in the morning to you clouding his mind and he had to lock you away again to stay focused.

He was successfully able to rid you from his thoughts at work until Sunday when he woke up antsy at the idea you were in a different state. He tried again to concentrate solely on the case, but when his watch rolled over to 11 he got stuck staring at it, thinking about what you were doing on the other side of the country. It was already 2pm in Virginia due to the different time zones. He wondered what you were thinking. Did you stand at the desk, perched over it for the best view of the front doors? Were you also sad when the hour hand crept slowly passed 11 on the grand clock above the door and he did not walk in? Maybe you didn’t care and the day continued as normal. Or maybe you were only upset he was not promptly returning your book. He thought if only he solved the case faster he wouldn’t have to wonder.

He shook his head, shaking you away, then focused back on the map. Not more than 20 minutes later he solved it thanks to a call from Garcia about a fifth missing woman fitting the victimology. When he added a pin to her abduction site, he found the pattern, the comfort zone, and the unsub. He gathered up the map to present his findings to Hotch, to show him where he knew the secondary location had to be, and just like that the police station was bustling with a new vigor.

They wrapped up the case late Sunday evening. They put away a monster and were able to give that grieving mother and three others closure on what happened to their daughters. That night, a woman went home to her family and Spencer returned to his hotel room, gathered his belongings, and rushed to the jet. He’d never been more ready to get back to Virginia because as exhausted and relieved as he was, he was also sad. He shouldn’t have been, but he was, because 11am came and went in a police station and not in the library ten minutes from his apartment. You’d called him so reliable and he missed it. He should have warned you about his unpredictable hours, he realized, but now he was just anxious to explain himself. He didn’t want to be the unreliable man leaving a trail of disappointment and broken promises, it was so much like his father the thought made him shiver.

He was so quick to the jet he beat Hotch and JJ, who were always prompt to get back to their kids. She eyed him as he bounced on his heels, checking his watch. It was nearly 9:30pm which meant they would arrive in the early morning anyway. He would return to his apartment and sleep, hopefully for a while, because the library wouldn’t be open for hours. But Spencer bounced with anxiety because he was late and he hated being late. All he did was think and he was overthinking. He hoped you weren’t.

“Spence?” He realized JJ’s eyes were on him. She had her usual concerned expression, knitted brows and tilted head. “You okay?”

He nodded because he was okay, technically. There was nothing really wrong. “Yeah, of course.”

She didn’t look entirely convinced, and by now Hotch was watching their exchange. “Are you sure? You look a little. . . stressed.”

She wouldn’t give it up then. “No, I just sort of had plans today I missed. I had to return some library books and I don’t like to be late,” he explained, hoping it would soothe her worries. It wasn’t a lie. . . maybe a bit of a half truth, but his weekends were meant to be his and he wasn’t obligated to talk at length about his personal life.

JJ scoffed, checking her phone as she relaxed, calmed by his explanation. Hotch’s eyes swept back across the street, waiting for the others to arrive. “Well, you know better than to make plans. I missed date night with Will again.”

“That sucks,” Spencer hummed absentmindedly, eyes also watching down the road for the rest of the team.

It was approximately seven minutes later when their SUV pulled up and the six of them boarded the jet. The team took their usual seats, mostly in silence as Hotch did paperwork, Morgan listened to music, and the rest of the team tried to get some sleep. Spencer took the familiar couch at the back of the jet, but he didn’t curl up to sleep just yet. Instead he opened his go bag to the book he had packed away right at the top to ensure he brought it. A smile spread across his face unbeknownst to him as he took it into his hands. He brought his legs up onto the seat and leaned with his arm on the armrest and his head tucked into his elbow as he got comfortable. Unfortunately, he was used to folding himself up on the small couch, long limbs and all, but it was a good enough position to read in.

Spencer picked up where he left off reading slowly again, tasting the words as he mouthed them to himself alone. Every so often his silent recitation was interrupted by a quiet chuckle or a snort, because not only was your commentary deep but it was witty. Your takes on Neruda’s physical interest in love was so intriguingly sardonic he couldn’t hold back a laugh.

Spencer found one particular poem, “The Insect,” sensual until he spotted your jokes scrawled along the bottom near the page number.

“From your hips down to your feet I want to make a long journey. I am smaller than an insect. Over these hills I pass, hills the colour of oats, crossed with faint tracks that only I know, scorched centimetres, pale perspectives."

In your hasty, sloppy handwriting you responded:

“He better be adept at licking between those hills if he is smaller than an insect”

Spencer cracked a wide grin, stifling his laugh in his collar. Your humor, tucked between the pages of an unassuming book, was uninhibited by your meekness. He couldn’t help but think you would never say such a crude thing aloud, or maybe you would, and he only needed to know you longer to hear it from your lips. Neruda’s next stanza was even more lewd.

“Now here is a mountain. I shall never leave this. What a giant growth of moss! And a crater, a rose of moist fire!”

He followed a loopy arrow from the section of lines to your reply.

“Crater??? I suppose my razor bumps must be the stinging rocks that tearing out the moss uncovered”

Spencer snorted, wondering if you remembered writing those quips when you generously handed him the book. They weren’t abundant, most of your responses were scholarly thoughts or opinions on love, but he could see your mood ebb and flow throughout the poems, crossed out thoughts and new additions from when you reread and re-examine with fresh eyes and new ideas. When he got to the end of the poem, he could see how your tone had shifted.

“Sliding down to your feet I reach the eight slits of your pointed, slow, peninsular toes, and from them I fall down to the white emptiness of the sheet, seeking blindly and hungrily the form of your fiery crucible!”

Another arrow from the last word guided him to the next page where he assumed you added more thoughts after going back over the poem again.

“Neruda is only a man, so his metaphors of the body have to be expected. But his unrestrained desire and dedication is the important subtext. To make the journey long and slow and appreciate it all with unparalleled reverence? A girl might just have time to fall in love.”

Your interpretation of the poetry spoke volumes about your outlook on love. How you searched between the lines for the words unsaid, that between the carnal romance, you found desire and dedication. That was what you valued, as well as “time to fall in love.” The sentiment gave him pause because Spencer had a habit of. . . fixation. Spencer cared fast and deeply, and maybe that was too much for you. He would have to cool off, give you space, even if he was starting to want everyday to be Sunday.

“What’s so funny over here?”

Spencer looked up, tucking the book into his chest, startled by Derek suddenly standing right in front of him. “Nothing. Just. . . reading.”

Derek leaned down his head to see the title, eyebrows rising with a scoff. “The Poetry of Pablo Neruda?” He shook his head as he continued behind the curtain to the bathroom. “Only you would be laughing at poetry, pretty boy.”

Derek would laugh too if he took a look at your writings, but Spencer didn’t feel like sharing you. He went back to his reading and it took him about an hour to finish the book. The feeling of turning over the last page was hollow. Of course, he could remember every single word, could recite it backwards if he wanted to, he studied it so intently, but the feeling of reading it, of getting inside your head was over. He drifted to sleep with the book tucked into his arm, trying to hold onto that feeling just a little longer.

Rossi shook him awake when they landed. The sun wasn’t up yet and a glance at his watch told him it was only 5:30 in the morning. The team wasn’t expected back until Wednesday, so Spencer only dipped into the office to grab paperwork before he got into his car and drove back home to his apartment. Blasting the radio was the only thing that kept him awake while driving. He didn’t realize it when he first got on the jet, but his body and mind were exhausted. His limbs ached and his head was foggy. Once he got in the door he dropped his bag on the floor and slumped into his bed, drifting back off into deep sleep.

—

From the way the light filtered in through the blinds, the sun was arching high in the sky when Spencer finally woke up again. His eyes were practically crusted shut and his mouth was dry, all the moisture leaking out onto his face and bedspread. He rubbed a hand over his face as he sat up and stretched. The rest did him good. He had more energy, at least, and he didn’t feel like weights were attached to him. He sat there for a minute, just adjusting to the world, then his eyes drifted to his alarm clock. It was 12:43pm.

At once he jumped up from his bed, raiding his closet for a fresh pair of clothes. He didn’t mean to sleep in, he meant to be at the library early to explain himself. All he bothered to put on was a clean button up and slacks before he slipped on his converse and grabbed his keys. He stopped himself at the door when he remembered he was going to the library to return his books, so he swung back around to pick up the basket on his coffee table and grab The Poetry of Pablo Neruda from his go bag.

He jogged down the stairs to his car, breezing past his neighbor Mrs. Cavanaugh who greeted him kindly. Of course, he drove just as carefully as he normally did, using his turn signal, completely stopping at each stop sign, and maintaining the speed limit, all the while his fingers rapped the steering wheel. His parking job in the library lot wasn’t great, though if he was being honest it never really was, but he didn’t hang around long to admire its crookedness as he grabbed his basket and speed walked into the library.

It was comforting to be met with the familiar chill and paper air. A hand thoughtless combed through his hair as he took his time to walk down the rug to the front desk. He realized he didn’t put a comb through his hair before he left which meant it was definitely wild. He would have spent time being embarrassed about it if he looked over the counter and saw you, but he didn’t. In your chair was an elderly woman who squinted through her own glasses as she read a thick book she clutched in her wrinkly hands. She looked up and saw Spencer standing there, an unamused look on her face.

“Checking something in?” She asked in a smoker's voice.

“Oh, uh, yes,” Spencer floundered, surprised you weren’t there. He took your book from the top of the basket and then brought the rest up to the counter. The woman watched him as he pulled the books from the basket, an over plucked eyebrow raised. He had to dig around in his wallet for his library card too, but eventually set it on the counter to avoid the talons at her fingertips. She let out a sigh as she began scanning them.

Spencer tapped his fingers against the countertop, eyes roaming around the library. Was Monday your off day? He never asked. He actually didn’t know much about your personal life besides that you were in graduate school. Maybe you had classes today? He could come in again tomorrow. . . but was that weird? He wouldn’t have any books to check in, so he didn’t have any actual reason for coming in besides seeing you. Would you find that odd? That he sought you out? He didn’t want to wait until next Sunday to talk to you again.

Spencer looked back at the librarian as she cleared her throat. She finished checking in the books and slid back over his library card, but he was still just standing there. “Is there something else you need?” She asked and he whispered your name. “What?”

“I–I mean, is she working today?” Spencer clarified quickly. “The girl who is at this desk on Sundays?”

She blinked at him, leaning back in her chair and picking back up her book, a sharp finger turning the page. “She’s working.”

He nodded, gathering up his library card and basket and briskly walking away from the desk. With no additional clues as to where you were, he went to the second floor and began walking around. You had to be around there somewhere, eventually he would find you. He scanned the shelves as he walked, looking in the sciences for books that interested him, but he was too preoccupied looking over his shoulder for you walking by. Eventually he was fed up waiting for you to walk by and roamed the library just looking for you.

It took going to the fiction section to find you. He rounded the corner of a bookcase and saw you up on a ladder, arm full of books, the other busy nestling them into their places on the shelves. Your hair was done up and you wore a long, patterned skirt, but also a fitted long sleeve shirt. It hugged you like you hugged the books, and Spencer’s eyes trailed the outline of your figure illuminated by a gold halo from the window behind you. In over a week of not seeing you, Spencer didn’t forget a single detail of how you looked, but the feeling he got when he looked at you was new and invigorating.

He saw you in a new light, literally and figuratively. He knew some of your inner thoughts; each poem he read felt like a conversation. Maybe it was one way, but you read the book so many times perhaps it wasn’t. He hoped maybe you knew exactly what you were doing when you gave it to him, as if, in your own shy way, you were saying all those words to him.

A quiet gasp broke his train of thought and suddenly you were looking at him, turned on the ladder to see him at the end of the bookcase. “Spencer?” You looked surprised, caught off guard, and when you tried to scramble down the ladder clinging onto the books and nothing else, you tripped on your skirt and teetered on the foothold.

Spencer was next to you instantly, the basket sliding up his arm as he steadied you with a hand on your waist. You took hold of his other hand, delicate fingers wrapping tight around his palm, and slowly came down off the ladder. He let you go once you were on the floor again, unsure of what to do with his hands warmed by the feel of you.

“Thank you, I was really trying not to twist my ankle falling off that again,” You smiled nervously, embarrassed, and looked down at the books you held against yourself.

“Again?” Spencer asked, brows quirking up, lips twisting into a smile. Not only were you shy, but you were klutzy. He wasn’t sure which made you more endearing.

“Oh yeah. I was laid up for a week after falling off a three foot ladder. Now I don’t reach so far out,” you explained, finally chancing a look up at him and finding his eyes already on you.

“I got shot in the knee once. I was on crutches for five months, two weeks, and five days and I hated pretty much every second of it,” he blurted out, and to his delight you breathed out a quiet laugh.

“Well you’ve got my twisted ankle beat,” You shrugged at him. He chuckled in reply, and slowly the conversation faded away. He had so much to say to you, to explain, but it disappeared from his mouth when he stood in front of you. Suddenly he felt self-conscious. He wondered if you thought about him even half as much as he thought about you. Finally, your voice came out in the softest whisper. “I didn’t know if you were going to come back. . .”

“I was in Seattle,” like a dam burst, at last his words came rushing out. “I travel for work a lot and I’ve been in Seattle since Thursday. I only got back this morning.”

He searched your face for your reaction but your eyes were unreadable. “You just got back from a four day work trip across the country and the first thing you do is go to the library?” He couldn’t tell whether you were weirded out or not. Normally your emotions were all over your face and he read it just like a book, but suddenly you snapped it shut.

“No. Well—yes, kind of. . .” When you only continued to look at him, he felt the need to keep talking. “I had to return the books, y’know? And. . .” He searched your eyes for an indication to stop or keep going, but they were only pools of hope with borders of acetate. “You called me reliable—before, I mean—and I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t. I didn’t have any way to contact you either to let you know I wasn’t going to come in so I just. . . came here as soon as I could.”

The meekest of smiles lifted the corners of your lips and Spencer nearly let out a sigh of relief. “I guess it’s silly, but I was a little sad when you didn’t come in. I thought I really messed it up, and that sucked because it gets kind of boring in here without a genius FBI agent to be surprised by,” you shrugged, finger tapping along a hardcover book in your arms. Spencer opened his mouth to reassure you that you didn’t do anything wrong, but you continued. “I think it’d be better for both of us if we had a way to contact each other—so you can warn me of course! When work has you too busy to come in.”

Spencer stood in front of you for a few seconds, processing what you were saying. Then you inclined your brows at him and he scrambled to get his phone from his pocket. “Oh, right. You can just put your number in and I will, uh, text you.”

You struggled to adjust the books in your arms to get a free hand, so Spencer set the basket down and offered his help to take them. “Oh, thank you,” you mumbled, passing the books into his long arms and taking his phone. As you thumbed in the numbers, Spencer turned to the shelves and began putting the books in their rightful places. You furrowed your brows at him, mouth falling open. “Oh, Spencer, you don’t have to do that.”

“I’d like to help.” He gave you a smile over his shoulder and went back to fingering over the spines to find the correct placement.

“Thank you then. Just. . .” Your head craned outside the end of the bookcases, glancing either way before walking back to the trolley that carried the books that needed reshelving. “Don’t let Mrs. Wilson see you. I think she’d actually fire me.”

“Mrs. Wilson?” Spencer questioned, brows creasing. “The woman at the desk today?”

You just gathered another armful of books from the trolley when your head snapped back to Spencer, then glanced between him and then the nearly empty basket on the floor, worried. “Oh my God, she checked your books back in. She didn’t say anything mean to you, did she? Nasty little comments are her specialty.”

Spencer took more books from the cart, his eyes glued to you as you scaled the ladder again. “No. She wasn’t exactly friendly either, but she didn’t say anything mean.” You wiped fake sweat off your brow. “Is she your boss?”

“Kinda, yeah. Technically I’m a library aid, but I do pretty much everything she does as the librarian,” you said, voice dry and tired with annoyance. “Actually I do everything she’s supposed to do besides berate people for late books, that’s her favorite pastime. Most of the day she manages the desk while I do everything else. I only work the desk Sunday because that’s her off day. I’m pretty sure she spends it at church because she’s always telling me I should be going.”

He glanced at you as you talked, continuing to organize the books. It was the most he ever heard you talk, and he was starting to hear the same voice he heard on the margins of The Poetry of Pablo Neruda. “I’m glad I came in on Sunday then,” he said. He likely never would have met you if he didn’t come in on Sunday, what with you rushing around doing all the other day to day library duties. That meant there was a 1/7, or 14% chance of him meeting you at the library the way he did. He didn’t even want to think about how slim the chance of him meeting you was after also factoring in the other libraries in the area he could have visited.

“I’m glad you did too.” You smiled over at him, shelving your last book and carefully heading back down the ladder. “She never would have let you check out all those books at once.”

He quickly placed the remaining book in his hand on the shelf, joining you at the trolley as you divided up the last of the books left. “So, if she’s so mean and awful at her job, why don’t you report her?”

You paused, eyes going distant and your shoulders slighting curling in on yourself. “I could report her to the director I guess, but. . .” You only considered it for a moment before collecting the books and spinning away down the bookcase with a shake of your head. “I don’t see the point. She’s just a grouchy old woman. It’s not like I can’t handle it. I think the reason she hates me so much is because she thinks I’m going to replace her.”

Spencer eyed your body language and shift in tone. It was the confrontation that scared you, he realized. He saw it before with Todd and now with Mrs. Wilson and the director. You didn’t stand up to her or advocate for yourself because of some self conscious doubt or fear of rejection. Sure, Mrs. Wilson might be mean and a bit scary, but that shouldn’t mean you have to deal with her blatant disrespect. He wanted to give you some encouragement, but seeing your reaction to his question—the way you curled in on yourself to protect yourself from the discomfort just considering reporting her gave you—made him not want to push you, so he finished putting the books in the bookcase.

“If you say so. I'm just sorry you don’t get along with your coworker. I feel like my team at the BAU is my family and I couldn’t imagine it any other way,” he confessed. His only real family was his mom, but he felt it wasn’t appropriate to talk about her just yet. Although he did feel like the team was also his family, so it felt right to talk about them.

You hummed, a dreamy look on your face. “That’s nice. It makes sense too, since you all have to trust each other with your lives, don’t you?” You brought your bottom lip between your teeth suddenly, hesitating to look at Spencer. “I um, I looked up what the BAU was the other day because I wanted to know what you did exactly. It just said you created “profiles” of serial killers, but it didn’t mention field work.” You slotted onto a shelf the last book in your hands, fidgeting with your fingers as they became idle, eyes wandering back and forth between him and the floor. “I was just thinking if. . . are you in danger often? You didn’t seem very scared of that guy the other day—obviously he’s not nearly as scary as a serial killer, but you also said you got shot in the knee?”

Spencer held back a smile because you seemed upset, but the fact that you took the time to look up what he did and worried about him made his stomach swirl in a way which was more pleasing than nauseating. “Field work is a part of my job, yes. We profile serial killers and other criminals, but we also help the local police catch them. I’ve had other injuries besides getting shot in the knee, too. So, yes, often it can be a very dangerous job.” It also felt wrong to bring up Tobias Hinkel, the trauma Spencer experienced, and the path it led him down. Maybe at a later time he could bring it up, but now he was more comfortable recounting exactly the amount of times he’d been shot at and every injury he’d gotten on the job from being punched to poisoned. Spencer did none of that though, because your face became sickly and your brows knitted so tight with concern he thought they might merge together. “I’m always okay though! I trust my team and we all keep each other safe. I wear a bulletproof vest to protect my vital organs and I carry a gun, so I’m kind of hard to kill.”

You crossed your arms, nodding as you calmed down from the worry. Spencer wondered if you were also an anxious person, it would make sense since you were so concerned about him and his job. It was a dangerous job, sometimes in the moment Spencer dismissed the probabilities that he could actually die, but it was always possible despite his experience, knowledge, and skills. Unlikely, but possible. “It’s a really good thing your coworkers have your back then,” you joked, but it was weak and Spencer could tell you were still unsettled.

He wanted to calm you down, because there wasn’t anything to be worried about. He was good at his job, safe, and he always ran all the probabilities and took the best course of action. Most importantly, he always had a thorough and accurate profile, which Gideon always said was the deadliest weapon he could have. You didn’t need to worry about him despite the danger. “‘What more can they tell you? I am neither good nor bad but a man, and they will then associate the danger of my life, which you know and which with your passion you shared,’” he recited. Your head tilted as you took in his words, an excitement of realization slowly filling up your face. “‘And good, this danger is danger of love, of complete love for all life, for all lives.’”

“‘And because love battles’, Pablo Neruda,” you named it. Spencer was right when he assumed you read it several times because you had it memorized enough to spot it. “That poem is about fighting for and defending his love despite his past and what others have to say about it—not the danger of having standoffs with murderers.”

“Yes, but I can repurpose it. I do this job despite the danger because I love people. I love helping them, saving them. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. If I don’t catch the murderers, who will?” He explained, trying to show you that this job was just a part of him, however dangerous it was, he could handle it. “I know it can be scary, but trust me when I tell you that I’m good at what I do. There aren't any people out there better at this job than my team. You don’t have to worry.”

You plucked at the ends of your sleeves, thinking on what he told you. The seconds ticked by and he resorted to examining your body language, how your shoulders were even and between them your chest rose and fell at a steady pace. Your face was placid too, until it warped with a playful smile and you stepped closer to him. The breath left his lungs in an exhale. “So. . . you did finish The Poetry of Pablo Neruda?” He took air in again with a chuckle. Teasing him must have meant you felt reassured. “You must have been distracted being so good at your job that your interpretation was off, because that’s not at all what that quote means.”

Spencer took a step towards you, his long legs almost closing the gap of space between your bodies before you scrambled back a step. “Oh, I know what you think of that poem. I know exactly what you think of all Neruda’s poems, since you spelled it out for me.”

Your hands came back to the front of you, fidgeting with your fingers as you avoided the intensity of his eyes, face warming with embarrassment. “You read all my notes?” How could he not? Surely, you must have known he would.

“Of course I did. I thought it was all very insightful,” he said, and because he couldn’t help himself, he continued. “Especially all your little jokes. What did you have to say about ‘The Insect’? ‘He better be adept at licking—’”

“Spencer!” You squealed, certainly disturbing anyone who was in the surrounding rows of bookcases. Your hands rushed to cover your face. “I didn’t—You weren’t—oh my God!”

Spencer laughed at your suffering, taking sadistic pleasure in it only for a few moments before he gently pulled your hands from your face by your arms. “It’s okay. I thought they were all very funny. You’re very funny.”

It was harder for you to shake off the embarrassment. You carefully removed your wrists from his hands to wring them. “I didn’t think you were even actually going to read it.”

Spencer’s brows twitched into a furrow, puzzled as to why you thought he wouldn’t read the book you gave him. “Why not? I like poetry.”

You shrugged. “I–I don’t know, I just definitely didn’t expect for you to memorize it and everything I said.”

“I have an eidetic memory,” he countered, knowing he would remember everything you ever wrote and said to him. “And some of that stuff is pretty hard to forget anyway.”

You whined, mortified. “Yeah, I’m starting to realize what that means.”

There was a pause between you and Spencer, because you were embarrassed and he wasn’t sure why. Having someone read your private thoughts is vulnerable and flustering, but you gave him the book. You must have known he would agonize over your every word, but your reaction said you didn’t. Spencer couldn’t help but feel he was reading too far into things, his obsessive, addictive personality sending him spiraling down a hole of a relationship he dug all on his own. You didn’t think about him as much as he did you; you didn’t read into the things he did and search for more meaning.

“Do you need more books?”

“Huh?”

He was staring into your face thinking hard, but you snapped him back out of it. “You finished reading all your books right?” You repeated.

“No, I only read seven of them,” he thought aloud.

“What? What happened to Mr. 20,000 words per minute?” The shyness fled you slowly as you turned again to teasing him. It was cute, but it also flustered Spencer, because he definitely couldn’t tell you he didn’t finish his other books because he spent all his time scrutinizing every word both you and Pablo Neruda wrote.

“I–I told you I was in Seattle for four days. I didn’t have time to finish them because I was busy.” It was a lame excuse because he definitely did have enough time, he just spent it reading the book you gave him because it comforted him better than any other book could.

You hummed, tapping your fingers along your forearm. “Okay, well, you should look for some more books. I have to get back to work or the library’s going to collapse without me. So, um, text me?”

He got whiplash from your sudden goodbye. “Y–Yeah, of course. I’ll see you next week right?”

“Of course,” you repeated, throwing him a wave as you grabbed the handle of the trolley and started pushing it out of the aisle.

“Wait, don’t forget this.” Spencer stopped you as he picked his basket back up from the floor, plucking The Poetry of Pablo Neruda out of it to hand to you.

You took it with a grateful smile, setting it on the trolley. “Thank you, Spencer, I’ll have to give you more poetry book recommendations since clearly you liked this one so much.”

He watched you disappear around the corner and was immediately hit with everything he wanted to say to you, what he should have said, all the conversations he wanted to have had. It wasn’t enough. You’d taken a decent chunk of time out of your busy day to chat with him but it still didn’t satisfy him. Spencer wondered if there would ever be enough of you, or if he was now forever craving you, needing your words, your laugh, you entirely.

He resigned himself to looking around the library for new books to read. Every time he entered a new aisle, he looked for you, having hope you’d be there but you never were. Still, he took his time finding books, but once he had seven in his basket he made his way down to the front desk.

Of course, Mrs. Wilson was sitting there and she was just as pleased as she was before to see Spencer standing in front of her. She stood up as he began unloading the books onto the countertop.

“Seven books?” She croaked.

“Yes? I only have three out and the check out limit is ten,” he justified, pausing as he rummaged his wallet for his library card.

“I know the checkout limit. You can’t check out more than five books at once,” she hissed, clawing two books off the top of the stack and dropping them onto the cart behind her. Without missing a beat, she turned back and snatched up his library card from the counter and began scanning.

“Okay. . .” he mumbled, unsure how to respond. Obviously that wasn’t library policy, but he wasn’t interested in fighting with your coworker. All he needed was for her to dislike him. Well, dislike him more than the disdain she seemed to have for everyone.

When she finished scanning and checking the books out, she slapped his library card on top of the stack and sat back in her seat, picking up her book again without a word. Spencer took that as his sign to get lost and quickly gathered up his books in his basket and made for the exit. He looked back once more as he opened the double doors and turned back around as they shut behind him.

Spencer wiped down the books and his basket in his car, setting them both up snug in his passenger seat. He sat there for a moment, looking back at the library, then pulled out his phone. Like you said, your name had been added to his contacts, your full name. He bounced his leg as he considered sending you a message, but finally gave in and typed a simple one out.

- Hey, it's Spencer Reid.

Again, his leg bounced viciously as his fingers hovered over the buttons, sporadically typing out letters before deleting them. He even set it down before he picked it back up and hurriedly sent another message.

- Mrs. Wilson only let me check out five books.

He tossed his phone over into his passenger seat with a sigh. Spencer Reid did not text. It was strange, embarrassing, and not at all something he was used to. He felt the urge to call Garcia and even ask if he was doing it right. Was there even a right way to text? There had to be and he had no clue what it was. Constantly Garcia was bringing up internet language Spencer did not understand. What if you knew it and he didn’t? He almost went back into the library to research it on the computer.

But he had to go home. He hadn’t eaten yet and his stomach was starting to rumble and growl. There was a chinese place on the way home, he could stop by there and get takeout. It wasn’t the healthiest plan, but there wasn’t much at the apartment besides pasta. That meant he also had to go grocery shopping tomorrow. He sighed through his nose as he put the car in drive, only to immediately throw it back in park when he heard his phone chime. He lunged over the console to the passenger seat so quickly the seat belt locked up and he choked himself momentarily before he could unfasten it and snap up his phone from the seat. There was a text from you.

- When do you go back to work?

His brows creased, but he responded swiftly nonetheless.

- Wednesday. Why?

- That means you have to come in tomorrow at 11, that's her lunch break. I can check you out.:)

He was even more confused by the punctuation at the end of your sentence. He reread it thrice for any clues to the meaning before he tilted his head and saw a smiley face staring back at him. A laugh burst from him, shaking his chest. He could put off grocery shopping until later in the day tomorrow.

—

Spencer came into the library Tuesday at 11am promptly. You escorted him around the library as he found two more books, then you let him pick an additional two more to check out on your own library account. After picking out the books, sneaking to check him out at the front desk became the best covert op mission Spencer had ever done, and he actually had done quite a few. As you talked, Spencer recounted cases he worked on and taught you the lingo they used in the field. When you slunk behind the front desk, you actually whisper-screamed “Clear!” at him with a face so serious Spencer had to slap a hand over his mouth so he didn’t blow the whole operation by laughing in your face. Your head bobbed constantly for any sight of Mrs. Wilson, even though you told him she ate lunch at the diner down the street. Then you slid him the two extra books like the scandal was DEA investigation worthy. All the while, you and Spencer giggled like children.

You were a lot less worried now when he told you about the cases he worked on, he tended to leave out the really scary parts, but the idea of him chasing after armed murders didn’t terrify you as much anymore. You seemed to trust him and his skills more, likely because of his excellent performance during “Operation Paperback,” which was the code name you lovingly bestowed upon your mission to check Spencer out more books while Mrs. Wilson took what was most definitely not a smoke break. (You told him you were going to launch your own investigation into the cigarette butts you kept finding in the parking lot when he left now that you were a pro at “FBI stuff.”)

Spencer left the library with a giant grin on his face and it stuck with him even as he picked out his next week's worth of meals at the grocery store. He also planned when he would see you again and thought about all the things he wanted to talk to you about. Of course, he wanted to tell you about all the great things he did: his successes as an FBI agent, how he earned his PhDs, the time he hit the ball and ran the winning homerun for Derek’s baseball team. But he also wanted to tell you the darker parts of his life: his mother’s illness, how the job had traumatized him, his struggle with addiction. And he wanted to know so much more about you in kind.

Swiftly, it was no longer just Sundays he was visiting the library. He was dropping in after work and on the odd days he had off due to prolonged cases in other states. It took him less than a week to memorize your schedule. You had off on Fridays and Saturdays, and on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays you had classes. Of course, your classes were late after work on Monday and Wednesday, however they were early in the morning on Friday. The library hours were something he also saved in his mental rolodex. It had open hours all seven days of the week: 10am to 4pm on weekends and 11am to 7pm on weekdays. Spencer was leaving work on time for the first time in years to make it to the library before close.

Over the next couple weeks as he went to the library, he realized you spent a lot of time troubleshooting the computers. So when he came in he would either find a book to read or set himself up at an open computer near the one you were working on. He told you he was “researching” things for cases, but he didn’t really have to because anything he wanted to know he could have asked Garcia with her masterful skills and FBI grade software. He came to chat with you, listen to you complain about having to fix the computers so often because the local teens kept breaking them. Still, you were too timid to reprimand them or threaten to kick them out. In his job everyday there was always confrontation, everyone had to do it, so it was both confusing and sweet to him that you lacked the nerve to address people. He only wished you would stand up for yourself, because when you avoided confronting the problems it only ever gave you more labor.

You became much more comfortable with him though. You shared more thoughts openly, met his eyes more, and even shared things about yourself that seemed very personal. You told him about your parents, your friends, your quaint apartment, and some embarrassing stories of your childhood. As close as you both were becoming over the weeks, you refused to let him read any of the poems you wrote because “it's different when you read it than when strangers read it.” He couldn’t dream of it being bad. He wouldn’t even give criticism or comment on it, but still you wouldn’t let him. You did, however, let him read your interpretations and analyses of poetry and literature you were reading for your classes. He would finish scanning the texts in minutes, which you would whine and complain about taking hours doing as a slow reader, and then read your writings and give you his critiques. At first you were nervous and fidgety about it, would go quiet when he didn’t necessarily agree. Then, slowly, you became more argumentative, fighting him on whose perspective was correct. Spencer loved arguing with you, the way your face lit up when you thought you had him, and the pout of your lip when you conceded the genius maybe knew what he was talking about.

He handled five cases over the weeks he got to know you, during which he never used his phone more. He would be away for days at time and not be able to visit the library, so he resorted to texting you during the day and calling you from his hotel room in the evenings after you got home from classes, or just before you tucked yourself in for bed. Sometimes he talked about the cases, only giving you bits of information and keeping out the truly horrific things. Other times, he talked about his life. It was hard at first, telling you about the darkest parts of him, how he was far more complex than he originally led you to believe, then it became easy. You took it in stride, showing him an empathy he never knew he craved so deeply. You comforted him over the phone, or in the library, and assured him you didn’t see him any differently than before. Told him you were still his friend.

His friend. Of all the things you said to him while he was vulnerable, that one was the only one that wounded him. You were a great friend, truly, but Spencer was closer to the realization everyday he didn’t want to just be your friend. On the nights he wasn’t away on a case, when he entered his empty apartment and prepared himself dinner alone, he missed your voice. He wanted you there always, more than someone should want a friend. He never thought about Derek, or Penelope, or JJ the way he thought about you. His team was his family and he loved them, but the way he felt about you was another thing entirely. You consumed him at times. When he should be thinking about a case or chatting with one of the team, something reminds him of you and suddenly he’s stuck in a loop of thinking about what you were doing, thinking, feeling. He was distracted, and the worse part of it all was that his team was starting to notice.

Spencer tried to be discreet, but sometimes as he sent a text under his desk or hidden alone in a room Derek would catch him and he’d have to come up with a fast excuse. It always sounded defensive and not quite convincing because Spencer was not a very good liar. The rest of the team was catching him lost in thought, which wouldn’t be as damning if it didn’t happen so often. He cared for you so much he couldn’t help but think of you all day. He likely would never stop talking about either if he wasn’t hiding your existence from his team. At first it was because he tried to keep you very separate from his work life, like his job at the FBI didn’t have to exist when he was with you and therefore you did not exist when he was at work. But now you’d infiltrated his life completely and there was no possible way to keep you separate. He hid you now because well. . . he was embarrassed. Clearly he was obsessed with you, he couldn’t deny it anymore, but you didn’t feel the same way.

You were caring, kind, generous, empathetic, yes, but in love with him? Well you gave no indication you were. Often you would call him your friend, mention you were scared of relationships, and when he tried showing you he was interested in being more than your friend—getting closer to you, complimenting you, flirting with you—you got quiet and shied away, so he backed off. He wanted to be with you so desperately he put to use all the tips Derek had given him—the PG-13 ones at least—but none of it worked. Perhaps he wasn’t doing it right, or you just didn’t like him. He was trying hard to just settle with being just your friend.

“Oh my God, I hate this thing!” You hissed, slapping your hands over your face and groaning quietly into them.

“I’m guessing you tried turning it off and on again?” Spencer grinned. He pulled out the seat to the computer next to you, hanging the strap of his messenger bag on the chair behind him. Your eyes glared at him between your fingers.

“Don’t make me hate you too, Spencer. That never works.” Well then the problem went beyond his ability to fix. “I just don’t understand how they can get so many viruses on a computer? Everyday I’m blocking new websites.”

Computer six, which conveniently was the computer with the least visibility from the front desk, was almost always in need of fixing. Mainly because of a group of teens who would come in on the weekends or after school to play around on it. Constantly you were blocking the unsecure, often dangerous or pornographic websites they frequented. How they found them all, you could not fathom. You were fairly good at fixing the computer with all the time you’d spent doing it and all the tutorials you had to research, but were truly stuck. It was almost a week of the computer being down and you had no luck repairing it.

“You tried everything?” He asked, his smile dropping into a frown at your distress.

“Yes. I don’t know what to do anymore. Mrs. Wilson is on my ass about fixing it and she’ll never call the director to send someone to fix it because that costs money. And I’d have a better chance at winning the lottery than getting a new computer and I don’t even play.” You drug your hands down your face, shoulders slumped in defeat.

“I could get it fixed.”

You let out an unstifled laugh, which he would be happy to hear if you weren’t laughing at him. “Spencer, you suggested turning it off and on.”

“No, I mean I could ask someone to fix it. A member of my team, Penelope, is a technical analyst. She’s very good with computers and she could fix it.” He didn’t want to ask Garcia, actually the last thing he wanted to do was get his team involved, but he hated even more to see you so upset and stressed. He was just your friend and that was all Garcia would see.

Your mouth fell open and you waved your hand dismissively. “Oh no, I couldn’t bother her with this. She's probably so busy. I–I can handle it.”

Spencer smiled. You were so sweet, always determined on dealing with things so you didn’t have to put the weight onto others. It only made him want to help more. “She’d be doing me a favor. I’m sure she’ll be happy to help.”

“Are you sure?” Beyond the apprehension, he saw how hopeful you were.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll let you know when she can come fix it,” he said, watching the smile spread across your face. You were so elated, you reached over the space between the chairs to give him a hug, letting out a deep sigh of relief.

“Thank you so much, Spencer,” you mumbled into his shoulder. He awkwardly patted your back, unsure exactly what to do with his gangly arms. He wasn’t too much of a hugger, neither were you, so it was the first time you’d ever hugged him. His cheeks warmed at the thought.

Unfortunately, he had to follow through on his promises. So the next day when he went into work he hung around the door to Garcia’s lair, repeating over and over in his head how he was going to ask. He opened the door with a knock and she swirled around in her chair to look at him, a megawatt smile beaming.

“Hey handsome, what can I do ya for?” She greeted, spinning a fuzzy orange pen between her fingers.

Spencer wrung his hands in the doorway, halfway between coming in and running away. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor?”

“Of course! What did you need me to look up?” She spun back in her chair, hands at the ready.

“It’s not that, it's a personal favor. A–A tech problem. Do you think you could help me with it this Sunday?”

Slowly, Garcia tapped her heels on the floor to turn her spinny chair back towards Spencer, eyebrow quirked. “Okay, technophobe. What’s this tech problem because I didn’t think you owned a computer?”

“It’s a computer at the library I go to. It’s been out of order for a week now and they can’t seem to get it fixed,” he explained, continuing to fidget.

She pursed her lips and tilted her head, gesturing at him with her fuzzy pen. “Is there not more than one computer at the library? Or are libraries really that popular still? I think you should just get a computer, Reid. I promise it’s not that scary and I’ll pick you a good one! The kind even old people know how to use—no offense. We can go—”

“Garcia,” he interrupted her rambling with a wince. Clearly he wasn’t going to get away with asking for her help so vaguely. “The library can’t afford to pay someone to fix it so I told the librarian I’d ask if you could. If you’re too busy, it’s alright.”

She seemed skeptical, mouth bobbing open and closed like she had more to say, but finally closed it with a simple nod. “I can fix it, of course I can fix it. JJ canceled our brunch plans Sunday so I can be there at 11:30.”

Spencer gave her a tight lipped smile and a nod. “Okay, I’ll send you the address. Thank you, Garcia.” He wanted to add that she probably shouldn’t mention it to the rest of the team, but knowing Garcia’s lack of subtlety and habit of being just a tad nosey, he figured that would only make it more suspicious and odd.

So he gave her a farewell and speed walked back to his desk, taking his seat with a heavy sigh of relief. Garcia may not be a profiler, but she knew him well and she had a bloodhound like nose for gossip. If he wasn’t careful, she would sniff out just how much he liked the librarian he mentioned so briefly. Then it would spread like wildfire around the office and Spencer would be safe from no one’s prying and teasing.

It was the first Sunday he was nervous to go to the library. His palms were sweaty as he waited at the computer with you, you none the wiser. He tried to focus on you to calm down because you were always his source of comfort. His eyes trailed over your long skirt and t-shirt combo, making note of the way you kept touching your arms as if you were cold. No doubt you’d slip on the cardigan you kept behind the desk soon, but he assumed you wanted to look nice to meet Penelope, because you did look very nice. Your hair was out of its updo and if he looked hard enough at your face, which he did, he could tell you were wearing lipgloss and some other little bits of makeup.

“You okay?” You asked him softly, eyes looking over his own face.

“I’m fine,” he blurted maybe a little too quickly because you looked unconvinced. Slowly you were learning his tells and he wasn’t sure how long it would be before you found out how fixated he was on you and you didn’t want to be his friend anymore. “I just. . . I hope Penelope can fix it for you.”

You smiled sweetly, looking away at the entrance. “I bet she can, but even if she can’t, it's okay. It was nice of you and her to try.”

He wanted to reassure you that he would always try for you, but Penelope came through the double doors, absolutely glowing like the sun. In mood, but also in outfit. Or maybe it was more like a sunflower? All Spencer knew was that it was very yellow and vibrant. She came rushing over when she saw him and you stand up to greet her.

“Hi, you must be Penelope. Spencer told me so much about you,” You greeted and immediately Spencer realized he messed up.

Garcia’s eyes ran over you, then went back and forth between you and Spencer. He could see the gears turning in her head. “Oh, hello!” She chirped, friendly as always but awkward because she heard nothing about you.

Quickly, Spencer introduced you to Penelope and both you and her shook hands before she put him out of his misery and asked what the problem with the computer was. She took a seat at computer six and you stood next to her, pointing out things on the screen.

“I have some kids that keep coming in and going on all these sketchy websites. I keep blocking them, but they keep finding new ones and it’s loading the computer up with viruses. Then it runs slow and freezes so often it’s unusable,” You shook your head as you explained, exasperated by it all. “Sorry, I know it’s a lot, but do you think you could fix it?”

“Oh, please. Those are some easy fixes! I’ll just remove the viruses and add some more blocking software not even tech savvy kids can get around.” Garcia was already typing at the computer, doing things on the screen Spencer didn’t bother to try and comprehend. He was looking at you as the grin yanked up your lips.

“Really? Thank you so much. I’ve been fighting with this damn thing for weeks. I’m not great with computers.”

“I think you’ve done pretty good so far. You’re much better than Reid, that’s for sure. Sorry fellow genius, but it's true,” she glanced back at him, almost remorseful but still carrying a smile.

You laughed, always eager to tease him. “When he’s on a computer I think he lied to me about having an IQ of 187. He needs my help finding research databases, pulling up old articles, everything but logging in, really.”

“Huh,” Garcia glanced back at him again, only to find his eyes averted and his hands stuffed into his pockets to stop their incessant fidgeting. He was caught and he knew it. He maybe. . . exaggerated how bad he was with computers to you at first, just to get you to come over and talk to him when he first started coming to the library after work, but unfortunately he didn’t know how to end the ruse. Garcia called him a certified technophobe, but even she knew he had those basic skills, especially since she’d seen him do it on his own before.

“How long do you think it will take?” You asked, glancing over the rest of the computers to the desk. “I just have to get back to managing the front desk.”

“Only about a half hour. I’m going to do the other computers as well to save you some time blocking websites. You can go though, I got this.” She gave you a smile, gesturing for you to leave.

“Thank you again, Penelope. I’ll be back before you’re done,” you promised, fluttering away from the table swiftly to help someone standing at the front desk.

“So…” Garcia was looking up at Spencer impishly.

“So?” He asked, though he had a good idea of what was coming.

“Do you like her?” Her eyes were hopeful, lips spread into a grin.

“Garcia. . .” he warned, pleading for her not to go any further. He didn’t want to have to lie, but he couldn’t tell her that he was hopelessly falling in love with you.

But that only sold it for her, her hands reaching off the keys to fan her face. “OMG. You do like her!”

He glanced around to see if you heard her exclamation, but you were busy talking to the man standing at the front desk. “Penelope, she’s my friend,” he tried to be firm in his assertion, but even to his own ears it sounded more like a whine.

“A very cute friend! Who seems like the sweetest person on earth. Oh, and she works in a library. So adorable—y'know—because you’re always reading? Are you sure she’s just a friend?” She launched into a ramble, too clouded by the idea that he may be interested in someone to recognize the hurt on his face.

“I’m sure. She’s… she doesn’t like me like that,” he sounded sad, he didn’t mean to, but he was. He had a very hard time hiding his feelings, and now Penelope heard it and was looking at him like he was a kicked puppy.

“Oh, well, I—really? She seemed so. . .” She was at a loss for words, watching as you walked past guiding the man from the desk over to the staircase, likely showing him where to find a specific genre. Penelope shook her head as you disappeared from view, redirecting her focus back to the screen and letting her hands fly back to the keyboard. “I should mind my business. Right. Bad Garcia.”

Spencer frowned, eyes lingering on where you vanished up the stairs. He pulled back out the chair beside her and slumped in it, avoiding her eyes. “Thank you, Garcia.”

He didn’t have to thank her for long though.

She fixed the computer and you were so incredibly grateful you hugged her. Or rather, you hugged her back after Garcia enveloped you into her arms, so overwhelmed with your praise, but you seemed glad to let it happen. Even after she left, and a few days later the teens returned, they were upset to find the new restrictions on the computer they couldn’t bypass, much to your delight. Spencer was thankful for that, but he was much less grateful when only a week and a half later Garcia slipped up and mentioned you to the team.

He was wrapping up his paperwork fast, reading through documents at lightning speed and filling them out so quickly his handwriting was nearly illegible. But he promised he’d come to the library to see you after work because he was away on a case the past couple days including last Sunday. He was so invested in completing his paperwork he didn’t even notice Derek and Penelope passing him with cups of coffee.

“Whoa kid, got a date you're running late for?” Derek joked, perching at Spencer’s desk to grin down at him with a teasing smile.

“Oooo, I bet it's that cute—” As the words came tumbling from Garcia’s pink lips, Spencer’s face ripped away from his paperwork to look at her, and with a look of horror she quickly cut herself off to sip from her mug.

Derek’s brows creased, looking between Spencer and Garcia with an amused bewilderment. “That cute what?” When Garcia avoided his eyes, drowning in her coffee, and Spencer’s cheeks turned pink, realization covered Derek’s face. “Oh, okay pretty boy, I see you! That must be why you’ve been on your phone so much. What cute girl have you been talking to?”

Spencer cleared his throat, turning back to his papers as he consolidated them from the cluttered mess into a neat pile. “No one.”

Derek laughed, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “No, no, no. Don’t get all shy now, playa, spill.”

When Spencer refused to respond, continuing to shuffle about his papers, Derek narrowed his gaze onto Garcia, who could drink from her cup no longer and began coughing. It gathered the attention of a few other pairs of eyes in the office just in time for her to finish her choking and begin spilling.

“Okay! She’s this absolutely adorable librarian! She’s the sweetest thing and her style is so cute and I wanted to ask her where she got her glasses from, but I was too distracted because Reid totally likes her and thinks that she doesn’t like him, but I was trying to get all profiler on her because I thought ‘there’s no way she couldn’t like boy genius because he’s just as cute and they are so made for each other’ and—like you guys know, I’m no profiler—but I’m pretty sure she likes him!” Finally she took in a breath, practically hyperventilating and fanning her face.

Spencer gawked at her, wide eyed. “Penelope!”

She looked at him sympathetically, but it was Derek’s face that he focused on. His brows were high on his forehead, mouth gaping as he took all of her words in. “Okay, first of all: wow. Second of all: why do you think she doesn’t like you?”

Spencer chewed on his lip. He didn’t really want to explain himself to Derek and Penelope, two people known for their confidence and dating escapades, but he was cornered. Not only that, but he was becoming so desperate he found himself wanting their advice. “I–I don’t know. Whenever I try to show her I’m. . . interested, she gets quiet and awkward.”

“How have you been showing her you’re ‘interested?’”

He shrugged, leg bouncing under the table. “Flirting with her I guess?”

Derek scoffed. “You guess?” When Spencer could do nothing but look away with a heavy sigh, Derek continued. “Look man, she could just be shy. I know it’s scary, but you have to just ask her out on a date. That's the only way you’re really going to know if she likes you.”

Spencer picked at a loose thread on his cardigan, voice quiet. “But what if she says no? I just. . .” He licked his lips, playing over the words in his head and wondering if he wanted to be so vulnerable to Derek and Penelope. “I like her so much. . .” he whispered.

Garcia cooed, tottering around the desk in her heels to wrap her free arm around Spencer. “Who could ever say no to you, handsome? I’m positive, she’ll say yes, I know that girl likes you!”

“Hey,” Derek said, getting Spencer to look up at him as Garcia released him. “You got nothing to worry about, pretty boy. Now you go to that library and ask her out to a nice fancy restaurant—which no pretty girl can refuse—and I’ll worry about this paperwork.”

“Are you sure?” Spencer asked meekly, but Derek and Penelope only reassured him and ushered him out of his seat. He was out of the office less than ten minutes later, getting into his car. He flipped down the sun visor to look at himself in the tiny mirror, frowning at his reflection. His hair was always a mess and he needed to shave.

He flipped the visor back up with a sigh, putting his car in drive and taking himself to the library before he sat in the parking lot all night stressing. He didn’t have to ask you out, but he did have to go because he promised you he’d be there. . . and he missed you dearly.

The library was empty when entered. There were sometimes a few stranglers this late, but on a random Tuesday night the library was clear of everyone but you, bent over wiping down the tables for the night. His eyes roamed over you, breath catching in his chest like it always did when he first laid his gaze on you again.

“Good evening,” he greeted, trying not to startle you with his presence.

You turned quickly, a smile taking over your bored face when you spotted him standing by the front desk. “Spencer! How was your flight this morning?”

“Fine. I finished the book on biological regulations and development, but I mostly just slept because we had a whole day of paperwork to catch up on.”

“And work today?” You asked, throwing a wet wipe in the trash and plucking out another as you moved to clean the next table.

“Like I said, paperwork. Very boring.” He untucked his hands from his pockets, setting his messenger bag down at the front desk and grabbing a wet wipe from the container to help you wipe down tables. He often helped you with your closing work when he arrived so late, especially on nights you had classes after work. “How about you?”

You shrugged, gesturing around the room with your hands. “It’s the library. Same thing everyday here.”

“That’s not true. What about the clown?”

A laugh burst from you as you remembered the story you told him the other day on the phone, you curled up in bed and him sitting on a couch in a hotel room five states away. You stayed up late until he got back from the police station just to tell him about the man who came in dressed in a full clown get-up to print out coloring book pages for a birthday party he was running late to. It made your whole week and you just had to tell him, howling particularly hard about how Mrs. Wilson, after thoroughly wiping down the printer, printed out a notice to put on the front door instating a library dress code of no costumes.

“The clown was probably the most interesting thing to ever happen in this library. That says something about how boring it is.”

“Is the FBI showing up everyday not interesting?” He mocked confused.

You gave him a playful glare over your shoulder. “Okay. I guess you can be the second most interesting thing to ever happen in this library. Right below the clown.”

Spencer chuckled. “I should be offended by that, shouldn’t I?”

“Feel how you want to feel, Spencer. But Bo-Bo is the only one who’s given me coloring book sheets.” You shrugged, playing nonchalance.

“Oh, because I print those out so often at my job? If I did, there wouldn’t be enough crayons at the dollar store for you to color them all.” Maybe he was in a fake competition with a clown for your favor. Either way, when you ducked your head with a breathy giggle, he knew he won it.

When you both finished wiping down the tables, he took out the trash while you set about turning off the lights, shutting down the computers, and other small tasks. He met you at the front desk as you collected your bag and jacket, pulling his messenger bag back over his own head. He held the door open for you as you both left the library and stood by your side as you locked the doors.

“Thank you for helping me close,” you smiled at him as you tucked the keys into your bag.

“Of course.” He wanted to say it should have been Mrs. Wilson helping you, because the old bat usually took off an hour or so before close, but you brushed him off every time he suggested reporting her and he didn’t want to sour your mood. He also liked walking you to your car, especially when it was this late and dark, because the thought of anything happening to you was so devastating he couldn’t stand to think about it.

So he walked with you down the staircase and across the lot to where you parked your car early this morning and he pulled in next to you a little while ago. It was already dark, but the street lamp you parked your car under illuminated you and him as you stood under it, arms wrapped around yourself. You searched for something to say, he could see it in the way your lips twitched and your eyes roamed his face. For a moment, the sound of crickets and the eerie hum of night faded, and Derek’s words were thunder in his ears. He would never know unless he asked you, and he couldn’t live looking at your sweet face knowing he never even tried.

“Would you want to go on a date with me?”

Your eyes nearly as big as planets amplified by your glasses, which glinted off them as you nodded rapidly, lips parting to take in a sharp breath. “Yes!”

Spencer was taken aback. His ears buzzed and a tingling sensation filled his extremities. He was elated, but thrown off by your complete enthusiasm. “Wha–really?”

You shook your head at him, laughing breathily as if he stole the wind from you. “Yes, of course I do, Spencer. I–I’ve wanted. . .” Your eyes looked between his nervously.

“You wanted what?” He insisted, leaning in because he had to know what you’ve been thinking, what you’ve been wanting from him that he missed.

You looked down shyly, picking at your nails despite how your fingers shook. “I wanted to ask you out when I first met you. When you were just some guy in the library, and I thought you were obviously flirting by trying to impress me but. . . then you were telling the truth and I–I was so embarrassed I was wrong and I thought you didn’t like me like that. . . and soon enough you weren’t just some guy, you were Spencer, and I–um, I couldn’t let myself ruin it.”

His hands gently took yours, stopping their anxious picking. His pupils were blown wide as he looked at you, heart so full and beating so fast he heard it thrumming in his ears. “You couldn’t ruin anything. You’re so. . . perfect,” he mumbled, close enough to taste your air. “I haven’t been able to get you off my mind since you gave me that book. I saw you in every poem and reading your thoughts made me feel like I was in your head, feeling what you were feeling. I needed it after every case, I–I needed you. All I wanted was to ask you out but. . .”

He was at a loss for words, but you shook your hand, squeezing his hand in yours. “It’s okay, Spencer. . .” His eyes glanced down to your lips, but just as he considered leaning down to capture them with his, you ducked your head nervously again, softly letting go of his hands. Spencer reeled with disappointment he didn’t kiss you, stuffing his hands back into his pockets. “Um, I did give you that book on purpose. I think the most romantic thing on this Earth is poetry and. . . I hoped it was enough of a sign.”

He recovered quickly, excited just to know you returned his feelings. He sighed into the new open air between the two of you. “I knew it. You bewitched me.”

You giggled, a sweet sound that picked up as you met his eyes again, swatting at him with a hand. “No I didn’t!”

Your laugh dissipated and the two of you were standing in the parking lot, looking at each other under a streetlamp. “Saturday at seven?”

“What?”

“Our date? Is Saturday at seven okay?” He reiterated.

“Oh. Oh, yes. That’s a good time,” you stuttered, snatched from whatever daze you stared at him in. He smiled.

“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll figure out the details?” He offered. You needed time to process it, he thought, because he knew he did. He would get home and sit on his couch, replaying every word from your lips and flutter of your lash in his head. Maybe that was the best part of an eidetic memory.

“Okay.” You nodded. He opened your car door for you and you climbed inside. “Good night, Spencer,” you hummed at him before closing the door.

He watched you leaving the parking lot before he got into his own car because he had to sit there for a minute, calming his pounding heart before he got out on the road. For the first time in a while, he was most excited for Saturday over Sunday.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #Spencer Reid x y/n #criminal minds x reader #Spencer Reid imagine #Spencer Reid fluff #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds imagine #Spencer reader x fem!reader #Spencer Reid x you #Spencer Reid x shy!reader

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poisonlove · 9 months

Text

Thoughtless sex | w.a

Y/n is Tyler’s sister, a blood bond that was supposed to bring harmony, but the tumultuous past continues to cast a shadow over them. Wednesday doesn’t seem to care about this detail and ignoring her conscience decides to turn off her sexual desires with the girl Galpin

Will they manage this intricate web of feelings without disrupting their lives forever?

Warning: 18+

"Yes... continue" she said biting her lips hard. I clung more to her thighs and stuck my tongue in her privacy.

We were in the woods away from prying eyes.

"Shit!" Wednesday moans biting her lower lip, closing her eyes. I smiled and kissed her inner lips gently, releasing a stream of saliva that connects her to my mouth. With one hand, I made rotating movements around her clitoris, causing Addams' sighs to become heavier. My hand was completely covered with her fluids, I leaned over and left another kiss on the bundle of nerves.

I licked with my tongue the excitement I had on my lips. I put my lips back around her clitoris and stuck two fingers inside her.

With the corner of my eye I saw Wednesday’s knuckles turn completely white, squeezing the car seat in need

The moans echoed in the car.

The walls of Addams narrowed around my fingers and I realized it was coming. Wednesday put her hands in my hair and put more pressure on her intimacy. I kept licking and penetrating.

Her back arches more.

" IF..." moans and arching fingers I found her G-spot. Mostly twin. -"Fuck!" exclaims.

Her hips moved more and I increased the rhythm of the lick. As I stopped penetrating her, I put my fingers in her mouth, sucking her nectar.

" Look at me" I exclaim with a small smile, ceasing to lick her delicious intimacy. With difficulty she put the weight on her arms and looked at me excitedly.

She was covered in sweat and her lower lip was caught between her teeth. I took her legs and invited her to rest on my shoulders, giving me more access to her privacy. Without looking away, I licked again and saw that Wednesday moved the weight on one arm, the other stretched it and put her hand between my hair.

Wednesday moves her hips again.

Moaning.

"Fuck!. Yes.." whispers.

Her eyes turned white with excitement. She turned her attention back to me.

"Y/N" exclaims with difficulty.

" I’m.. to... " murmurs with difficulty and does not even finish pronouncing the phrase I feel her excitement pouring into my mouth.

I ate the excess.

Wednesday moves swiftly to fix her skirt, glancing at herself in the rearview mirror of the car.

I wipe my mouth, slightly incredulous at Wednesday's gesture, and sigh audibly.

"What's going on?" Addams mumbles weakly, looking at me with boredom.

"Do we always have to see each other in these circumstances?" I ask curiously, leaning against the seat.

"Between us, it's just sex," Wednesday frowns.

"I know... but do we always have to do it in this car? Maybe we could meet somewhere else, maybe in my room or yours," I murmur absentmindedly, biting my lower lip.

"Some things are off-limits, too many risks," Wednesday confesses venomously. "Plus, I don't want Enid to suspect," she adds coldly. "She hates the fact that you're Tyler's sister," she admits.

Tension in the car increases as Wednesday's words hang in the air.

Wednesday Addams' eyes are truly a wonder. They have a mysterious and seductive color, a deep and vibrant black hue that seems to capture the light fascinatingly. They are piercing eyes capable of expressing a wide range of emotions, from a seductive and provocative gaze to a cold and distant one. They are the eyes of a woman who knows how to use her charm to her advantage and who hides intriguing secrets.

I visibly get angry.

"I know Tyler was horrible to you, but I'm not like him... I'm genuinely interested in you, Wed," I murmur with a hurt tone, reaching out to her.

Wednesday moves away quickly.

"I don't want to be seen in public with someone like you," she confesses, looking at me defiantly.

I nervously smile and simply shake my head.

"Fine, I don't want to be seen with a shallow and unpleasant girl," I admit, and Wednesday looks at me seriously.

"Between us, it's over," I confess seriously.

"Well, then we're done, useless," she looks at me defiantly. Wednesday swallows and gets out of my car.

"To leave and to end are the same thing," I shout as I watch Wednesday walk towards her rooms.

Anger and disappointment overwhelm me as I drive away from the scene, making it clear that this story has come to an end.

"No more casual sex," I whisper to the air as I start my car.

(...)

The morning sun painted the sky with golden hues as Yoko and I walked through Nevermore's ancient gate, heading to our next class at the academy. The leaves of the trees, now dressed in autumn colors, danced lightly in the air.

"So, Y/n... what class do we have now?" Yoko yawned and adjusted her sunglasses.

"We have art history," I replied, smiling, flipping through the schedule. "It will be interesting."

Yoko stretched and nodded, ready to face the next part of the academic day. As we headed towards the classroom, the campus buzzed with student energy.

"And tell me..." Yoko murmured with a hint of curiosity. "Why didn't you tell me you're with someone?" she asked, playfully revealing her fangs.

"W-What?" I stammered, panicking and shaking my head. "Y/n, if you want to keep it a secret that you're with someone, at least cover the hickies," she said mischievously, and my cheeks turned red.

I spotted Wednesday in the distance, walking carefree with Enid. I felt sad and neglected, as if my role in her life had become invisible. It was as if a piece of my heart shattered seeing that my presence didn't seem to matter to her anymore. I wanted to call out to her, to make her notice me, but something held me back, leaving me with an emptiness and a sadness that tightened my chest.

"Hey," Yoko called, snapping her fingers and catching my attention.

She gave me a shy smile and hugged me, wrapping an arm around my neck as we walked together.

"I was distracted... sorry," I said with sadness, trying to hide my unease behind a forced smile. "Let's go," I continued, forcing a happier expression.

Addams gave me a quick glance, a flash of interest or perhaps something more complex, before walking decisively towards the building entrance.

I felt increasingly involved in this intricate situation, as if I were trapped in a web of complicated relationships. The sadness continued to burn inside me, but I tried to focus on the present moment, trying to overcome this discomfort that undermined my confidence.

Walking beside Yoko, I took a deep breath and prepared to face the day.

"Hey, sorry..." Yoko bit her lower lip slightly, visibly concerned. "I just remembered I have to meet Bianca," she confessed quickly.

I sighed, realizing that the situation forced me to separate from her, even if only for a while. Yoko gave me a apologetic smile and a kiss on the cheek before heading towards Bianca, the queen of this school.

I watched her go, feeling a mix of loneliness and determination.

I put on my headphones, trying to isolate myself from the surrounding world as I climbed the stairs. I had to cross the deserted and abandoned corridor. My heart was racing, the tension in the air palpable.

Suddenly, two hands grabbed my collar with firmness, pulling me abruptly into the rarely frequented bathrooms. A shiver ran down my spine, and my eyes met Wednesday's black irises. Her gaze seemed penetrating, dark, and enigmatic.

I stood still, caught between fear and curiosity.

Wednesday's hands firmly grabbed my pants' belt, making me tense, as she approached my neck with determination. I looked confused, unable to understand what was happening.

"What are you doing?" I asked uncertainly, trying to ignore the confusion that overwhelmed me.

Wednesday looked at me seriously, without answering, before leaning further and pressing her cold lips against mine. A shiver ran down my spine, and for a moment, instinct made me respond to the kiss.

But reason prevailed.

I finally found the strength to break that kiss, my heart beating fast, and my breath short.

"We're done, Wednesday," I managed to say decisively, trying to convey my feelings.

But she held my neck firmly, pushing me again towards her for a needy kiss.

"I don't like to fight, okay? Can we keep fucking" she whispered calmly, her hands still around my neck.

I was astonished, my mouth opened to say something but remained speechless. Wednesday swiftly moved to my neck, starting to leave sloppy kisses on it.

I felt trapped in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, desire conflicting with confusion and the need to express what I really wanted.

I timidly returned the kiss, still confused but drawn to that intense energy. Wednesday genuinely smiled against my lips, a smile that seemed to carry a strange mix of pleasure and torment.

My heart was beating fast.

The bathroom door swung open with a dull noise, and in a panic, I turned my eyes towards the person responsible.

Wednesday still had her hands around my neck, her obvious state revealing what we were doing. Addams stood there, breathing heavily, her braids unkempt.

"But what the fuck..." Enid exclaimed, her mouth wide open in disbelief.

A sense of embarrassment and dismay overwhelmed me. I felt as if I had been caught in something forbidden and shameful. The words seemed to get stuck in my throat as I tried to find explanations that eluded me.

Everything plummeted in an instant. The consequences of this situation will be unavoidable.

Damn.

#jenna ortega x reader #wednesday addams x reader #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega x fem!reader #miércoles addams #wednesday x you #wednesday addams x you #wednesday adams x reader #wednesday x reader #wednesday x y/n #wednsday addams

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sserpente · 2 months

Text

The Weight of a Promise - Part II

Synopsis: One month has passed since you reluctantly became Lord Gortash's concubine. You ought to hate him--yet your heart seems to disagree.

A/N: When inspiration strikes…you gotta strike back! Took a bit longer than I expected but here we go! :D

You can read Part I here!

Words: 2523 Warnings: violence, blood, mentions of prostitution, concubine!Reader

“Good morning, dear. I take it you’ve had sweet dreams?”

You stirred, eyes flying open. You were warm, and comfortable. Cosy. Your head was resting on Gortash’s naked chest, his right arm pressing you close against his body. You had gotten so used to his presence and the intimacy between you that you didn’t even flinch away when his fingertips ghosted over your bare shoulder but instead…took relish in it.

“Morning…”

One whole month. You had been keeping an eye on the calendar on Gortash’s desk. You were surprised, to say the least. Part of you had suspected he would grow tired of you after a few days and move on to the next whore he’d be given for free. Perhaps one that would throw herself at him.

Alas, as much as you hated to admit it, you had begun to enjoy his company. Enver Gortash was as insufferable as he was megalomaniacal. But he was charming, too. No wonder the city gladly accepted him as its hero and saviour.

His mask was perfect. You very much doubted he truly did have a heart for the homeless and the poor though. Only yesterday had you overheard him talk about increasing the tax rates for small businesses for more profit to put into his Steel Watch. Now that you spent so much time with him, you would have believed his chivalry too had you not known the truth. A good man did not keep concubines, not like this. A good man did not have rumours spread about him worshipping one of the dead three.

And yet, despite everything, part of you was growing…grateful. He’d kept his promise. Thanks to him, you barely remembered what hunger was now. He had gotten you so many dresses you could never decide what to wear and every night, you shared his bed, warm and comfortable, nestled underneath his soft sheets.

The sex was phenomenal, of course. Just like the very first time he had claimed you, you would be lying if you insisted it wasn’t a pleasurable experience for you. Only it was empty, meaningless. Why else would he keep you around if not for a wet hole to fuck when he was overcome with lust?

The more time you were forced to spend with him, the more you realised that you wanted him to like you for more than your body. To know that you were more than an object for him to play with and entertain himself with and to convince yourself and your stupid feelings that he was not the villain you took him for. To soothe your own conscience.

It could be Stockholm Syndrome, you thought, chewing on your lower lip. But then again, he had told you that you were free to go the very day you arrived, made it seem like it had been your own choice to become a slave to his most carnal desires in exchange for your basic human needs to be met.

The mornings all started the same. You and Gortash had breakfast together, after that he tended to his archduke business and you remained in bed for a while longer, reading the books he owned. He’d call you over at some point, eager for your company—or your body.

As of right now, he was finished with his duties for the day. After a rich lunch, he’d insisted on taking a walk with you by the sea near Wyrm’s Rock to take his mind off things, a Steel Watcher always in close vicinity to protect him.

“You are not focusing at all, are you, dear? Could you at least put in a little bit of effort? Make it a challenge for me!”

You blinked. You’d been staring at the lance board for what must have been several minutes with your knees tucked and your chin resting between them. Gortash had insisted you played with him tonight. Only you had no idea how.

“I don’t know how to play,” you admitted.

Amusement flashed over Gortash’s handsome face. “You don’t know how to play lance board? Truly?”

You shook your head.

He took a deep breath. “Well, in that case…it is rather simple. There are six pieces in the game that—”

“Why did you increase the tax rates?” You couldn’t help it. The question left your lips before you could stop yourself. You were curious.

Gortash paused, momentary surprise marking his features. “And since when exactly, pray tell, do I discuss political matters with my concubine?”

“It’s just a question. I overheard you passing the bill.”

“You mean you were eavesdropping.”

You frowned. “You knew I was right there.”

“Ah, yes.” He chuckled. But then, nothing.

“So?”

“Protection is expensive, my dear. My Steel Watch requires constant maintenance. Maintenance that requires materials. Materials that cost money.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Pardon me?”

“I’ve seen the documents. You have two vaults at the Counting House. Two vaults that are bulging with gold.” You’d caught a glimpse at the numbers, black ink on a fresh roll of parchment one morning while he’d made you keep his cock warm for him at his desk. You swallowed. “If you truly had the city’s best interest at heart you would be reaching into your own pockets to help out. That is true charity.”

Gortash raised an eyebrow. He appeared amused, if anything. “I am giving the citizens of Baldur’s Gate a purpose. By contributing in the form of taxes, they are contributing to keeping the city and themselves safe. And unlike my own fortunes, tax money is in constant circulation.”

You scoffed. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself.”

“I will not have you criticize my rule, my dear. Were you a lady or an adviser of mine, I could have your head for this without anyone batting an eyelash.”

Too far. You swallowed. So much for trying to convince yourself he was not a villain. “I apologise.”

“Good. Now, as I said. There are six types of pieces in the game. The first—”

Gortash was interrupted yet again. This time, however, by an airborne knife knocking the piece he pointed to straight to the ground where it shattered into a dozen pieces.

“Playing with your whore instead of working? You disappoint me, lordling.”

Gortash stiffened visibly. “Orin.”

Your eyes widened when you turned to face the unwanted visitor. She was as pale as the moon itself, with white creamy eyes piercing your soul. And her clothes…where they made of…skin? She staggered closer on bare feet, retrieving her dagger.

“You’ll find I have made much progress with our operation. But unlike you, I am a man of true entertainment. Uninterrupted murder is not up my alley.”

You blinked. Murder? What in the hells was he talking about?

“You are losing your focus, lordling. Do you need a reminder?”

Before you had processed what was happening, Orin grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled you flush against her. The smell of rotten meat and blood filled your nostrils, the blade of her dagger pressing into your skin. Her hands were ice-cold.

You gasped for air, paralysed. You willed your legs to kick her, your fingers to scratch her, your head to shatter her chin…but your body did not obey. Fear wrapped its icy claws around you, preventing you from taking action.

One wrong movement…and you would die. Your eyes found Gortash’s, yours pleading, begging. Surely, he would not let her harm you, surely, he would care if you lived after having shared the bed with him so many times…

“Now don’t be ridiculous, Orin. She’s my concubine. The only thing you will accomplish by killing her is making a mess of my office. I can always get a new one at the snap of my fingers.”

Your face fell, heart skipping several beats in a row. Not because of your fear now—but because it broke. Your lips parted. Was that truly how he felt after you’d spread your legs for him, listened to his sorrows, and kept him company? He’d promised to treat you well. Discarding you to the first bloodthirsty killer—whoever this Orin was—would break that promise after all.

“Well…then you won’t mind if I slit her throat? Bathe in her sweet blood and feast on her intestines? Would you still like to fuck her then, lordling?”

For just a second, you believed to catch a glimpse of actual panic glistening in his dark eyes. It was a fleeting moment, quickly replaced by a mask of steel.

“Orin, no, stop it!”

The woman laughed, the stench of stale blood almost making you gag as she pressed the blade even further against your delicate skin until you could feel a slight burn and something warm and sticky running down your throat.

“Orin!” You had not imagined it. There was panic swinging in his voice too now.

With a start, she removed her dagger from your throat and pushed you. You landed on your hands and knees on the hard stone floor, a pained cry escaping your lips due to the impact.

“With Ketheric Thorm dead, you should be on your guard, lordling. Because right now, your little plan is falling apart. And I am so very eager to spill blood in your chambers.”

“Control yourself, Orin. Ketheric’s death is a temporary setback. Once the Netherstone is back in our possession, we have nothing to fear and everything will go according to plan.”

You felt pathetic, cowering on the cold floor and listening to the conversation. You only understood half of what they were saying. Netherstones? What plan? And who was Ketheric Thorm?

“I will gut you if not, Gortash.” She disappeared in a mist of black and red as if her flesh erupted into a million pieces before evaporating.

Only now did you realise how heavily you were breathing. Gortash bent down, one of his hands resting on your shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

“No! No, I’m not alright!” you exclaimed, biting back a sob.

“You would have let her kill me!”

“I would not.”

“Yes! That’s what you said!” Another sob, one you were unable to hold back. You were trembling. You could feel a small trickle of blood running down your cleavage right between your breasts.

Gortash grabbed a hold of your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Showing her I care for you would have been showing her weakness and that I cannot afford. I apologise you were caught between the lines.”

Care.

“How am I supposed to believe that? Am I not a means to an end? You keep acting like I should be grateful you took me in and gave me a roof over my head in exchange for sex and now I almost…” You did not dare finish the thought. Died.

“You stupid girl. Do you truly think I would keep just any woman around my private quarters where I conduct important city business? Do you think I would share my private bed with just any prostitute?”

“I…I…” You hesitated. He was not wrong.

“I am not the kind of man to pursue, my dear. I learned the hard way you simply have to take what you want in life. I liked you. So I had you brought here.”

“Why didn’t you just say so? Why must everything you do be a power trip?”

“A power trip? Exercising dominance is crucial to survive in this world. I want you here, by my side. Is that not enough? What else do you want me to tell you?”

He helped you up, retrieving a cloth from the cupboard next to a wash bowl. The gentleness with which he wiped at your throat and your chest to clean the blood off of you surprised you so much yet another sob escaped you.

“I…I want you to tell me…you care about me? I’m not just a whore you can easily replace?”

“I don’t want any of the other whores. I wanted you. And I still do. I have no reason to lie to you, my dear. And you care about me too. I can see it in your eyes. You like the things we do together. Am I right?”

You nodded, unable to utter words for a moment.

“I hate myself for it.”

“Oh? And why is that, my dear?”

“You’re not a good person, Gortash. I can see that. I can feel it with every fibre of my being.”

“But…?”

“But…”

He threw the cloth away and cupped your face, planting a tender kiss on your lips.

“I wouldn’t have stayed if I didn’t…”

He smirked. He understood.

“I will have some servants fetched to run you a hot bath. I have some business to attend to. Then I will join you.”

“Gortash?”

“No.” He lifted a hand, a thoughtful expression decorating his handsome features for a moment. “I want you to call me by my first name when we’re in private. Enver.”

You frowned, lips parting in shock. The archduke of Baldur’s Gate wanted you to…call him by his first name?

“Enver.” You tasted the name on your tongue. It felt strange and yet…oddly familiar.

“That’s better.”

“Who is Orin? And don’t even think about telling me it doesn’t concern me given she just almost killed me.”

Gortash sighed. “She is…the Chosen of Bhaal, the god of murder and a reluctant ally of mine.”

Your eyes widened, shock rippling through you. Bhaal? The god of murder? One of the dead three?

“And who is…was…Ketheric Thorm?”

“The Chosen of Myrkul, a general who ruled over the Shadow Cursed Lands. Another reluctant ally.” Myrkul. He too was one of the dead three. The rumours you had heard about Gortash… Could that possibly mean…

“Go-…Enver…what deity do you worship?”

He smiled at you wickedly. “You have a sharp mind indeed, my dear. You might just be able to best me in a game of lance board in time.”

“Tell me what deity you worship.”

“You already know, do you not? You have asked me before, when we first met. And I am indeed, my dear, the Chosen of Bane. I will lead this city to glory.”

You took a step back, shock spreading in your veins like spiked vines. “What is this plan? What are the Netherstones?”

“That’s enough questions for now. Go and rest. The servants will be with you shortly.” He strode off, yet before he wrapped his hands around the doorknob, he turned his head and said, “Let me say it again: You belong by my side now, my dear. You have my protection. You have nothing to fear from me—or Orin, I will make sure of that. You might not agree with my methods but you cannot fight your own heart. You can trust me.”

With that, he was gone. Another promise. One that the growing butterflies in your stomach hoped he would never break. You belong by my side now, my dear.

You could leave, he had said a month ago. You should leave. Instead, you found yourself heading over to the wooden tub get rid of your now bloody dress.

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dsybouquet · 7 months

Text

all i need ੈ✩‧₊˚ - ellie williams

genre: gf! ellie x fem reader, ellie being mean, verbal fighting ? fluffy, ellie being very vulnerable, mentions weed, swearing

summary: ellie is mad and does not want to talk

“Get the fuck out of my sight!”, Ellie yelled before slam shutting the door to Joels house. She walked off, more angry than you‘ve ever seen her. You just shared a sigh with Joel, who reopened the door again.

“I’ll talk to her.”, you promised before you placed a hand on his shoulder. “Give her some time.”

Joel nodded and put his hand on yours. “Maybe she’ll listen to you.”

The cold winter air was making you shiver as you made your way towards Ellie’s home. Hands shaking before you knocked on the door. You knew why she was mad at Joel and you’d be wrong if you’d say you do not understand her.

“Ellie?”, you softy called as you knocked on her door. She did not reply but you did hear the door unlock. Slowly, you entered, allowing cold air follow you in her little home. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

The brunette didn’t say a word, she just scoffed and threw her jacket across the room. “I don’t want to talk.”

“Ellie, please. What is going on?”, you asked, already suspecting the main reason of her anger.

“Nothing, _______! Nothing is going on!”, she yelled. Her voice was so firm yet so fragile, like she was about to break. You took a deep breath, taking a step forward in order to approach her.

“You know, I can only help you if you let me.”

You leaned against the wall and looked at her sitting on her bed, her hands holding her head and her fingers messaging the sides of it.

“Look, I don’t need help. Not yours, not Dinas and most certainly not Joels. Got it?”

You nodded slightly. “And I don’t want to talk. Just do me a favour and get out.”

She looked at you, her emerald eyes slightly watery. “Ellie, I-“

“I said get out ! Fuck off, ______!”

She bit her finger while getting up from her bed, walking around, trying to contain her anger. “Please just fucking leave before things happen we both would regret.”

You sighed. “If you need me, I suppose you know where to find me”

Ellie flipped her hands in the air, noticeably holding back from saying things she’s gonna regret, before she shoved you towards the door. “I won’t!”

And before you could say anything else, the door was slam shut in your face.

You made your way to your own little home. Dropping on your bed, you stared at the ceiling. Ellie can be a lot when she’s angry, and you know. And you know better than getting on her nerves by being pushy about what’s going on.

If she need’s the time, that is fine. After all, you have plenty of it between the patrols and the duties around Jackson.

“______! Are you home?”, you heard Dina in front of your door, knocking ever so slightly. “Come in!”

Dina entered your home, placing her jacket in your couch. “You okay? I heard Ellie was pretty mad before.”

You sighed, letting yourself sit on your bed to face the woman. “It’s because of Joel. I was trying to talk to her but she didn’t let me.”

Dina sat down besides you, smiling kindly. “You know her temper, let her cool down and then you can talk to her.”

“Oh I know. I’m not mad or anything. I just can’t stop being worried.” You fell back on your bag, hands behind your head. “But yeah, she has a bad temper.”, you laughed, remembering all the times when Ellie was the biggest asshole towards you, who apologised an hour later.

❀ ✿ ❀ ✿ ❀ ✿ ❀ ✿ ❀ ✿ ❀ ✿ ❀ ✿ ❀ ✿ ❀ ✿ ❀ ✿ ❀ ✿

Darkness has fallen upon Jackson by now. You put your book, which you’ve read for three times already, back on your nightstand and pushed yourself off your bed.

Snow kept falling, causing the night to appear lighter than usual. Your, by now tired, body moved to your shelf with old movies you used to look out for with Ellie on patrols. “Maybe that’s gonna make her feel better.”, you quietly mumbled to yourself while taking your copy of Jurassic Park.

Prepared for the cold, though the way to Ellie‘s was approximately five minutes long, you left the warmth of your home.

Jackson was quiet. Most people asleep, others still engaged in conversations. You enjoyed this. The quiet. The peacefulness. In this world, you felt lucky to experience this in between fighting for survival.

Lost in your own mind, you almost walked past Ellie’s home. Quickly you walked to her door, knocking quietly. „Ellie?“

No sound from inside.

You tried opening the door and to your surprise, it was unlocked.

Inside it was dark and the smell of smoked weed reached your nose immediately. It was almost too dark to see the figure of your girlfriend in her bed, covered in her blankets. You sighed. „Hey baby.“, you quietly said, sitting down besides her.

„Hm.“, was all she gave as an answer.

Slowly your hand found a way in her hair, stroking it slightly. „How are you doing?“

Again, no reply.

„Do you need a hug? Anything I can do for you now?“

Ellie now turned around to look at you. Her face was illuminated by only the street lights from outside. Eyes puffy and red, from crying and smoking. You took off your jacket, allowing it to fall on the ground.

„Come.“

You lay down besides her, crawling under the covers. Ellie was quick with resting her head on your chest, taking in your scent. „I‘m sorry, babe. I didn’t mean to yell at you.“

Her hands clawed into your hoodie, scared of you leaving. „It‘s okay.“, you tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

Silence overcome the two of you, a comfortable silence. „Why didn’t you just tell me you needed a hug?“, you dared to ask.

„Because I wanted to be alone but when I made you leave I was way too alone and you didn’t come back.“, her voice was fragile, almost just a whisper. „I was scared you‘d leave me.“

„El, You know I‘m not going anywhere.“

She shrugged and didn’t add anything to it.

You rarely see her like this. Usually Ellie is dominant, taking a leader role, not allowing emotions to control her like this.

But you know better. You know she can be so fragile, vulnerable. After all, shes someone so deeply hurt inside, she could break so easily if it wasn’t for her ego - and for you.

You kissed the top of her head before she buried her head in your neck, placing featherlight kisses on your skin.

„I‘m sorry. You don’t deserve this. But Joel was just pissing me off. His never ending lies, the overprotectiveness, the control he‘s try‘na take.. I‘m old enough you know.“

„He’s just worried about you. After all, he sees you as his own flesh and blood. Everything can happen in a world like ours, Ellie.“

She sighed, shifting her body and looked at your. Her long fingers traveled along your sides, leaving goosebumps on your skin.

„I know, but I‘m not a kid anymore.“

„You‘re most certainly now. You‘ve grown into the woman I learned to love. But for Joel.. you‘re still a little girl.“

Ellie scoffed, her hand resting on your waist where she pulled up your hoodie slightly. „I know you‘re right. Maybe I should talk to him. Try to forgive but never forget perhaps.“

Her voice was quiet.

You nodded, knowing how rough the whole Saint Mary Hospital story was. He shouldn’t have lied to her. He should have been honest and tell her the truth right away before leading her on a trail of lies and heartbreak. But if you were in Joels shoes, you would‘ve done the same. So would Ellie.

„You should, El.“

She sighed, curling up more against you. The warmth of her body made her feel safe. Safer than she ever felt before.

„Can we switch the topic, Babe? I don‘t want to talk about this anymore.“

You nodded and slightly pushed her off you to reach your jacket.

Her face turned to the one of a puppy who has been rejected off the couch before she saw the movie box in your hand.

The sad eyes suddenly started to shine a teeny tiny bit when she read Jurassic Park.

„And that’s why I love you.“, she said, taking the movie off your hands and walking over to her TV to put it in.

„I love you too.“, you laughed, turning on the little fairylights she has around her house.

Your eyes landed on the halfway smoked blunt in the ashtray. Quickly, you picked it up and put it between your lips. „Weed and Jurassic Park?“

„Sounds like a date to me!“, Ellie smiled, opening her arms for you to fall in.

„Thank you.“, she said after a moment of silence. „For what?“, you looked up to her and shifted in your position.

Her eyes met yours, still red from the weed your two just started sharing, but filled with love.

„For simply being there. For being all I need.“

You smiled and punched against her shoulder lightly. „Stop that, Ellie or I‘ll blush.“

„But it’s true!“, she kissed your neck before holding your cheek with one hand.

„You are all I need.“

And with that, she placed a kiss on your lips, before giving you the prettiest smile you‘ve ever seen. „You‘re so beautiful.“, you just said, not comprehending the beauty of her. The auburnish hair, green eyes, her lips, her nose, her freckles. Everything was so beautiful to you.

„So are you.“, she whispered against your lips before kissing you again.

#ellie williams #ellie the last of us #tlou ellie #ellie tlou #ellie williams tlou #ellie x reader #ellie x fem reader #ellie x y/n #ellie williams x reader #tlou2 #ellie williams fluff #ellie fluff

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wososcripts · 15 days

Text

Face to Face (V)

Fridolina Rolfö x reader; Barça x reader (platonic)

Summary: Frido has to confront that she could lose you forever. Will she act?

Warnings: some mildly suggestive content but that's about it

A/N: the final part!! let me know if you guys want a short epilogue or something :) thank you for sticking with this little series I hope you enjoyed it! as usual everything I write is fiction and does not reflect players' real lives

Word Count: 2.9k

PREVIOUS PART

You suspected that Alexia was planning something to make you feel better. You had cried through the night, and although she hadn't come to check on you, her face when you saw her the next morning let you know she was worried. She silently slipped you breakfast and gave you a hug, still not fully aware of the issue but willing to be there for you nevertheless.

You were in better spirits for practice that day. Mostly you were just happy to be cleared for play. Jona was still being careful with you, but the med team green lit your participation on Friday. That meant you had been practicing a lot with Patri when you could, wanting to be in good form. She was taking it easy on you, you knew, but it still helped to get you back into the swing of things. Plus, it was difficult to be depressed with Patri around. She kept you laughing constantly with her stupid jokes and teased you just the right amount to make it feel like your problems weren't insurmountable.

At break you spotted Alexia and Mapí chatting quietly, glancing over at you now and then. After a few minutes you excused yourself from your conversation with Salma and went over to investigate.

"Hola Mapí, Ale," you smiled, knocking lightly into Mapí's shoulder. "What are you two up to?"

Mapí grinned at you, but said nothing. You could tell whatever she was hiding had her pleased with herself.

"Are you free Friday after our match with Athletico?" Alexia asked.

You nodded.

"I don't have any plans."

"Keep it that way." Mapí replied, winking at you.

You rolled your eyes good naturedly and smiled back.

"I don't even want to know…" You muttered.

You had kept your promise and left the evening after the Athletico match free. Ana Maria had come over for dinner, seemingly in on the plan Alexia and Mapí had cooked up. You brushed it aside, however, because you missed the Swiss national like crazy. Just getting to talk with her for a night made you realize how much you benefitted from talking to her about anything. She had some of the best advice of anyone you had ever met.

At around ten Alexia arrived at your door, ready to pick the two of you up. She praised your outfit as you stepped out of the apartment, causing you to blush bright red.

The club Alexia took you to wasn’t one you had ever been to before. It was fairly small, but clearly popular as there was a line to get in.

“We don’t have to wait,” Alexia said to you, waving to the bouncer as he let you all through, “The other girls are waiting for us inside.”

The inside of the club was stylish, you had to admit. It was somewhere between an 80s dive and a modern dance club. Disco blared from the speakers, and the entire place was drowning in purple light.

It didn’t take long for you to find your way to the dance floor after saying your hellos and accepting the drinks Mapí pushed at you.

At first Patri had accompanied you to the floor, the two of you laughing and fooling around to a few songs until she was called back to the table. You could take care of yourself.

Not ten minutes after Patri left you found yourself dancing with a woman whose eye you had caught a couple of times. She was beautiful, that much was obvious, and you didn’t mind in the slightest when she slid behind you and began to match your movements.

You felt the woman's hands on your hips as she held you close to her front. The two of you moved fluidly together. She smelled citrusy, her hair was long and dark, and her accent suggested Italian. Either way, you were interested.

She seemed interested in you too, if her eyes were any indication. Her hands gripped your ass firmly as she turned you around in your embrace. She was taller than you, so you had to lean up to capture her lips in a kiss. You vaguely heard someone cheer in the background but decided to ignore it.

"Your friends seem to approve," the woman said close to your ear.

You laughed.

"Well, I know how to pick them," you flirted back.

You were having a great time, honestly. It was refreshing to be out and a little drunk and not worry about any of your shit. It could wait until tomorrow.

The woman pulled you back into another kiss, letting her hands roam across your back and into your hair. She tasted of alcohol and something sweet, maybe watermelon or cantaloupe. You made your mind up then that if she asked, you would go home with her.

"I'm gonna get a drink, do you want another?" She mumbled into your ear.

"I'm all good," you smiled, moving a bit of hair from her face. "I'll wait for you."

She smiled at you, teeth slightly crooked in an endearing way. The way she unabashedly wanted you made your heart soar. It was more than just her, it was the confirmation that this was possible. You didn't have to be hidden.

You glanced back at the Barça girls who were dancing and chatting not far from you. Patri gave you a thumbs up, as did an enthusiastic Mapí. You let Salma take your hand and spin you around playfully. Everyone seemed to be having a great time. Except Frido.

You didn't notice her at first. She was with Ingrid, dancing, though she seemed distracted and a little drunk. Her eyes flicked to yours, then away quickly. You didn't know she was coming tonight. Alexia hadn't said anything, though it was probably not to hurt you. You felt your heart clench at just the sight of her. Immediately your mood had slightly deflated. Was it impossible for you to go one day without being haunted by her?

You saw Salma notice where you were looking and she turned you so you were facing the opposite direction.

"Don't worry about her, she's just in a mood. That Italian is so into you. You should totally go for it."

Soon enough your dancing partner had returned with a drink. She pressed the back of her fingers to your cheek affectionately. "Do you want to keep dancing?"

You nodded, shooting her a smile.

This time, as you hung onto the Italian’s hips and let her run her hands across your skin, you couldn’t help but have your eyes flick back to Frido’s. Too frequently for it to be an accident. And she was always, always, looking back at you. Her face was somewhere between fury and heartbreak. Let her come and stop me if she wants, you thought to yourself.

The Italian’s hands drifted to your ass, pulling you closer until you were practically grinding on her thigh every time you moved. You would never normally do something like this, not anywhere where someone could see you. Surely even your teammates were a bit surprised. You were usually quite controlled and sweet, nothing that suggested the way you were dancing right now.

“If you want her to stop, you’ve got to talk to her. Now.” Alexia said in Frido’s ear.

Her moping was obvious now. Everyone had noticed.

You needed some fresh air. The lights were beginning to irritate you, as was the heat of the bodies surrounding you. You leaned up to the Italian’s ear and let her know that you were stepping outside for a second. She grinned at you and promised she would be out soon, after she used the restroom and grabbed her bag from coat check.

Frido saw you heading for the door. She saw the woman you were with smile at you, saw her wave, knew what was going to happen if she let the two of you leave together.

“What are you doing here, Frido?” you snapped as the blonde called your name.

She looked distraught. You had to swallow your concern.

“Please,” she took a steadying breath, “please just listen to me. Then you can go if you want. But please.”

You looked at the door, nervous that your Italian would walk out at any moment.

Frido was still looking at you with that face, that face you found very difficult to say no to.

You sighed.

“Okay.”

“I’m so sorry. I know I already apologized but it wasn’t what I wanted to say. I messed it up, like I’ve messed everything between us up for the past year.”

Frido moved closer, you felt your back hit the brick wall of the alley. There was a group of people smoking who ignored you completely.

Frido sank to her knees in front of you.

“I want to make it up to you,”

She was begging, and that wasn’t an exaggeration. You sucked in a breath, looking around you again for people who might be watching. The ground beneath you was filthy. You tugged on her hand, trying to pull her up, but she stayed put.

“Fridolina…”

“I’m serious. Not just for what I did to you during the game. All of it. I treated you like shit and you didn’t deserve it.”

“No, I didn’t.” You said harshly, the anger back all at once. “You acted like I was just some kind of dog who would come bounding up to you every time you threw it a bone. I’m not gonna do that.”

“I know—”

“I don’t believe you. I won’t believe it, either, until you show it to me. Your words mean nothing to me.”

Frido sat back on her knees, mouth shut. Now you were the one who was letting everything you had wanted to say this whole time pour out.

“You didn’t want anyone to know about us. I can’t do that anymore. You didn’t want us to be seen in public, ever. I don’t want that, not long term. You wouldn’t let me meet your family, or your friends. You wouldn’t let me stay in your apartment. I can’t do any of that. I want to be treated like your fucking equal. Because that’s what I am.”

Frido nodded.

“You are. You’re better than me.”

You shook your head.

“I’m not better than you. We’re peers. If we’re going to do this I want to be your partner, not your doormat, not your idol.”

You pulled her up until she was standing before you, not close enough to reach out and touch, not quite. You tilted your head to look in her eyes. The seconds seemed to drag on for hours.

She brushed the dirt from her knees, massaging the one she had injured for a split second.

“Come here.” You said softly.

Frido took a step forward, hesitant.

“I missed you.” She whispered.

You could barely hear it, but you nodded just the same.

“I thought you hated me.” She continued.

You waited, not sure what to say.

“Please, don’t hate me.”

Suddenly you caught a glimpse of the Italian out of the corner of your eye. She was by the front of the building looking for you.

“Wait here.”

You didn’t check to see if Frido nodded or not before you went to find the Italian woman. You weren’t going home with her, but you felt obligated to at least explain. Besides, she seemed to understand when you told her it was an emergency with one of your teammates, simply pressing her number on a piece of paper into your palm and kissing your cheek.

You turned back to the alley, catching Frido’s eye.

The cafe you arrived in was tiny, a true hole in the wall. You had been there many times with your seemingly unbreakable night owl habits. The staff knew you by name, and your order often arrived on your table before you had to say a word. The interior was a bit run down: the upholster was cracked on the leather couch, a few quilts thrown over it in an attempt to hide the fact. Miscellaneous chairs were positioned at small glass tables, many of which had newspapers and dried flowers stacked on top. It was homey and hardly anyone knew about it since it was tucked in an alleyway in a relatively quiet part of the city.

You hadn’t taken Frido here. The only person you trusted with it was Patri, and she had been sworn to silence. You had insisted that she put her phone away and refrained from putting it on her story. The last thing you needed was a million fans infiltrating the one space except from your apartment you felt was really yours.

“This is nice,” Frido said softly, treading cautiously even with her voice.

She took a look around, absorbing all of the little details of the room before her. It smelled lovely—mostly of tea and sugar from the pastries in the display. It was mostly empty except for the couches in the back where a few college students were still working.

“It’s my favorite place in Barcelona.”

Frido shifted her gaze to you, her lips curved in a small smile. The olive branch wasn’t lost on her. The fact that you had brought her here at all was a chance, a door cracked open slightly and waiting for Frido to push it all the way open. You wanted things to work too, the two of you just had to figure out how to make that happen.

You ordered for the both of you as Frido chose a table.

“Thank you,” Frido said as you placed her tea and biscuits in front of her.

She took a small sip of the drink, preparing herself for the conversation. You could feel the difference from the last time the two of you met. Now Frido seemed determined instead of scared.

“I want to try to make this work, if that’s what you want too.”

You took a breath, trying to tamper your joy a little bit.

“I do. But I hope you can understand why I’m hesitant. What happened before really hurt me, Frido.”

Frido put her hand on the table with her palm facing upwards, leaving the invitation open to you.

“I can’t apologize enough for what I did to you. I was horrible. But I want to change. I will change. I’m not afraid anymore.”

“Can you just tell me why you did it? At least something? I think if I understand how you felt, I’ll be able to move on more.”

You took her hand in yours, giving it a light squeeze.

“I was being selfish. I was terrified of how I was feeling—I told myself I wasn’t queer if it was just sex, no attachments. I didn’t want to deal with soul searching. Every time I let myself consider the fact that I wanted more than sex I started to question everything. I wasn’t sure who I was or what was real attraction and what I made up… I just couldn’t let go of that fear. And I let that control me: it was more important than our relationship, it was more important than what you felt, it was all I was clinging to.”

You took a moment to process that. It made sense, though you obviously hadn’t known Frido felt that way.

“What changed?”

You were afraid to ask, but you needed to know.

“I realized what we have is more important than the fear; and I don’t have to have everything figured out. I want to be with you, that’s what matters.”

You honestly couldn’t believe what you were hearing. It seemed like a dream come true. All you had wanted for months was this conversation. Frido had finally said it: she wanted to be with you. She had feelings for you. She cared.

“I’m not sure what to say…” Frido rubbed the back of your hand with her thumb comfortingly. “I wanted to hear this so badly for so long. It seems too good to be true.”

“It’s not. I’m here, I was an idiot before and thankfully I woke up before I lost you completely.”

Frido scootched her chair around the table so she could be closer to you. She put a hand gently on your thigh, giving you a smile. You place yours overtop of hers, feeling giddy. Your pulse was racing as if you had consumed too much caffeine. You finally saw a future between you and Frido, something you had lost months ago. Maybe this could really be something. Maybe the two of you could be happy. Maybe you could make this work.

“So what do we do now?’

“I guess you let me take you on a date so I can do this properly.”

#woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso x reader #woso community #woso #barca femini x reader #my writing #fridolina rolfö x reader #fridolina rolfo x reader #fridolina rolfo imagine #alexia putellas x reader

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badbtssmut · 5 months

Note

Hi mami,

Can you write a detective!Jimin × suspect!y/n where he fucks her to get her to confess

Thank you for considering, I really love your work 🥰

“Are you still not going to say anything, miss y/n?”

“P-please, ah, please, I don’t know, I swear—“ You whimpered as you were sandwiched between his body and the hard desk.

"Please what? Use your words."

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room as you struggled to even form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence.

"P-please, sir, I, ah!”

You cried out in pleasure as his cock slammed into your dripping wet cunt, over and over. The detective behind you kept up his quick, deep thrusts, and you couldn’t stop moaning and whining.

“I know that you did it, you would make things a lot easier if you’d just admit to it. Or are you just enjoying this that much? Enjoying my cock so much you don’t want it to stop? Is that it, you rather get fucked than confess?"

You shook your head frantically. It wasn't true, but you also didn't want him to stop.

“No, no, I told you sir, I didn’t—Ah! Please, please, sir, Detective, sir, I can't, I—!"

His cock pounded into you mercilessly. He wasn’t holding back. He would make you confess even if he’d have to fuck you for hours on end.

The detective had it with you, the man was called to help investigate a large amount of money that was stolen from your workplace; a six figure amount of cash that was withdrawn to different accounts. One of them was yours.

He had gone through your bank account, and found the money that was put in your account a few weeks ago.

And yet here you were, claiming you didn't do it. He didn't believe you, not one bit. You had the money, there was no doubt about that, and it was his duty to get a confession out of you.

"I-I can't, I can't..." You whimpered. You felt so good, your pussy was on fire, and the heat was building up quickly.

“We can do this all day.” Jimin gripped onto your hips and bounced your body back against his. “I got all the time in the world to fuck the truth out of you. Are you sure you can't take anymore, sweetheart?"

"I... No, sir, I..." You shivered, feeling yourself get close. The way his thick cock spread your pussy apart was almost too much to bear, and you were starting to see stars.

"Come on, then. You can cum for me, go on."

He gave your ass a quick slap and the sensation pushed you over the edge. You moaned loudly and came, shaking as he fucked you through your orgasm. But he didn’t stop, pounding into you with the same speed.

“I didn’t say I was going to stop. Remember what I said? We can do this all day."

You were breathing heavily, still coming down from the intense orgasm.

"Sir, I... I can't..."

"Oh yes you can, darling. I believe in you. Now come on."

You moaned as his cock filled you up over and over, your body feeling like it was burning up. Jimin thrusted into you relentlessly, and you started to drool, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your cunt was used and abused by him.

"Come on, tell the truth." He coaxed, and you could only moan, unable to form a coherent sentence.

"You did it, didn't you? You took the money, and now I want you to tell me. Confess, and I'll let you cum again."

You gasped and whimpered as you felt him push even deeper into you, his thick cock hitting all the right spots.

"I... I did it, sir!"

"Hmm, that's right. You took the money. Didn’t you, you little criminal?”

You nodded frantically.

"Yes, sir, I did. I'm so sorry, please..."

"Good girl. That wasn't so hard, was it?” He pulled out of you, stroking his cock, spilling his seed on your back. You could only whimper, completely exhausted, still coming down from the fucking.

"Now, we'll have to take you into custody, and make sure that the money will be returned to its rightful owners."

“W-what?” You grabbed your clothes. “No, please, I can’t afford this, I don’t want to lose—“

Jimin chuckled.

"Well, I'll see what I can do. I'm sure we can come to some sort of agreement."

"What do you mean, detective…."

"Shh, I'm sure we'll come to an agreement." He repeated, pressing a finger against your lips. "After all, I'm the one in charge here, aren't I?"

Your eyes widened as you realized what he was saying. Realizing that your only options were either to get fucked, or to be fucked and spend time behind prison bars… you knew what you had to.

You bit your lip and nodded.

"Y-yes, sir."

"Good girl.”

#bts smut #bts requests #bts x reader #bts smut requests #bts smut fanfic #jimin smut #bts fanfic #Jimin x female reader #Jimin x you #jimin x y/n #jimin x reader #jimin x oc #Jimin smut request #bts 18+#bts pwp

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ckret2 · 4 months

Text

Chapter 39 of human Bill Cipher is SURE he's about to escape being the Mystery Shack's prisoner:

Ford's confronted with the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he's a little bit too obsessed with Bill.

And meanwhile, Bill has found a way to reach his loyal cultists... if he can find somebody willing to help him make contact.

He thinks Ford is the perfect target.

Maybe, just maybe, the obsession goes both ways.

(warning for an incident of self-harm via burning, and depersonalization and/or dysphoria (depending on how you interpret it) re: Bill feeling even worse about his body than usual.)

####

Soos, Stan, and Ford had stayed up half the night trying to generate enough NowUSeeitNowUDontium to prevent it from vanishing the moment one of them lost (or gained) focus. They'd eventually given up and stayed the night in Northwest Manor. Soos had texted Melody around midnight, and she'd immediately replied (which alarmed Ford, but Soos assured him she was used to those hours) and agreed, with some trepidation, to spend the night by herself in the shack so that the kids wouldn't be alone all night with Bill. She'd texted a half hour later to report that the bathroom was a disaster, but the kids had reassured her it was just some werewolf thing, so, not a big deal.

Ford had thought getting to spend a night without Bill under the same roof would be a relief. Instead, he found his sleep was even worse. He kept worrying about what Bill might get up to so far away and out of sight, where Ford couldn't do anything to stop him. Surely, by nighttime, Bill had to have noticed that the only humans he'd seen all day were the kids? Would he consider Melody any kind of threat, no veteran to combating Gravity Falls' weirdness?

It figured that the dream demon would find a way to disrupt Ford's sleep when he wasn't even there.

####

Ford had given up on sleep around two in the morning and gone wandering until he stumbled across a den with walls covered in bookcases, massive windows overlooking the forest below, and a pair of richly upholstered armchairs turned to gaze out the windows. He drifted between the chairs to one of the windows. It was the kind of personal library he'd dreamed of accepting esteemed guests in, back when he'd fantasized about one day being rich and famous. He suspected the Northwests had never read a book in this room.

Ford had been staring out at the still night and the dark pines for several minutes when he heard the creak of a door and soft footsteps behind him. He whirled around, raising a weapon. "Back, you spectral fiend!"

"Whoa! Easy, Sixer!" Stan held up a hand defensively. "It's just me!" He lowered his hand. "Why are you holding up a dinner plate?"

"Er—sorry." Ford sheepishly tucked the silver dish under his arm again. "I'm sure I saw a ghost earlier. I thought it prudent to arm myself."

Stan muttered, "This place sure is creepy enough for it."

"Mm. It's built on more than its fair share of bones." Ford returned to gazing out the window, hands clasped behind his back. "I'm sorry today was a failure. When I'm staring right at an experiment on which the fate of the entire universe depends, it's hard not to think about it."

"Eh, I wasn't doing too hot either," Stan admitted, joining Ford at the window. "There's only so many times you can hear Soos whisper 'Think about the miniature particle accelerator' in your ears on a loop before you zone out and start thinking about fishing season."

Ford huffed. "Maybe we should have switched places."

"Yeah, probably. I retired from thinking about science after I got your dumb portal running, and once you get your head stuck on something you can't stop thinking about it."

Ford laughed wryly. "Unfortunately accurate."

There was a moment of silence; and then Stan said cautiously, "Speaking of you getting your head stuck on something..."

Ford didn't like that tone. "Hm?"

"I was, uh... doing some light reading..." He held up Ford's journal.

A jolt of anger and fear shot through Ford. "Give me—" He snatched the journal back.

It wasn't until it was in his hands that he registered the absurdity of his own action; for the past year, he'd given Stan free access to Journal 5. He'd used it to document their travels and discoveries as a reference for them both; he'd even asked Stan to contribute a couple of entries. Based on a prior precedent of seven months, Stan had every right to look at Journal 5. Revoking that access now was... Well, it didn't look good.

Stan didn't immediately say anything. Ford supposed his own actions said enough. He tucked the journal under his arm with the silver dish.

Stan cleared his throat. "I think we're a little past the 'superhero nemesis' thing."

"It's not a problem," Ford said tersely.

"Not a prob—? Ford, you're letting him consume your life."

"He's consumed all our lives. The kids haven't been able to invite anyone over, Melody all but runs to her car after work, you ended up in a showdown with fae nobility—"

"It was just the tooth fairy!"

"Do you know how important a fairy has to be to claim dominion over all teeth?"

"Forget about the fairy!" Stan waved off the whole fairy topic with one hand. "Look, I'm not the one who's dedicated half a journal to talking about him!"

"You don't keep a journal, Stanley—"

"That's not the point!"

"—I'm just saying, if you did keep a journal, I think he'd have come up on more than a few pages—"

"But like this?" Stan gestured toward Ford's journal. "This is turning into an obsession. And not one of your normal obsessions."

The back of Ford's neck heated up. He wanted to argue that he had to obsess over Bill if he hoped to find a way to kill him—but Stan already knew that Ford had passed off that project to Fiddleford weeks ago. "How can I be 'obsessed' with somebody I barely even see? I'm avoiding Bill like my life depends on it! I talk to him less than Mrs. Ramirez does!"

"And you're using avoiding him as an excuse to obsess over him even more in private!" Stan gestured again, angrily, at Ford's journal. (Ford defensively tucked it further under his arm.) "You're acting like a stalker, Sixer. Not that I care about him, but, I'm starting to worry about your head."

"A st—?! I'm a scientist, he's a scientific curiosity! I'm documenting him! I document plenty of things!"

"Not like this, you don't."

"There's a lot to document!"

"Including spending a whole page trying to figure out—how to draw his—?!" Stan gestured furiously toward his boxers.

Ford pointed at him severely. "You were just as curious as I was to find out how a giant eyeball and a sentient triangle make that work, don't pretend you weren't."

Stan grimaced. "Okay, fine, I'll give you that one. But writing a full entry about his posture?"

"He's not only an alien being in a human body but a two-dimensional creature in a three-dimensional body, how he moves and gestures could tell us about how an utterly unfamiliar species perceived space! Nearly all his gestures adhere to an invisible coronal plane, that betrays worlds of information about his original anatomy. Do you know that elbow thing he does when he walks—"

"Ford. You're using your great-niece to get drawings of his childhood bedroom."

Ford raised a finger. "That's—" Ford lowered his finger. Ford sat in a nearby armchair, put his chin in his hands, and stared into space. "What am I doing."

Stan patted his shoulder.

Ford slid his journal and the dish out from under his arm and settled them in his lap. He stared at the cover, then thumbed through the pages. It was obvious when they'd returned to Gravity Falls; the drawings of Atlanteans, were-rats, shorelines, and boats immediately gave way to page after page of staring slit-pupiled eyes.

"It's just... Bill is an ancient being, many times older than our universe, and the last surviving specimen of his own bizarre species. As both an anomaly and a source of esoteric knowledge, he's an invaluable subject of study. He's going to die soon, and he should die, but... between now and then, I don't want to pass up the last ever opportunity to study him."

Stan sank down into the chair opposite Ford. "You're listening to yourself, right?" He didn't sound angry anymore, just worried. "This is a guy who tried to kill us. He isn't a 'specimen' you can add to your collection of weird stuff, you know that, right?"

"I know, I know." That was exactly why it was so important—why it seemed so important—to capture Bill in words and pictures before it was too late. (It was funny, Ford thought, how Stan's very first conversation with Bill had been a murder, and yet he was the one who talked about Bill like he was just some guy; while Ford had spent so many years obsessively trying to find out who Bill was that he'd almost forgotten he was a person instead of a terrible idea.)

"When execution day comes and you think you haven't dug up enough of his history, what'll you do? Give him a stay of execution until he's dictated his memoirs to you?"

"No," Ford said immediately. "No, of course not. I'm just taking advantage of the opportunity to learn what I can, while I can. It's no different from your 'shopping trip' at the mall—"

"Hey!" Stan pointed a finger at Ford. "Watch it! That was strictly business! It's not like I'm attached to the guy—"

"I didn't mean anything by it! I just meant—as long as we're stuck with Bill, make him useful, and—and to heck with him after that. Right?" Like Stan had said about the scratch cards: why throw away free money just because of the source? "He'd do the same to us."

Stan hesitated. "And you're sure that when the time comes, you'll be ready to pull the trigger?"

"I know I will. It won't be the first time. I'm just glad that this time I'll be able to aim at his own head."

"Hm." Stan didn't look convinced.

Ford sighed. "But, if I think I'll waver—I'll hand you the gun."

"Is that a promise?"

"Yes, yes, of course. I promise."

But he knew he didn't need to.

####

Soos drove the tired gang home just past dawn, early enough for him to open the Mystery Shack on schedule.

"Soon as we get home, I'm going back to sleep," Stan muttered crankily. Ford—eyes shut, leaning against the window—nodded in agreement. Stan yawned, "And there'd better not be any nasty surprises at the shack."

####

Bill sat sleeping in his attic window seat, knees to his chest, leaning against the window, ear pressed to the glass.

Outside, Stan wailed, "My car!"

Bill's eyes snapped open. He smiled.

He ran to the kids' room, knocked on the door—"Hey, the bigger Pines are back!"—and bolted for the stairs.

####

Soos got the door open at the exact same time Bill stumbled off the stairs and collided with the living room doorframe. Bill grabbed the doorframe just long enough to steady himself, and then bounded over to the door, shoved Soos and Ford aside, and leaned out onto the porch. "HIYA, STAN!"

Stan whipped around to face Bill. "YOU!" He gestured furiously at the wizard graffiti on his car. "WHAT did you DO to my CAR!"

"Do you like it?"

Stan let out an inarticulate scream of rage.

"Oh, you love it!"

"You massacred it! I've had this car forty-five years! I've done things in this car I can't say! And it's never, never been so—so—violated!"

Grinning ear to ear, Bill said, "What do you think of the girl wizard?"

"The��what?!" Stan circled the car. He screamed again.

"Uh-huh?"

"Why does she have a beard!"

"Go on," Bill said gleefully, "tell me what you think! I want the full review!"

"This," Stan said, "is the most ugly, hideous, terrible—"

Bill glanced back at a sound on the stairs. "Oh, hey Mabel! Get over here!" He gestured proudly as Mabel joined him in the doorway. "And here's the artistic mastermind herself!"

Stan choked on his words. "—b... beautiful, stunning, museum-worthy work of art I've ever seen."

Mabel beamed. "It's not finished yet, we ran out of some colors! I was going to add a dragon on the hood!"

Stan's face went white. "No no, it's... perfect the way it is. Don't—don't change a thing."

"Really? You're sure? I don't mind!"

"Really." Looking slightly nauseous, Stan said, "I love it just like this, pumpkin."

Mabel squealed and ran outside to give him a big hug.

Bill was fighting back silent laughter so hard he almost fell down.

####

"...And I still haven't found any sign of the Nightwigglers," Dipper said, sighing dejectedly and dropping his journal on the counter next to the cash register. "So, I dunno, maybe I should give up on this one and move on."

Wendy was sitting back with her feet kicked up on the counter, but she straightened a bit to look at Dipper's journal. She skimmed the news article he'd paperclipped to one page. "Oh, I heard about this," she said. "The cops talked to me about the first burglary. I was in the thrift shop that day."

"Oh, yeah?" Dipper pointed at the picture next to the article. "Did you see anything like this?"

Wendy's eyes widened. "No—but I think one of my brothers did."

"Wait, really?"

"Yeah, he was talking about it a couple nights ago. He said it was like an armless white thing wearing pants that went up to its face. We all thought he got spooked by a deer butt or something and made up the whole story. Then dad said we should drop it and told us we should stay in at night."

"That's when they come out! At night!" Dipper laughed excitedly. "Do you think your dad knows something?"

"Pfff, not if he can help it." Wendy pulled her feet off the counter and checked the clock. "I could show you the start of the trail my brother was on. It's like ten minutes by bike and the next big tour bus isn't getting here for half an hour, wanna sneak out?"

"Are you serious?! Of course!"

"Just promise you won't tell Gus if we find something. We've been making fun of him for days and I don't want to admit he was right." Wendy laughed. "Let me grab somebody to cover."

"I'll get my bike!" Dipper was already headed out the door. "I've been looking for a lead for days! I dug through half the dumpsters in town searching for their nests..." The door swung shut behind him.

Wendy ducked into the living room. "Hey Goldie."

"Yello?" He was sitting cross legged on the couch watching TV.

"I've gotta do something with Dipper, do you mind covering for a little bit? Just twenty, thirty minutes."

His gaze flickered to the TV, then back to Wendy's face. "Sure! Anything for you, cool girl."

Wendy had a brief, eerie sense of déjà vu. She shook it off. "I'm not interrupting anything good, am I?" She nodded at the TV.

"Naaah, it's one of those terrible specials about pyramid conspiracies." He shook a cider can, "I'm taking a sip every time they mention Fishmasons or 'ancient dinosaur-worshiping civilization.'"

"Dude. You'll be wasted before the first commercial break."

"Really, you're saving me from myself." He set the can on the TV and followed Wendy into the gift shop. (As he did, Bill checked to see if he had anything on under his hoodie. No? The Pines didn't want him to be seen in public in his hoodie; they thought it would make him "too obvious." He rolled up the sleeves to hide some of the brick pattern and surreptitiously tucked the hood and the bow tie drawstrings into the collar.)

As she headed out the door, Wendy repeated, "Just twenty minutes! Thirty tops. I'll get back before the next tour bus, promise."

"No problem!" He waved her off.

"I owe you one!"

Bill made a note of that.

He looked around the gift shop—any readily-obvious mischief he could get up to? He grabbed an 8-ball cane and took it to the counter. And then he took the stool behind the register, propped his chin in his hand, gazed toward the living room, and resumed watching TV through the wall and backwards. He didn't miss hearing the conspiracy talk—he was sure it was actively making him stupider—but credit where credit was due; they made those CGI pyramid models really hot.

A cutaway of one pyramid showed its internal tunnels and chambers. Bill bit his lower lip. Oh yeah. That's what he came here for.

Several minutes went by. The door opened and a lone tourist crept in, a middle-aged woman with a sun-damaged tan. Bill straightened up and switched his eye patch over to hide his bleeding eye. "Heya! Next tour's in..." He checked the clock, how long until the next bus? "About fifteen minutes."

The woman nodded and quietly started circling the gift shop.

Bill glanced toward the living room, decided he'd better not start damaging his other eye too, mentally cursed the tourist, and pulled out one of Wendy's magazines to read. "Let me know if you need anything."

The tourist spent several minutes making a slow circuit of the room, and then crept up to the cash register. Bill looked up with a smile, didn't see any souvenirs in her hands, and asked, "Can I help you?"

Hesitantly, the woman said, "The sun sets a deep blood red."

Bill's eye flew wide open, his heart leaped into his throat, and his breath hitched. His gaze roved over her exposed skin until he spied a tattoo on her right arm: four triangles stacked atop each other, starting with an equilateral and each getting shorter and more obtuse as they descended, until they'd reduced completely and a single horizontal line underlined all four triangles. This wasn't quite the happiest he'd ever been to see the symbol of a devastatingly self-destructive high-control cult, but it was close. "Oh! Oh, this is—" He rubbed his temples, squeezing his eye shut. "I know this. I rhymed 'red' with 'pyramid.' Why do I give everyone a different code. 'But rises gold over the pyramid'—something like that, right?" Bill gave the woman a pleading look. "I'm close enough that you can tell I know what you're talking about!"

A look of relief washed over her face. "You know him." Voice low, she asked, "Is it safe to talk?"

Knew him? He was him. But he couldn't claim that without proving it—what would convince her?—telling her something that only he knew?—great, but what? Her face was vaguely familiar—he thought he might've given her a visionary dream once—but he had so many little worshipers and they were so unimportant, most of them blurred together.

So all he could do was say, "It's not safe. Everyone here is an enemy."

She nodded sharply. "Where can we meet?"

Bill paused. "We can't. I'm... trapped."

Her brows creased with worry. "They're keeping you prisoner?"

"Afraid so."

"I could get the police—"

"Everyone," Bill repeated, "is an enemy."

She paused, processing that. Bill's gaze flickered to the clock. Wendy said twenty minutes, thirty tops. She'd been gone twenty-two minutes. "Someone's coming any minute."

"Right." The cultist grabbed Wendy's magazine, tore a corner off a page, and grabbed a pen.

"How did you find me?" Bill asked. Of all the tourist traps in all the tiny towns in all the world, how had she come in hereand walked right up to him?

"We were told a devotee was here," she said. "Someone sent the address and phone number to the Bahamian art studio."

Bill's mind spun. How? Who the heck would know to do that? The only person who knew he was here who'd come anywhere close to any of Bill's other worshipers was...

Ford? No. Did he?

The cultist shoved the paper in his hand and turned to leave.

Bill grabbed her arm. "Stay out of Gravity Falls," he commanded. "But stay close. Don't go back to Death Valley." Between the sun damage and the tattoo, she had to be one of his Death Valley girls. She looked like their usual prey: disaffected middle class white woman, probably had a dead end job and a mediocre husband and a useless degree from a liberal arts college. Maybe being able to guess where she came from would impress her.

It did. She stopped and turned back and looked at him in amazement—and then looked at him, staring hard at his eye. "You're... hosting him, aren't you?" Her voice fell to a whisper. "No. Are you...?"

"You got me." He smiled wryly—behold him, electric god bound in flesh, how low he's fallen, but at least he still has his good humor, doesn't he? "I always said you had great intuition." (It was a safe bet. He usually told the ladies that they had great intuition. Most of them ate that up, and the ones that didn't were often a little too savvy to sucker.)

It worked. She inhaled sharply. "You are," she breathed. "I knew you'd be a woman. Oh, Mary's a fool." She said this like she'd just won some years-old argument Bill had missed.

Mary, as in Mary-whom-Bill-had-put-in-charge-of-the-Death-Valley-compound Mary? Ha. She was getting on in years; maybe Bill could start a schism, that sounded fun. He opened his mouth to say something about Mary having great leadership but waning clarity of vision—

—when the cultist leaned across the counter, grabbed his collar, and pulled him into a kiss.

Okay. All right. She was one of those cultists. Got it. Got it got it got it. Wow. Definitely a "mediocre husband" convert, those were easy to seduce away with a little warmth and affection—nothing obvious, but get them infatuated with the idea of an unattainable incorporeal ideal lover and they'd chase him to the ends of the earth. Maybe a lesbian in denial that Bill had decided to push further into denial, if her assumption about Bill's gender was anything to go by. He tried to remember what he'd told this one.

He leaned into the kiss.

He'd done this before—in dreams, in puppets—he didn't prefer humans, but he could handle them well enough and earthlings had such pretty eyes. And this body he was stuck in made such insistent demands; a surge of human hormones washed over his brain so powerfully it made him dizzy. She broke the kiss to murmur, "Cipher, my lord—" and he took the opportunity to kiss her eyelid and lie, "I knew if anyone could find me, it would be you." He wished he remembered her name. She tugged his face back down to her lips. She was so eager. Cipher, my lord. Oh, it felt good to be revered again—

The door opened. "Um?"

If Bill had had one ounce of his power, he would have killed Wendy on the spot.

Instead, he seized his cultist's hands, ripped them off his hoodie, and shoved her away. "Whoa, lady! What do you think this is, a kissing booth?!" He laughed angrily. "We don't offer that kind of service here! Either get out, or—or buy a souvenir already!" He pointed at Wendy. "From her. Not from me."

Shocked, the cultist turned toward where Bill was pointing; and then turned back, understanding in her eyes.

Wendy raised her hands defensively, grimacing. "Yeah, no, I'm not serving you either. Just... get outta here."

The cultist met Bill's gaze for just a moment, then walked quickly out the door without a word.

Bill shouted after her, "And do not come back!" and quietly mourned as, for the second time in as many weeks, he had to watch helplessly as he sent away his only hope of getting any action/rescue.

"I am so, so sorry," Wendy said. "I leave for like ten minutes and you get one of the nightmare customers."

How Bill loved nightmares. "Twenty-five minutes, but who's counting."

"Psh, shut up." Wendy reclaimed her post behind the counter. "I think she's been here before, she looks kinda familiar. You okay?"

Bill hoped nobody else in town would recognize her. "I think I'll live after some mouthwash. Terrible breath." He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Hey, remember when you said you owe me one? You really owe me."

####

All his cultist had written for him was a phone number. Bill slid his stolen journal from its window hiding spot and copied the number down in two-tone dots and dashes. Plaintext transcriptions were usually tricky, given the vast difference between the language Bill wrote in and the languages humans used—but numbers, at least, were easy. Everyone had numbers.

And then he stared at the scrap of paper, reading the numbers over and over, until he was sure he'd memorized them, just in case he ever lost the journal.

And then he ate the paper.

And then he stacked the two cushions of his makeshift bed on top of each other, planted his face in them, and screamed.

Cipher, my lord. It had felt so, so, so good to be revered again.

His organs twisted with touch-hunger and loneliness.

####

Out in the Bahamas, along the southwest edge of the Bermuda Triangle, were two nut job hermits from Miami. Bill had convinced them that the only way they could purge their sins and purify their souls was by sculpting and selling golden avatars of God into which they could pour their guilt, and they had to keep doing it until they no longer felt guilty (and they would never not feel guilty; they needed so much therapy that Bill had ensured they'd never get). And then he'd convinced them that God's true face was an Eye of Providence in a top hat and bow tie.

Over the years he'd lost a little control over those two—in their desperation to be free of sin, they'd also started sculpting avatars to as many gods as they could find and selling them en masse to afford more art supplies—but hey, as long as his face was still mixed in with the rest, fine. Honestly, he was surprised those nuts weren't dead yet.

Somebody in this house had sent his location to them. And in a moment of what Bill imagined was stunning mental clarity, they had passed on that information to the single least dysfunctional pocket of Bill's top cult in the continental United States. Maybe when Bill was back at full power, he'd drop by the hermits' dreams to tell them they'd finally achieved absolution and could rest. Their decades of out-of-control scrupulosity would probably prevent them from believing him, but hey, he could say he'd tried. He washed his hands of all responsibility over them and their mental illnesses that he'd knowingly deliberately exacerbated for his own benefit. Not his problem.

But the question he came back to, over and over, was who had talked to them.

Bill needed to reach his Death Valley cultist. He needed a phone. Every phone in this house was well-guarded. No one would let him touch one... except, perhaps, whoever had sent the SOS on his behalf.

The only person who made sense was Stanford. Bill didn't think he'd ever told Ford about the nutty sculptors; but in the eighties he had given him the mailing addresses of some niche art dealers who would sell tapestries and statues of an obscure one-eyed god to collectors who could appreciate what they were looking at. Maybe Ford had gotten back in contact with them? Maybe he'd told them where Bill was, and they'd passed the information to the Bahamas?

Maybe Ford's feelings weren't quite so cold toward Bill as he'd been pretending.

Bill liked that idea a lot.

Maybe Bill's birthday gift had swung Ford back around to the side of reason—reminded him just how good he'd had it under a muse and mentor willing to teach him anything his nerdy little heart desired. Or maybe he'd always wanted to come back, and had just needed Bill to say it first.

He probably only pretended he hated Bill because they were surrounded by enemies—everyone in the house thought Ford was looking for a way to destroy Bill, what would happen if they knew the truth?

But the truth was there. Bill could almost seize it in his hands. All those moments where they almost talked like they were friends again, before Ford had to stop himself and leave. That one beautiful little word: jealous. And of course, there was the whole thing with the glass pyramid and the "Mysteries" that Ford had passed on—

—to Mabel.

There was another possibility.

As much as Bill would love if it was Ford, Mabel was the only person in the house who acted like she actually wanted Bill alive. Whatever "Mysteries" Ford was teaching her had something to do with Bill, the pyramid made that obvious. Maybe his lessons included the contact information of everyone else Ford knew who knew Bill? Maybe she'd taken it upon herself to call for help?

It was thin. And it was still dependent upon Ford harboring a secret loyalty to Bill that he was passing on to his great-niece. But that was where things stood: Ford was the only person in the house who definitely knew how to reach Bill's followers, but Mabel was the only person in the house who definitely might want to.

And he had to make completely sure of which one of them it was before he asked for a favor.

####

Ford had missed dinner again.

Fiddleford had sent Ford home with a pile of math. All the calculations he'd done to get the miniature particle accelerator to produce Dontium. By his reckoning, that there jar should've filled with Dontium faster than greased lightning; he just plumb can't understand why it trickled in like cold molasses. (His words.) He'd asked Ford to check his work, see if he'd missed something.

Ford was more than happy to help. It was a much-needed intellectual challenge that didn't involve Bill's underhanded birthday gift. Something that would let him feel like he was making progress. And it was comfortingly familiar. He and Fiddleford had spent weeks checking and re-checking each other's math in the lead up to the portal test, before they knew what a horror they were building.

As soon as Ford had gotten home, he'd put Fiddleford's papers in his underground study before going back to bed. Bill had already admitted he could glimpse the future, although Ford wasn't sure how far; and Ford was growing convinced that Bill's ability to perceive "higher dimensions" let him see through walls like they weren't there. He'd begun keeping Journal 5 and other sensitive materials down in his study at all times, hoping that the distance and layers of dirt and rock would keep Bill from peering in.

And when he'd dragged himself out of bed around noon—an embarrassingly late hour to get up, but he had been awake most of the night—he'd grabbed a quick breakfast/lunch, brewed a pot of coffee to take with him, and gone below to get to work.

He'd only worked seven or eight hours with a couple of reluctant breaks in the middle before his head began pounding too hard for him to ignore. He'd been neglecting his exercise regimen the past few weeks, and his back and neck were letting him know. In his thirties, he'd been able to work fourteen hours days and still want to keep going—and that was even before he'd handed his body over to Bill so he could keep working around the clock. He wasn't as young as he used to be.

He dragged himself upstairs after sunset, when the last ambient light from the sky still faintly glowed through the windows. He could make something quick and simple for dinner, go to bed early, and get up early to continue working. He pushed through the door to the dark living room—

"Hello!"

"Gah!" Ford jumped. "You. What are you doing here?"

Bill was leaning next to the door, a dim silhouette with his elbow on the wall and cheek in his hand. Even in the dark, Ford was sure he could see Bill's wicked grin at his reaction. "I happen to live here."

Ford let out an irritated huff. "Whatever you're up to, I don't have time to deal with it. Find someone else to bother." He pushed past Bill and headed toward the kitchen.

It would have been too much to expect Bill not to follow him, wouldn't it? "Aw, c'mon, don't be like that! Would it kill you to act like you're happy to see me?"

"Probably."

Bill's laugh made Ford's shoulders raise up around his ears. Maybe that was the source of his neck pain.

Bill shadowed him into the kitchen and leaned on the table, watching while Ford rummaged through the fridge. "But seriously, Sixer—who are you trying to impress by giving me the cold shoulder? I'm the only one here. You could afford to treat me like a person for two minutes." When Ford slammed the fridge door, Bill smacked it with the tip of an 8-ball cane. "Hey, have my food privileges been revoked? Give me a turn."

How long had Bill had a weapon? Ford snatched the cane from him, but opened the fridge and left it. "I don't consider you a person. I consider you an incalculably destructive force of pure, brutal chaos." He cracked three eggs in a skillet and opened a cabinet for one of the stove knobs they kept stored where Bill couldn't reach them.

"Flattering!" Bill started pulling out his usual nauseating array of condiments: today was sauerkraut, maraschino cherries, mustard, ranch dressing, and barbecue sauce. (Why did he eat like that? Did his species usually subsist on a mostly liquid diet? Was it the flavors—?) "Hey, make me mac 'n' cheese, wouldja?"

"No."

"Fine. Leave the burner on when you're done, I'll make it myself."

"You're not allowed to use the stove."

"Then how about I sit here drinking mustard while you enjoy a hot meal." Bill waved three eggs at Ford. "At least make me eggs too. Zero extra effort on your part. I'll even crack them for you if you want."

Ford gave Bill a dark look; but he supposed, as one of the people who had agreed that Bill wasn't allowed to cook, he was in no position to complain about Bill begging him to cook on his behalf. He snatched the eggs out of Bill's hand. "How do you want them."

"I haven't eaten enough chicken eggs to have a preference. Whatever you'll complain least about doing."

Poorly scrambled eggs it was. Ford shut the fridge and returned to the stove.

Bill sat on the table and crossed his legs in lotus position while he waited. "But really, what do you get out of pretending you can't stand me! We both know it's an act."

Ford gave him a tired, sour look. "Even for you, you sound delusional."

"I know you don't really hate me."

"I could write an entire dissertation and earn another Ph.D. on the topic of how much I hate you."

Ford hated how excited Bill looked by that. "Would you?"

"No! Why would I waste that much time thinking about you?"

"It seems to me like you're already doing that."

The hair on the back of Ford's neck prickled. Surely Bill just meant Ford's research into how to kill him; but his mind flashed to the miniature grimoire he'd spent all his time poring over—the blueprints of Bill's childhood home—the face he'd absent-mindedly drawn in his journal in the middle of the night and quickly scribbled out. Could Bill still see through that face? Had Ford remembered to blind Bill's eye on the blueprints? What about the eyes drawn in his human faces? Did Bill know about Ford's other studies? What did it matter—nothing Ford was doing was wrong. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Bill's smile slowly widened. "Sure you don't. You might hate me to my face, but behind my back you're as obsessed with me as ever. You might as well lean into it."

You're using avoiding him as an excuse to obsess over him even more in private. "I am not..." Wasn't he? You're acting like a stalker, Sixer.

"Oh, Fordsy, come on." Bill uncrossed his legs, slid off the table, and was across the room faster than Ford had expected. Ford instinctively took a step back and bumped into the oven; Bill reached past him to lean a hand against the edge of the stove, inches from touching him. "You're not hiding it half as well as you think you are. Did you think I wouldn't notice?" He smirked up at Ford, exposed eye wide and eager, utterly fascinated with him. "And bringing Mabel in on it? I'll have to admit, that surprised me. Can't say I disapprove, though."

Ford couldn't tell if the heat on the back of his neck was from Bill's accusations or the stove. "I beg your pardon?" What was he talking about—their conversation in Portland? The blueprints of Bill's home? (Using his great-niece to spy on Bill, lord, what was Ford doing?)

"Quit messing around! The Mysteries, Stanford. You think I don't know I'm the star of that show?" He poked the center of Ford's chest, "There's no way you joined a cult, you're not enough of a team player! What'd you do? Invent your own cult of one? Mixed a little of what I taught you, a little of whatever you learned out in the multiverse? I know you were asking around about me." Bill chuckled. "You want to keep your little rituals private, fine—I think it's cute, really—just tell me one thing I've been dying to know: how much have you told the kid?"

Ford stared at Bill.

Then he laughed in his face. "You really bought that?"

Bill's smile immediately vanished. "What?"

Ford shoved Bill's hands away. "There are no 'Mysteries.' It was a joke."

Bill stepped back, staring at Ford, brows furrowed. "A...? No," he said. "She's got that glass pyramid—"

"She wanted it because it was pretty," Ford said. "I gave her one since I was throwing them all out."

"That's the stupidest story I've ever heard. Then why would she have brought up the Mysteries!"

"Because," Ford said, "I told her, if you asked about the pyramid, she should make up something to confuse you."

Bill's mouth was open, but no words came out. His face had rapidly turned red. Several emotions flashed across his face in quick succession, from shock to confusion to humiliation to a rage so deep it almost looked like disgust. For a moment, from how Bill's fingers were curling like claws, Ford was sure Bill was about to attack him.

But then he clenched his jaw, backed off, leaned on the table, jammed his fists down against the tabletop, and glared at the floor.

Ford turned back to the stove, grinning to himself. Some of the eggs had burned slightly. Those were Bill's now. "What's the matter? Did you forget that humans can lie?"

Bill didn't reply.

"I'm surprised you didn't expect it. I seem to remember we got you with an impressive whopper last year—"

"Shut up."

"Now you don't want to talk?"

"Now you do?"

Good point; he didn't. If he'd finally rendered Bill speechless, he should enjoy it while he could.

He'd have to thank Mabel later for inventing the Mysteries. Sometimes that girl could be genius.

Ford turned off the burner, put the stove knob away, and dumped the eggs onto two plates. He didn't even bother to keep track of which plate had the burned eggs.

He shot a quick, exasperated look at Bill—he'd sat on top of the table again—and dropped a plate next to him. "Here." He grabbed a bag of bread and looked around for the toaster.

Behind him, voice trembling but low and dangerous, Bill said, "Don't look at me like that."

Ford glanced back warily. "Like what?"

Bill violently shoved off the table. There was an awful squeal of sliding furniture. Before Ford could react, Bill was in his face, grabbing him by his turtleneck, dragging him in, forcing him to look up at Bill.

Ford's peripheral vision was filled with gold. They were so close their noses nearly touched.

"Like you don't remember who I am!" Bill stared down with wide-eyed seething rage. "Your muse!" His voice cracked, "Your god!"

Ford stared up at Bill, speechless.

Then he looked down.

Bill was standing on a chair to make himself taller than Ford.

Ford ripped Bill's hands off his sweater. "You were never, ever my god."

Bill stumbled off the chair, catching himself hard on the edge of the table to keep from falling completely. "That's not true!" He heaved himself back onto his feet with a wince. "You worshiped me—"

"I admired you!" Ford jabbed a finger at Bill's chest. "I respected you! I—I even idolized you, but I never worshiped you!"

Bill jabbed a finger back, "You're splitting hairs! You practically turned your study into a temple to me—tapestries, rugs, statues—"

"Because you said it would help me reach you!"

"And it did! That's what shrines are for, genius!"

"It wasn't a shrine! Not to me."

"You're kidding me! All the money you dropped on that gold-plated statue and you expect me to believe that wasn't an act of worship—"

"Do not. Remind me. How much. That stupid statue cost."

"If you didn't build a shrine for worship then what in the world did you build it for!"

"Friendship!" Ford took a shaky breath in. "I thought... I honestly thought you—you—were my best friend." The air in the room trembled with heat. They were standing too close to each other. Ford refused to be the one to back up.

"I was," Bill said. "I still could be if you'd stop being a moron."

Ford laughed in disbelief. "Which is it, were you my god or my friend?!"

"They're not mutually exclusive—!"

"You can't keep your story straight for THIRTY SECONDS!"

"Don't you call me a LIAR, after EVERYTHING I taught you—!"

"In all the years I've known you I don't think you've told me the truth ONCE—!"

Stan flipped on the lights.

They froze and stared at him. They had their hands around each other's throats. Bill had a foot planted on Ford's stomach like he was trying to get a foothold to climb him. They were both covered in egg.

Stan said, "Could you do this in the morning?"

Ford said, "Sure."

Bill said, "He started it."

"I st—?! You started all of this thirty years ago—"

"Guys," Stan said tiredly.

With some effort, Ford unpeeled his hands from Bill's neck.

To his surprise, Bill voluntarily let go as well. Ford snatched up what was left of his plate of eggs, took the loaf of bread—he had lighters, he could toast it downstairs—and left the kitchen, turning the light off as he went.

Stan was waiting out in the entryway. "Heading to bed?"

"No." Ford shoveled a forkful of eggs in his mouth. "Going to be up late." He was too angry to sleep. He could eat, take a painkiller for his headache, and keep working.

"More research?"

"No. Calculations."

Stan's shoulders slumped; but all he said was, "Suit yourself. Don't stay up too late."

Ford glanced back once into the kitchen. Bill wasn't moving. He sat slumped in a chair, elbows on his knees. He'd pulled on his hood. Its eye stared at Ford.

Ford wasn't about to pity Bill over a performative display of angst. He'd fallen for that already.

He returned to his study and mathematics.

####

Bill stared at his plate of eggs. He mechanically pushed them around on the plate until they formed a perfect equilateral triangle. He scooped out an empty white eye in the middle.

He stood, snatched up the plate, and smashed it on the floor.

They thought he was stupid. They thought he couldn't use a stove if it didn't have knobs, as if he was a child! The humans made it easy for themselves to think of him as a child when they treated him like one, "baby-proof the doors" and "no sharp objects" and "don't talk to strangers." He could show them.

He grabbed the stem where one of the knobs had been removed, and twisted. He heard the hiss of gas under the burner. Everyone was asleep. He could fill the house with gas. It would only take a little push to make a spark and set the entire shack ablaze. In the dark room, he could see the first glimpse of future flames flickering yellow-orange in the periphery of his foresight. No one would survive. Who's your god now, smart guy? He'd rise like a phoenix from his own corpse and he'd tear this town apart.

Where was Mabel?

Was she home tonight?

Bill turned off the gas.

He pushed up his sleeve and pressed the fleshy part of his forearm onto the still-hot burner. The pain burned away his jumbled anger so he could think clearly.

Who cared how the nutty sculptors had gotten Bill's address? He was making good progress on lucid dreaming; maybe he'd astral projected across the country to call for help and forgotten it when he woke up. He'd probably saved himself without even remembering it. It didn't matter. The important thing was that they'd received the message; and now, Bill had friends on the outside. Friends who were on his side.

If he could ever contact them again.

Bill would find a way. He didn't need Ford's help. "Never worshiped you." Ha.

He needed fresh air. Even if it wasn't safe to escape yet, he needed to breathe. He carried himself backward through doorway into the gift shop, pulled aside the curtain hiding the ladder to the roof—

The trap door was shut. He stared up in despair.

He shot a glare toward the vending machine, and angrily crossed back into the living room.

The air was so stuffy inside the shack. "Never worshiped you." Liar. If it wasn't worship then what was it?

Bill took himself upstairs. Hunger gnawed at his stomach. He lay on his makeshift bed curled up around himself, arms wrapped tight across his stomach, his burn pressed hard against a layer of knit yarn, thighs pulled up against his arms. It was a wholly alien position. It felt unnatural and bizarre. This body had curled like this of its own volition. It seemed like the only thing that briefly smothered the ache of emptiness and the hormonal inferno screaming loneliness through every vein. The loneliness wasn't his. He wasn't lonely. This body was.

Cipher, my lord.

He hated this body.

He ached to be revered again.

####

It was two in the morning. Ford sat at his desk, pages and pages of math scattered before him, glasses off, hand rubbing his eyes.

He didn't want to be checking a mountain of math like a human calculator. He wanted to be studying strange magic and researching new anomalies. He wanted to be digging through Bill's grimoire.

He wanted to be awed again.

####

(I've been waiting to write/draw Bill screaming his grief over not being worshiped since literally April. I hope y'all enjoyed! This is one of my favorite chapters so far, I'd love to hear what y'all think!!)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #grunkle ford #stanford pines #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher #(*immediately edits post because i forgot the brick pattern on Bill's hoodie*)

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dreamwritesimagines · 10 months

Text

Garden of Secrets [37] - Amaranth

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful feedback and support my loves, it made my whole week, you’re amazing!❤ I hope you’ll like this chapter as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think, thank you! ❤

Summary: Art lasts forever.

Warnings: Regency era society and social rules, some gender specific language and terms, mentions of sex.

Word Count: 3600

Series Masterlist

The first thing you felt through the warmth of peaceful sleep was the blinding sunrays piercing through the darkness, causing you to make a face and wonder why on earth the curtains were open this early—

Oh.

You weren’t in your room.

A smile curled your lips as you shifted closer to Benedict who looked to be still in deep sleep, one arm thrown over his eyes while the other kept you close to his chest even in his sleep. You had found a couple of soil bags last night to use as pillows along with a very old blanket that you suspected they used to carry the said bags, and thrown it over you. You let your hungry gaze wander down from his handsome face to his perfect torso; he looked like a statue one of his idols would sculpt in Renaissance in such an effortless way that even looking at him made your heart skip a beat, your cheeks burning when you remembered last night.

Well, as it turned out Benedict was right.

It felt absolutely divine.

You nibbled on your lip, dragging your eyes away from him to your surroundings. In daylight, the greenhouse looked so beautiful that it felt as if you were in a dream, making you heave a sigh. You slowly pulled away from him, careful not to wake him up and reached for your shift to put it on. It was dry unlike the rest of your clothes but it was so see-through in the sunlight that if it were any other time you would have never thought of walking around just in that, except that—

Well.

Considering last night, it wouldn’t be a scandal.

You bit down a smile and got off the floor, approaching the Middlemist Red. You still couldn’t believe it was yours, after years and years of dreaming of seeing it at least once in some sort of exhibition, now you could see it anytime you wanted in your own greenhouse. You gently caressed the petals with your fingertip, then checked the soil in the pot to see whether it needed water but it was still damp so you figured it could wait until later in the day. You looked around, taking in the sight.

This was actually yours. All of it.

“I thought you left.”

You looked over your shoulder and turned around to look at Benedict better, your heart skipping a beat as you did. He had pulled himself up into a sitting position with the blanket pooled around his waist, his hair messy as he ran his hand through it, that lopsided grin you loved so much playing on his lips. You took a deep breath to snap yourself out of the haze, then leaned back to the shelf.

“Well this is my greenhouse,” you said airily, motioning between you before pointing at him. “So hypothetically, if anyone was to leave…”

He chuckled, his eyes gleaming. “Mm, should I leave then?”

“No,” you said with a grin. “In fact, I don’t think either of us should. Let’s just stay here for the rest of our lives.”

He stretched out his arm as if offering you his hand. “Will you come here please?”

You pretended to think about it, then approached him with a giggle that turned into a squeal when he grabbed you by the waist to pull you to his lap. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your heart slamming against your ribcage as he leaned in to kiss you, making you heave a happy sigh.

“Good morning my love,” he muttered to your lips, stroking your cheekbone and coaxing a smile from you.

“Good morning.”

“Remind me again, why are you wearing clothes?”

You let out a small laugh. “For decorum, obviously,” you teased him. “I mean surely you cannot disagree with propriety, can you?”

“I absolutely can,” he said, stealing a kiss from you as his hand trailed up your leg, pushing the skirt of your shift up, awakening fire on your skin. “To hell with decorum.”

You felt nearly intoxicated as a giggle climbed up your throat and he rolled you over to get on top of you, settling between your legs, holding himself up on one arm to look down at you with a soft smile.

“God, I’ll never be able to paint this…” he murmured and you tilted your head, stroking your fingertips over his chest, right over his heart.

“Well I suppose you’ll have to settle for the feeling rather than the depiction,” you tried to joke, stealing a look at him before the thought hit you, making you furrow your brows. He knew you too well not to notice it, so he pulled back just a little.

“What is it?”

“This doesn’t change things, does it?”

“What do you mean?”

You swallowed thickly, looking up at him.

“You won’t take it back now that I…” you trailed off. “You won’t stop loving me now that I said I love you?”

That fond look appeared in his blue eyes again and he smiled at you, then reached to your hand to rest your palm flat against his chest, letting you feel his strong heartbeat.

“This life and beyond, remember?” he murmured. “I couldn’t stop loving you if I tried.”

You pressed your lips together and he tilted his head.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I do, but I just don’t see how,” you muttered. “I mean I’ve— I’ve been terrible to you.”

“No you haven’t.”

You scoffed. “Ben.”

��What?” he said with a small laugh. “You haven’t.”

“Just yesterday I accused you of cheating on me.”

“I mean it brought us here to this so I’m not complaining,” he said, wiggling his brows and drawing a burst of laughter from your lips.

“No but ever since we met, I’ve been…” you mumbled. “Not nice to you.”

“You were.”

You shot him a look and the corners of his lips twitched upwards.

“It’s a subjective matter.”

You looked around the greenhouse before turning your glances to him. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anything.”

“Why did you do all this for me when you didn’t even know I was in love with you?”

He frowned slightly, thinking for a moment before shaking his head.

“I didn’t do this so that you would fall in love with me,” he said. “I did it because I want you to be happy. Simple as that.”

You felt as if your heart was melting and you leaned up to kiss him but the sound of a movement by the door reached you, making Benedict roll off you to shield you with his body as soon as the door opened and Mr. Binsted walked in.

“Oh—my apologies!” he exclaimed as soon as his eyes fell on you two, then he looked up, his whole face going red. “Sir. Ma’am.”

“Mr. Binsted,” Benedict said, trying to keep a straight face as if nothing was out of the ordinary while you stayed behind him, your cheeks burning. “Good morning.”

“Hello,” you murmured, still hiding behind Benedict and Mr. Binsted nodded, keeping his eyes on the ceiling.

“Good morning, I’ll just—come back later,” he stammered and left, almost stumbling over his own feet in his haste. You buried your face to Benedict’s shoulder, gripping his arm tightly and letting out a whine while he started laughing.

“Oh my God…” you said. “Oh my God, I can never look him in the eye again.”

Benedict tried to stop his laughter and shook his head, then turned to you.

“Could’ve been worse,” he commented and grabbed you by the waist to get you under him, making you let out a clear laugh despite yourself. “Besides, look on the bright side.”

You raised your brows, still smiling. “And what is that?”

“Well you see my love, now…” he dipped his head to brush his lips against yours, that familiar fire spreading through your veins as his hand pushed your skirt up. “Now we know no one will be disturbing us for a while.”

If somebody told you that one day you would have the greenhouse of your dreams, including the rarest flower in the world and you would spend the whole day away from it, you would have laughed in their face.

Yet in your defense, Benedict had a way of convincing you.

It felt like you were put under some sort of spell, that fire only he managed to breathe into life taking over you until the only thing in your mind was him. After leaving the greenhouse, you had every intention of going back once you had some breakfast but before you knew it, you both found yourselves in his bed.

You could not believe you had denied yourself the bliss for so long when you could’ve been doing this for months and more importantly, you couldn’t believe you were still hungry for him even after spending hours in the bed with him, completely lost in the pleasure.

And the worst part? You actually had to step away from his room and from him so that your maid could do your hair for tonight, for Gordon’s gala.

For some reason, every single act except the marital act felt entirely unnecessary to you now that you had gotten a taste of it.

Paula retrieved her hands from your hair, letting you look in the mirror to check your bun and you turned your head, then smiled at her.

“Thank you.”

“Of course ma’am,” she said as you stood up, and put your corset over your shift. She went behind you to put the laces into the hoops but you turned your head when you heard the knock on the door.

“Y/N?”

A bright smile warmed your lips. “Come in Ben!”

The door opened and he stepped inside, and you turned to Paula.

“You may leave, thank you.”

Paula curtsied and left the room, and you grinned at Benedict, leaning back to the vanity.

“You look too handsome,” you said, your lips pulled into a small pout as your gaze wandered over him. Unlike you, he looked very much ready to go outside and attend this gala you two were expected in, yet the only thing you wanted to do was to drag him to bed, outside world be damned.

And judging by the mischievous look in his blue eyes, he shared the sentiment.

“Let’s just skip this one,” he said, approaching you and your jaw dropped, an exaggerated shock clear on your face.

“We made a promise,” you reminded him. “It’s Gordon’s gala.

He hummed, leaning down to kiss you and you giggled, turning around.

“Help me?” you asked airily, watching him on the mirror a playful smirk curled his lips, then his hands went to the laces of your corset. A giddy laugh climbed up your throat as you reached back to grab at his wrist when you realized the corset getting even looser.

“Lace up Ben, not unlace.”

“We can just tell them we had something to do.”

“Lace up,” you teased him with a small smile and he heaved a dramatic sigh, then tugged at the laces, the corset getting tighter around your body. The memory of earlier today flashed before your eyes, with his tight grip around your waist and you felt your cheeks burn, the familiar fire coming to life at your lower stomach.

“You’re killing me, you know that?” he murmured, dipping his head to press a kiss on the crook of your neck and your eyes fluttered close for a moment before you tried to see through the haze of desire, willing yourself to turn around to look up at him.

“I owe Gordon,” you said, playing with the lapels of his jacket. “For coming to my aunt’s ball. Besides, is he not your hero in art?”

“He is,” he said, one hand playing with the front ribbon of your corset absentmindedly and you entwined your fingers with his. He raised your hand to press a kiss on the back of it, making your stomach do a pleasant flip.

“What if his painting tonight is a masterpiece and you miss it?” you taunted him and he scoffed.

“I have the most beautiful masterpiece in front of me right now,” he said. “I’m not interested in anything else.”

A fire swept over your cheeks and stood on your tiptoes to brush your lips against his.

“You remember what you said about me being the death of you?” you asked. “Now to think of it, I think we might have gotten it backwards.”

There was no wonder why everyone in the ton was competing rather ruthlessly for the invitations for Gordon’s gala, because as far as you could tell, the guests only consisted of his very close friends. When you and Benedict walked in, you couldn’t help but notice that you had seen most of these people at the parties Benedict had taken you to, which meant the majority of them were artists.

Not that you had any chance to talk to them. Ever since the beginning of the gala, while waiting for Gordon to unveil the painting in the middle of the room, you and Benedict had been inseparable. Perhaps it was good that only a handful of people who were more open about public displays of affection were here with you because if it were any other ball or social outing, you were certain you would have been criticized and made to Lady Whistledown’s newest edition about your lack of decorum, and yet you couldn’t find it in you to care.

This daze you found yourself in his presence didn’t seem to be going away, and thankfully he seemed to have the exact same issue.

“What happens though?” you asked, comfortable in Benedict’s arms while he nuzzled into your hair, his fingertips running up and down your spine while you looked at the paintings on the walls. “There’s the gala, and then they put the painting in a museum straightaway?”

“In Gordon’s case yes,” he said, “It’s already sold I’m guessing.”

“The painting tonight?”

“Mm hm.”

“But it’s the gala.”

“Buyers see it before the ton,” he said with a smile. “And considering how famous he is, I’m willing to bet multiple museums and collectors climbed all over each other to get it, it must’ve been sold within minutes.”

You let out a breath and looked up at him.

“And are you excited to see it?” you asked. “The painting?”

“If you asked me before yesterday, I would have been,” he admitted. “Now, I don’t care much about it.”

“You’re an artist!”

“I’m a husband as well, and that side of me weighs much more at the moment,” he said and looked around. “You know, I’m quite certain Gordon has guest rooms.”

You tried to contain your laughter. “Shh!”

“No I’m serious, because there’s still time until—”

“Did you two not come here from the same house?” Henry’s voice cut him off, making you and Benedict turn your heads and then Benedict buried his nose to the top of your hair, his arms wrapped around your waist as if you two were alone. “Was there some sort of war and you just got back while I wasn’t looking?”

“Hello Henry.”

“Y/N,” he greeted you back with a teasing smile while Benedict rested his chin on top of your head. “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt this, but I need to borrow him for a moment. Ben, Mr. Allingham is here.”

“Hm?” Benedict asked after a moment as if he was having a hard time focusing just like you and Henry blinked a couple of times.

“Mr. Allingham?” he repeated. “One of the directors of the Academy? Are you—is he alright?”

You bit back a smile and shrugged your shoulders. “Oh I’d say he’s more than alright.”

“Come on, I’ll introduce you,” Henry said, grabbing him by the arm to pull him away from you gently and you covered your lips to hide your grin.

“Henry, I was—”

“With your wife yes, she’ll be there after you’re done talking to Allingham. Artists in love, honestly…” Henry said as they both walked to the other side of the gallery and you looked around, then caught the side of Margery and Lucy. You took a glass of champagne from the footman, then approached them.

“Oh hello Y/N!”

“Hello,” you smiled at them. “Um—terribly sorry to interrupt but I just wanted to thank you, Margery.”

She raised her brows and gave you a small smile. “The surprise?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said with a wink while Lucy looked between you two.

“What surprise?”

“Benedict had a surprise for Y/N, I happened to know a person who could help,” she said airily. “I’m glad you liked it. Consider it my apology for all those stupid rumors about him and me.”

“It’s beyond me how anyone could ever believe those.” Lucy commented and you shifted your weight, nodding fervently.

“I know,” you said with a scoff, waving a hand in the air. “Complete nonsense, I doubt anyone actually believed it.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention,” you heard Gordon’s voice and the chatter of the crowd ceased immediately. You saw him making his way to the covered painting in the middle of the gallery and everyone followed him.

“Let’s see the painting first and then I have so much to tell you,” Margery said, squeezing your hand before Lucy winked at you and pulled her towards the rest of the crowd. You felt someone touching the small of your back and Benedict pressed a kiss on your temple.

“Come on,” he said, gently leading you closer to the painting and you entwined your fingers with his, leaning your head to his arm when you came to a stop. Gordon smiled at you two, then cleared his throat and turned to the guests.

“I’ve always thought a painting should speak for itself rather than the artist speaking for it,” he said. “But I feel confident in saying that love continues to inspire each and every one of us, may it be our actions or art. Therefore, I’m glad to share The Artist and the Muse with you.”

With that, he pulled the cover off of the painting and the crowd gasped, a round of applause rising soon after. You tilted your head and stepped closer to the painting, a slight frown furrowing your brows.

There was no wonder Gordon was a living legend in the art world, it was such a beautiful painting that it almost took you by surprise. The two figures in the garden under the moonlight seemed to be in an embrace, their faces hidden but you didn’t even need to see their faces to know that they were in love. You had no idea how Gordon had managed to depict it, but anyone who so much as laid eyes on the painting would be able to tell this was some sort of an escapade from the crowd, as if those figures were the only lovers left in the world.

“How did he…?” Benedict breathed out and you looked up at him.

“He really is insanely talented,” you commented. “I mean I feel as if they’re familiar, I don’t get that feeling from many paintings.”

Benedict turned to look at you better as if trying to see whether you were jesting.

“I mean I’d assume so,” he said. “Considering we’re looking at ourselves.”

Your head shot up. “What?”

“Coleshill Ball,” Benedict said, motioning at the painting. “That’s the garden, that’s…that’s the gown you were wearing. We stepped outside for a moment, remember? Danced in the garden?”

Your jaw dropped as the memory flashed through your mind. Benedict was right, it was all familiar; the garden, the gown, the scenery itself. That was the night where you had apologized to Benedict and you two had danced in the garden, with him holding you close, away from the ton and their nonsense almost like a shelter.

Gordon had told you, way before tonight.

The storm and the shelter weren’t separate things as it turned out.

“Well you two look rather shocked,” Gordon’s voice snapped you out of it and Benedict let out a laugh.

“Gordon, is that…”

“You, yes,” he said. “Not to worry, I will never tell people it’s you. I just happened to be looking out of the window, desperate to get away from the ton and all that chatter and I saw you two dancing and…well, I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you how inspiration works Ben. Y/N, I hope you don’t mind?”

You shook your head fervently.

“No,” you said. “God no, not at all. I…I don’t know what to say, Gordon. It's an honor.”

Gordon bowed his head.

“It’s not the last painting that will have you as its subject I’m sure,” he smiled, nodding in Benedict’s direction. “I’d better go and say hello to Allingham, if you’ll excuse me. Enjoy the gala.”

With that, he walked away from you and Benedict exhaled, still in disbelief. You stepped into his embrace, keeping your eyes on the painting and he dipped his head to kiss the top of your hair.

“You know, Gordon is a legend,” he muttered. “Which means this painting will be gazed upon for centuries.”

“So will yours Ben,” you said as you rested your head on his arm, heaving a sigh. “And I don’t know. I still like your paintings better.”

Chapter 38

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton #bridgerton x reader #regency fic

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