#and it's just buried in my draft like this | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ambiguous-avery · 2 days ago

Text

When He Slides In...

Dean Winchester x fem!Reader/You | WC: 2768

Summary: ...And says “Fuck, I missed you.” After a hookup with the (in)famous Dean Winchester, you figured that would be the end of it. Too bad you could never seem to get him out of your mind. People always told you that you got attached too easily. And they were right. You were just another notch in his belt. He couldn’t possibly remember you...

Tags/Warnings: Smut 18+ MDNI, no use of Y/N, she/her pronouns, femme nicknames (sweetheart, pretty girl), reader is AFAB, oral (f receiving), P in V sex, PWP (Plot? What plot?), pining, pure filth because I have no chill, no beta we die like men

A/N: This has been sitting in my drafts for far too long. This was the title of an audio I listened to, and the line lives in my head rent-free. Plus I figured this would be a great birthday gift for our one and only boy! Thanks to my bestie for reminding me of this momentous day!

The first time you met the Winchesters – and subsequently ended up beneath the eldest – was when you had called for some back up with a vampire nest you had found in a rural town in South Dakota. It was a routine hunt, but the nest had taken up residence on a farm with far too many places to be ambushed from. Thankfully, there was enough practiced experience between the three of you that the hunt only left you with several bruised ribs, Dean with a too-close-for-comfort almost bite, and Sam with a bloody gash cutting across his cheek. All in all, it could’ve been much worse. You had joined the two of them at a bar in town, eager to take a well-deserved moment of reprieve. And you left the bar with Dean. Just Dean.

After you parted ways, you fully accepted that it would be a one night stand, and your paths would never cross again.

Fate had different plans for you.

It was a standard haunted house case that pulled you to a small town in the middle of bumfuck, Iowa. Something something father killed his family when he was discovered having an affair before turning the weapon onto himself. And now he was killing other cheaters in the town. You’d have been tempted to leave him be – was he really doing harm by getting rid of those kinds of people? – if it weren’t for the fact that he would go after the affair partner as well who wasn’t always aware of just who they had gotten in bed with. It was a cut and dry case. Except you couldn’t find where the damn body had been buried, so you were having a hell of a time salting and burning the bones. The extended family had been so ashamed of what their son had done that they had buried him in an unmarked grave on the outskirts of town.

You had just about hit the end of your rope when two very familiar Winchester boys rolled into town in a sleek Impala that purred like a kitten. And there he was. The one and only Dean Winchester, all swagger and bravado, and fuck, had he gotten hotter? Seriously, God hadn’t played around when chiseling him from marble.

“Hey, sweetheart, long time no see.” He grinned at you, his voice rumbling.

Leave it to the grave-desecration-brothers to pinpoint where the cheater had been buried. It took several hours in the library pouring over a convoluted family tree before the three of you eventually found a living descendant and another hour talking with her and convincing her to let you guys go through old family books she had stored in her attic. Cheater’s sister happened to jot down which grave was his in her diary. Bleeding heart saved the day. You had ‘cheers’ed to that before knocking back your beer and excusing yourself from the bar with Dean in tow.

Despite the long span of time you had spent apart, Dean was still familiar to you. The way his lips felt as he kissed you. The way your body seemed to slot against his just right. You couldn’t forget how he felt. Not when every touch of his had seared your skin and left imprints in its wake. Dean had ruined you for anyone else. Because he didn’t just leave his marks on your body. He had carved out a piece of your heart and taken it, leaving a hole in it that ached with every beat. Dean was a heartbreaker, and you were just another name on a long list of casualties. But you were on that list, and you lied to yourself, convinced yourself that it was good enough for you.

“Dean,” you sighed against his lips, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes.

“Glad you didn’t forget me, sweetheart,” he said quietly, kissing you again. You could never forget him. Could never forget the way his hands felt as they teased at the hem of your shirt before sliding up your side. Could never forget the scent of leather and bourbon and cedar that encompassed him. Could never forget the way he looked at you and you let yourself believe just for a fleeting moment that maybe, maybe, you were something more than a hookup in his eyes. Dean’s touch was a flame, and he was going to kindle your entire world to ashes. And as long as he kept looking at you like that, you would let him. Over and over and over again.

He trailed kisses along your cheek, across your jaw, and further down the side of your neck. His lips left your skin just long enough to slide your shirt over your head and make quick work of the clasp of your bra. He sucked a bruise just below your collarbone then soothed it with his tongue before dipping lower. Dean was attentive, leaving no part of you physically untouched but all of you still wanting. His nose dragged between the valley of your breasts, leaving another mark there.

“You’re gorgeous; I hope you know that, sweetheart,” he murmured, and your response died in your throat as he sucked a nipple into his mouth, toying with it with his tongue.

There was so much you couldn’t say. Couldn’t tell him how much more you wanted from him. It was silly. You barely knew him in the bedroom and even less outside of it. But there was an undeniable spark between the two of you that you couldn’t shake. An unspoken pull. Something that kept the two of you in the other’s orbit. You were doubtful Dean felt it. It was just you and your silly little heart looking for anything to quell the loneliness that threatened to consume you.

Dean moved lower, deftly ridding you of the last of your clothing so you were bare for him. And then his mouth was on you, stubble scratching lightly, and all thoughts were wiped from your mind in an instant. His fingers dug into your thighs, all lips and tongue on your clit and folds and fu-uck. You carded your fingers in his short hair, nails scratching against his scalp. He groaned, a low and guttural sound that sent vibrations through your core, and your answering cry was breathless, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his head or the bed sheets or anywhere. The sigh you let out when he slid a finger in you must’ve unraveled some of his self control because a second one joined it none too soon. He curled them, and your back arched.

If you could form coherent thoughts, you might have had the wherewithal to wonder about when or where or how he learned his talents. But such wasn’t the case as everything tightened. Your tension collapsed into a litany of moans and gasps, and Dean was a solid presence between your legs. He was a maestro, and you were his instrument. He plucked at your strings until you came shuddering around his fingers, your nails biting into his skin. He coaxed you through your release, gently sucking and keeping a steadying hand on your leg. Your head fell back against the pillow, chest heaving. There were too many words that threatened to be the next to spill from you, so instead, you pulled Dean up by the hair and put every word you wanted to say to him in a kiss. It was deep and longing and you tried so hard to tell him just how lucky you felt that you got him for the night with it. If that’s all you ever got of him, it would be enough. It wouldn’t really, but you could delude yourself long enough to convince him.

He met your passion, one hand tangling in your locks and the other slipping beneath you to press against your lower back to provide counterpressure as he rolled his hips against yours. Your jaw went slack as you felt the length of him pressed against you, hot and heavy and hard beneath his jeans. You tugged at his shirt, desperate to get more skin to skin contact. Gasoline coursed through your veins, and if Dean didn’t set you ablaze this very instant, you were sure you would spontaneously combust. Thankfully, Dean was a smart man. He picked up on your desperate plea and stripped out of his shirt before briefly standing up to strip out of the rest of his clothes.

As he looked down at you, his green eyes met yours, and you could see him searching for something. Acceptance? Approval? Adoration? All three? You’d give him all of those. Whatever it was, you could only hope that he found it as you looked up at him, sprawled out on the bed and propped up on your elbows. You took your time taking him in. The cut of his jaw. The broad expanse of his shoulders. The tattoo that sat just above his left pec. Your gaze dropped lower, and you couldn’t help but bite your lower lip before dragging your eyes back up to his again.

“Are you waiting for an invitation?” you ask, a sly smile tugging at the edge of your lips.

Dean pounced. He yanked you into a kiss, messy and primal, crushing you into the bed with his weight. You responded in kind by dragging your nails down the length of his back, needing to leave a mark of your own on him so maybe he’d remember you for more than a fleeting night. Dean groaned low in his throat, the sound ringing in your ears. There were no barriers left between you two, and you arched your body up into his, looking for all the contact you could possibly find. His hand dropped down to your ass and pulled you against him, his cock frotting against the junction of your hip. You raked your fingers in his hair and pulled it, pressing your mouth to the side of his neck and biting and sucking there until Dean was cursing under his breath.

“Hold on, sweetheart,” Dean bit out. You released him, eyes locked onto the angry red mark you had left. He fumbled with his discarded pants for a brief moment before pulling a condom from the pocket.

“Smart man... smarter than me."

It was good that he had his wits about him because you were more than ready to throw caution to the wind. You were a hunter. You risked your life every day. What was one more risk? You knew you’d be thankful when your brain wasn’t drowning in lust, though. He rolled the condom over himself before kneeling between your legs again. He grabbed the backs of your knees and spread your legs wide, lifting your ass off the bed before settling it on his thighs. Dean took a moment to guide his cock into place. His gaze met yours again, waiting and pleading. You gave him a subtle nod.

Dean rolled his hips, sinking into you with slow thrusts. You audibly sighed as he bottomed out.

“Fuck, I missed you.” He said your name, reverent and sincere. He said your name. Not sweetheart. Not baby. Not some nickname he probably used to mask the fact that he forgot the name of the woman under him. Your name. You whimpered.

“Dean... I missed you too,” you admitted. But he didn’t understand the depths of your words. He couldn’t. He kept a hand on your knee, keeping you splayed open for him. You braced a hand on the headboard and turned your face aside, biting the knuckle of one of your fingers and panting into it.

“No, no, pretty girl. Keep your eyes on me,” he said, leaning forward to grab your chin and guide your eyes back to him. The shift caused him to sink just a little deeper into you. You squeaked when your eyes met green ones. There, behind the lust and desire, there was Dean. And for a moment, you could see the vulnerability there. The lonely man who wanted to be needed. Needed to be wanted.

“Move, Dean. I need you.”

And that’s all it took. Dean surrendered to what felt good and snapped his hips, pounding into you, thrilling at the way you moaned and moved with him and accepted every aggressive stroke like you were made for it. He lowered his body and leaned forward onto his hands so he could drive himself deeper into you. His hands found yours, and you entwined your fingers with his. He pinned you to the mattress, caging you beneath him. You shouted in response, your legs clenching against Dean’s sides and the drag of his cock setting every nerve alight.

“There you go, pretty girl. You can take it. You can take me. I know you can.” His words were fuel for the inferno that threatened to devour you. You were trembling. Aching. He was the musician; your body was the instrument. You were a violin string. You were tuned too tight. You were breaking.

Your groans and cries turned to fervent whimpers, and you fought against his hold as your release danced just beyond your reach. Your eyes fluttered shut, and Dean clicked his tongue, commanding your attention. You stared up at him, eyes wide and bright, drinking in the sight of him as though it would be your last.

“Please,” you begged. Your voice sounded so utterly wrecked in your own ears, but you didn’t care. You had abandoned your dignity long ago. “Dean, please. Need more.”

“I’ve got you, sweetheart.” He let go of one of your hands, and his thumb found your clit, drawing tight circles around it. “Come on, pretty girl. Need you to come on my cock.” His breaths mingled with yours, and your answering cry was high and thready as you lost yourself in him. Your voice, so needy and desperate, must’ve been enough to be Dean’s undoing because the hand holding yours tightened as he rutted into you until he came in hot, throbbing pulses that sucked the energy out of the rest of his body. You clenched around him, and he let out a strangled groan as his whole body shuddered above you.

He pressed his forehead against yours, brushing stray hairs out of your face with his free hand. His other still clasped yours tightly, fingers still laced together. You leaned up to kiss him, and your lips met in a tender way. An unburdened, unhurried kiss. A kiss for the sake of kissing. You could’ve stayed like that forever, but all too soon, Dean broke the kiss and peeled himself off of you, his hand leaving yours. He stood, moving to discard the condom before grabbing a towel from the bathroom. You sat up, watching his retreating back and taking pride in the red lines your nails had left in their wake. You could only hope he would remember you.

When he returned with a damp washcloth, he coaxed you back against the pillow as he wiped the sweat from your brow, muttering sweet nothings all the while. There was silence between you for a long while, and you realized too late that your time with him was coming to an end. He had set you aflame, and now you would have to find a way to rebuild. But you’d do it all again if Dean asked it of you. But when he spoke, you hadn’t expected the words that came out of his mouth.

“Do you maybe wanna... you know... stay?” he asked quietly. “For the night,” he added. You swallowed.

“Um... isn’t Sam due back sometime... soon?” Why were you making excuses? This opportunity didn’t even show up in your dreams. Dean wet his lips, not quite meeting your gaze.

“Well... not to be presumptuous or anything... but I might have told him to get his own room for the night.”

“Oh.” Oh. He had planned on you staying with him? You were done for.

“Yeah... Uh, nevermind. You don’t have to. You’ve probably got somewhere better–”

“I’d love to stay,” you blurted out. “With you,” you clarified, as if it weren’t obvious. The smile that split across Dean’s face was blinding, and it became your new life’s mission to do whatever it took to see it directed your way time and time again.

“How about I order us some food? We can watch a movie and cuddle?” And really, you were only human. A request like that from Dean Winchester was as easy to fulfill as breathing.

---

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

Taglist: @checkedoutghost @aylacavebear

Want to join the taglist? Comment or Ask away!

117 notes · View notes

starrygazers · 2 days ago

Text

I'm home

˖ ࣪⭑ ⸱ I actually started this fic back in 2023 but I never finished it, and I just found it in my drafts. I swear I don't purposely make all my fics home-themed lol.

˖ ࣪⭑ ⸱ tags: fluff, established relationship, fem!reader (reader referred to as madam and wife)

˖ ࣪⭑ ⸱ featuring: Diluc Ragnvindr.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The soft glow from the fireplace illuminates the vast living room of the manor. The crackle of fire mixed with the occasional sound of page turning brings a warmth to the room where the red haired man occupies the too-big couch alone.

Adelinde watches as her master glances uneasily from the book to his lap, then to the grandfather clock slightly away from where she stood. The time reads past midnight. Usually, she'd be asleep by this time, but years of having served under the Ragnvindr name made her restless if she hadn't made sure her master has retreated to his room to rest. And tonight, sleep seemed to be the last thing on Diluc's mind.

She lets out an amused chuckle, and Diluc's head snapped towards her.

"You're up late, Adelinde," he starts, placing the bookmark between his pages that Adelinde is sure he's barely read half of, what with his focus towards the ticking clock.

"I could say the same to you, Master Diluc," she smiles, her tone devoid of malice but with a hint of teasing. "Are you still waiting for the Madam?"

Diluc clears his throat, looking away from Adelinde to place the book on the coffee table before him. "She did say she's returning today. Well, yesterday, since it's past midnight."

"No need to worry, Master Diluc. Elzer made sure to send a carriage to pick her up, equipped with several capable fighters," she reassures. Diluc turns his head away, the dull orange glow on his face now contending with a brand new pink.

Adelinde can't help but let out a giggle. Diluc clicks his tongue in annoyance — not to Adelinde, but as his own incompetence of hiding his blush.

"What's so wrong about waiting for my wife to return?" Diluc whispers softly, eyeing the fireplace in front of him.

"I haven't said anything, Master Diluc," Adelinde smiles politely. "It is not wrong. In fact, I think the Madam is lucky to have a very loving husband."

Diluc pointedly ignores Adelinde in favor of hiding his now burning face. He sighs, questions flooding his head — are you safe? Are you warm? Are you hungry? Maybe he should have Adelinde prepare a small meal for your return.

A thousand thoughts run through his head, only interrupted when the heavy oak door creaks open. Diluc immediately rises from his seat to beeline to the entrance of the manor, and in his focus, he misses Adelinde hiding her chuckle.

Elzer enters first, holding the door open while you exit the carriage. Upon seeing you, all safe and whole, Diluc heaves a sigh of relief and waits for you by the door.

The smile that you wear when you greet him is heavenly, and your voice calms him like no lullaby could. "I'm home, Love."

Diluc carefully pulls you into his embrace, burying your face in his chest. Your body is cold; it must've been the wind, the chill's been picking up recently. He should've brought you a thicker jacket, a better scarf, he thinks.

You stay in this position until you're muffling for him to let you go, lest he crushes your airflow. Diluc reluctantly pulls away and kisses your forehead, and you can't help but giggle at the man.

"Welcome home."

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

if you liked this, consider buying me a ko-fi! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ

#genshin #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #diluc x reader #diluc ragnvindr x reader #diluc x you #diluc x y/n #genshin diluc #diluc ragnvindr #diluc genshin #genshin impact x you #genshin impact x y/n #☆—starrygazers

82 notes · View notes

fairytales-and-folklore · 2 days ago

Text

Chapter 4: Internet

The horrible little alarm clock that sits on the edge of Abbie's bedside table screeches and blares at 5AM, which only makes her want to snuggle down under her comforter even more, bury her head underneath her soft, plushy pillows, and nuzzle into the fuzzy sweater she'd fallen asleep in…the very same fuzzy sweater she'd bought for Ichabod…and had then stolen from him…oops. (Whatever…mint green looks much better on her anyway.)

The five-minute snooze ticks by way too fast for Abbie's liking. Groaning into her pillow, Abbie slowly turns over onto her back, props herself up on her elbows, and rolls out of bed, slamming the off button with an open palm. She puts on a bathrobe and trudges across the hardwood floor in a raggedy old pair of slippers, slowly cracking open her bedroom door. She's just warming up to the idea of a hot shower followed by a steaming cup of coffee, when she spots Ichabod sitting on the living room couch, stirring a spoonful of honey into a comically large cup of peppermint tea with one hand, and…oh dear god…attempting to pry open the lid of her laptop with his other hand.

"Crane," she croaks, vocal cords not quite awake yet. "Why do you have my laptop?"

At the sound of her voice, Ichabod's head quirks up, and, upon seeing that she has finally woken up and come to join him, gives her the most ridiculous grin she's ever seen him wear. It almost lets him off the hook…almost.

"Good morning, Lieutenant," he says, far too cheery for this early in the morning. "I do hope you had a good night's rest. I myself could not sleep, so I decided to make a nice cup of tea and reflect upon this gorgeous September morning." Crane tilts his head toward the open window, where a stream of sunlight pours through the dusty, fingerprinted glass, casting fiery gemstones of light onto the hardwood floor as the curtains waltz with the wind.

So that's where the draft is coming from.

Crane, paying no mind to Abbie's growing frustration, removes the tiny spoon from his teacup and proceeds to lick it clean.

"I am fortunate that your kitchen faucets were not too difficult to learn how to use, and I was able to procure hot water directly from the tap. I admit that I may have developed an addictive fondness for herbal infusions, as I am now on my fifth helping of the same peppermint and tarragon blend. I should very much like to thank the Tazo family for their wonderful contribution to society, and compliment them on their brilliantly varied tea garden. Is their tea shop nearby? Could we visit?"

Abbie closes her eyes, rubs at the sore spots on her temples where she harbors an ever-present migraine, and mumbles, "Not exactly…Tazo's a company, not a family…but I mean, Starbucks bought Tazo a couple years back, so I guess we could always go there…but that still doesn't answer my—"

"I sifted through a few of the books you had left lying about your living room," Crane chirps, purposefully avoiding Abbie's question. "I hope you don't mind, only I rather enjoyed the one about the young boy who discovers that he possesses magical abilities. Very endearing, as I'm sure you know. Young Harold Potter's troublesome life certainly throws mine into perspective. Is it a work of fiction, or is this a biography?" Crane asks, holding up Abbie's battered and dog-eared copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. "Is there really a hidden school for magic in Scotland? If so, I should very much like to visit someday."

Abbie sighs heavily and laughs, taking pity on Crane.

"Sadly, no," she says, and Ichabod's eager smile disappears. "The whole series is fictional. Trust me, I was disappointed when I found out, too. By the time it was published, eleven had already come and gone for me…I always told myself that my letter had gotten lost in the mail," she laughs, rolling her eyes at the memory of her naïve, stupidly optimistic younger self.

"There is an entire series? It's not just the one book?" Ichabod asks, and Abbie nearly melts into a puddle of sugar and saccharine at the sight of his blissfully hopeful smile.

"Yeah, there're seven books in total. I've got them all in hardcover on a bookshelf in my room…you can borrow them if you want. Hell, after we kick the apocalypse in the ass, I'll even take you to the theme park in Florida, get you a tin of Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans and a Butterbeer…maybe even make a pit-stop in Disney World if we've got time. But I'm getting off track, here…how about you tell me what you were doing with my—"

"I did not understand most of what you just said, Lieutenant, but I did wonder if there was, perhaps, a sequel to—"

"Crane!" Abbie sends him a warning glare.

"Which brings me to your question, Lieutenant," Crane practically lilts, all too aware of his seemingly effortless ability to irritate the shit out of her. Abbie stares daggers, which only spurs Ichabod on, his lips curving into a devilish smirk in response.

"After I had finished The Sorcerer's Stone, I attempted to invest in some of the other novels that you have, but I quickly grew bored of them. Then, I discovered this rather large, metal book sitting upon your kitchen table. I thought it odd to find a book lacking description on the cover, save for a small, white image of an apple that appears to have a bite taken out of it…is this, perhaps, a cookbook of some sort, entirely dedicated to apple-dominant delicacies?" he asks, smoothing his fingertips across the little plastic logo. Abbie can't help but laugh, her sour mood evaporating at the sight of Crane's curious, yet utterly bewildered, expression as he looks to her for instruction.

Sighing heavily, Abbie treads across the living room and nestles into the nook in between Crane and the armrest. It's inevitable, really. Ichabod is going to have to discover the synchronous wonders and horrors of the internet eventually…and if anyone is going to teach him how it's done, it might as well be Abbie.

"Okay, Crane. I'm feeling charitable this morning, so I'm gonna teach you how to use a computer…and then the internet."

Crane gives her a look that's both intrigued and frightened at once, and well…that about sums up the internet, really.

"First lesson…open the lid," she says, holding back a smile as she waits to see what he'll do. She realizes she's playing with fire here, letting him handle her one-thousand-and-something-dollar laptop…but Crane's a pretty smart guy, so she's giving him the benefit of the doubt. Ichabod's lips twist into a frown as he stares down at the rectangular contraption. Slowly, carefully, as though he were handling a baby bird, Crane lifts the lid, cradling the metal underside in the palm of his hand…and then proceeds to turn it on its side.

"Lieutenant, I don't think I quite understand. There are only two pages to this book…one crafted of a shiny, black material, the other containing buttons with various lettering and symbols. How am I meant to read this book if there are no words?"

Abbie rolls her eyes, laughing as she snatches the laptop from Crane's hands, settles it onto her lap the right way up, and presses the power button. Ichabod jumps about a foot out of his seat at the start-up sound, blinking rapidly as the screen fires up and the little gray apple appears in the center.

"No, come on, don't give me the spinning wheel of death," Abbie grumbles. Ichabod settles back onto the couch cushion, his eyebrows raised in confusion at Abbie's comment. After a few seconds, her background comes into view, and Abbie sighs. It's an old photograph of her and Corbin on the day of her promotion, one of the few captured memories she has of him. He looks like a proud father, his smile prominent in his bright, blue eyes. Ichabod makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, staring at the screen with fondness and sympathy.

Abbie clears her throat, shaking the sadness off of her shoulders, and gingerly deposits the computer into Ichabod's lap. She leans over Ichabod's shoulder, places her hand on top of his, and delicately moves his pointer finger to trace circles on the track-pad. Visibly startled by both the contact and the little moving arrow, Ichabod leans in closer, pressing his fingertips to the screen and inquiring as to how it works.

"I don't actually know, to be honest. Something to do with LED lights and plasma, I think," she says, leaning back and removing her hand from his to let him get used to the track-pad on his own. She shows him the basic settings, explains what apps, folders, and documents are, and lets him play around with different tracks in iTunes for a little bit to test out the sound system. To no one's surprise, it turns out that Ichabod hates dub-step and American pop, but is rather fond of Sinatra's upbeat swing ballads and Beethoven's string quartets. Meaning to switch back from Finder to iTunes, Ichabod accidentally clicks on Google Chrome, his eyes mimicking the little beach ball as it bounces in the dock.

"Lieutenant, I've accidentally opened up another program. Is this that internet thing you were talking about before? What do I do?" he asks, eyes wide as the new tab automatically opens to a Google search box.

"Go on," Abbie says, nudging him in the ribcage. "Play around a little bit."

Abbie watches with amused interest as Ichabod expands his research methods beyond the dusty old books in their archive, marveling at the speed at which a never-ending supply of knowledge is available to him with only a few key phrases and the click of a button. It amazes Abbie just how much the concepts of entertainment and curiosity haven't changed very much since Ichabod's time, especially when he giggles and tilts the screen toward Abbie whenever he finds a particularly adorable photograph of a kitten. Noting the time, Abbie leaves the comfort of the couch and begrudgingly goes about her morning routine, starting up the espresso machine while she waits for her shower to hit hotter-than-the-sun proportions.

After an unfortunate (and mildly horrifying) pornographic ad experience when Ichabod accidentally types in the wrong address, he'd mostly just taken to Wikipedia to (loudly and irritatingly) scoff and correct various historical inaccuracies while he waited for Abbie to return. An hour later, clad in her police uniform, Abbie settles back onto the couch, stealing the computer from Ichabod's lap as he's typing mid-sentence. He pouts for a moment before he realizes what she's doing, and then a curious grin spreads across his face. Abbie plugs in the Pottermore URL, clicks through her account, and pulls up the Sorting Hat quiz.

"Humor me," she says with a wry smirk. "I'm curious."

Ichabod takes to the quiz with great enthusiasm, pausing only to ask Abbie questions concerning diction and phrasing. In the end, he gets sorted into Ravenclaw. Go figure. Abbie's eyes shift to the scarlet-and-gold-striped scarf with the embroidered lion, wrapped around one of the prongs of the coat rack, and smiles. And then, spotting the glowing green numbers on the microwave clock in the kitchen, Abbie sighs heavily and starts to get up, condemning her workaholic lifestyle.

"Come on, Crane," she says. "Back to reality. We've got work to do."

Ichabod closes the lid of the laptop and gently places it on the coffee table, gathering his jacket and boots from the floor where he'd left them, chuckling to himself as he does so.

"What's so funny?" she asks, grabbing her keys from the kitchen table.

"Don't you find it odd how much our lives have come to resemble a work of fiction? Think on it: a world that harbors harsh realities and bland, bleak existences, while concurrently veiling the truth about fairy tales and folklore…a place where logic and lore collide, where dark magic and monsters and demons thrive in secret. If we ignore the horror, the pain, and the sadness the impending apocalypse will undoubtedly bring us, that impossible fact alone is quite astonishingly beautiful, in a macabre sort of way, because…when you think about it, you and I are destined to become the very heroes we admire," he says, a soft, thoughtful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

He's standing at the kitchen door beside her, towering over her like a giant, his brilliant blue eyes so full of honest, raw wonder and intensity that it's almost too much for Abbie to handle. She's frozen to the door handle, unable to move, because if she does, she's afraid she'll start crying, that every emotion she's bottled up inside of her chest since the night she saw the demon in the woods will unravel and let loose in a flurry of sorrow and rage. Crane is her anchor, he's the one who simultaneously keeps her sane and contributes to her madness. He must see it in her eyes, must know that he's touched a nerve, because his gaze quickly shifts and suddenly he's glancing down at her police uniform, arching an eyebrow and fixing her with a scrutinizing frown.

"Lieutenant…have you commandeered my new sweater?" he asks.

Abbie says nothing, averting her eyes as she hides an impudent little smirk.

"The one you were wearing this morning," he presses. "Don't think I've forgotten about it. You took it from my laundry pile last night and slept in it. I want it back."

Abbie smiles so wide it nearly breaks her jaw, stifling a giggle as she pokes him in the chest and retorts, "No way. I bought it, so I'm keeping it."

"Well, that is true enough, but didn't you originally intend for me to wear it? Isn't that why it was located in the men's section of that department store?"

Abbie scoffs, feigning offense, and says, "Don't give me any of that gendered bullshit, I'll wear a man's sweater if I want to…and I'll look damn good doing it."

"Indeed you will, Lieutenant. It's a very flattering color on you," he says, unable to hide his brazen smile. His mind wanders back to this morning, recalling the memory of Abbie in his intended clothes with perfect accuracy, down to the very last detail, and adds, "I've changed my mind. You should keep it. After all, it looks much nicer on you."

"Thank you, Crane," Abbie says, slightly taken aback by the compliment.

"Though I would like to borrow it from time to time."

"I'll think about it."

"Only after you've washed it, of course. I don't want Abbie scent all over me," he amends, flashing her a cheeky grin and miming disgust.

Abbie rolls her eyes and laughs, unrestrained and honest for the first time in days. Maybe work won't be so bad, now that she's got Crane.

✨ Read Next Chapter | Chapter Masterlist ✨

You Always Want What You're Running From

Sleepy Hollow » Ichabbie

Title: You Always Want What You're Running From

Author: fairytalesandfolklore

Fandom: Sleepy Hollow (Masterlist)

Relationship: Abbie Mills x Ichabod Crane

AO3 Rating: Mature (a complete collection of author's notes, inspiration credits, content warnings and tags can be found on AO3)

Summary: When Abbie invites Ichabod to come live with her, the last thing she expects is for him to start feeling like home.

She'll tell herself, over and over again like a mantra, that it's because she feels indebted to him, that she feels bad for him, that it'll make their casework much easier if she can keep a constant eye on him, that it's convenient. But really, it's because, in spite of everything, in spite of an impending apocalypse that only they, the unwilling witnesses, can prevent, he keeps her grounded, keeps her sane. For reasons she can't explain, she trusts him. She hasn't trusted anyone like this since Corbin…and now, Crane is all she has left. In his company, she feels secure. Protected. Cared for. They've only known each other for a short while, and yet…Crane's company feels like home. Besides…how bad could living with a man from the 1700's truly be?