#and of course pad Thai

[tvslashers]

listen i love sushi as much as the next guy but you probably couldn’t even pry Tom yum goong from my cold dead hands

[daily-deliciousness]

Sriracha pad thai

[empressofthefloweringlands]

red

It was red

The eyes, staring unblinkingly, some attached to shadowy figures

Her own eye, low and dangerous

The thick blood leaking from their leg

Staining the wood beneath them

She let out a sob

For Ember

For this life they didn’t want

They just wanted it to end

But wait

That’s not what it wanted

It wanted to be free

That freedom couldn’t come with death

Could it?

[almostempty]

the meet ugly (javier peña x f!reader) 

WC: 1.6k | Other fics | Rating: it’s ? fluff? No smut

last one for today, sry for spamming anyone, it was an all-or-nothing scenario in my mind 

Summary: your bad day gets worse when a trash bag spills on you. your neighbor javi tries to help but you both get stuck trapped with him and a dumpster. 

Note: this was for the meet-cute, but i had to do something nobody asked for aka make it gross ??? it’s my clown blood idk 

Tags/warnings: au modern javi lives in your apartment complex, description of cold leftovers from your garbage spilling on you, it’s just flirty peña idk it was an exercise for me to write something short and without smut, i’m assuming that dumpsters locked behind fences are relatable enough for all, no y/n, reader is able-bodied, all mistakes are mine just pretend like you didn't see them, i think that's all ty <3

 

You groan as you wrestle with the trash bags, their weight pulling on your arms while you trudge down the cracked concrete stairs. The holly bush at the bottom catches on your shorts again, its spiky branches scraping across your leg. Mocking you. You bite back a curse. The day has been a disaster from start to finish, and now you’re hauling half your apartment’s trash to the dumpster, trying not to lose your temper.

Why does this apartment complex even have holly bushes? It’s like someone got paid just to make everything as inconvenient as possible. Whoever designed this must have never experienced the luxury of hauling garbage bags between two overgrown defensive security bushes. 

You’re still fuming about it, whoever designed this hellscape of an apartment complex, when you reach the gate for the dumpster. One of the trash bags, full of leftovers you’d rather not think about, digs painfully into your fingers. You adjust your grip, unaware the straining plastic is a ticking time bomb. 

You trudge toward the dumpster enclosure, spotting your hot neighbor rounding the corner of his SUV, cigarette between his fingers. Of course, he would be out here to witness your personal walk of garbage shame.

He glances up, and you catch the moment his dark eyes land on you. His gaze sweeps over the bags, then to your face, a smirk tugging at his lips. He doesn’t say anything, but his look is enough to make your face hot. 

Damn him.

"Rough day?" he asks as you approach the dumpster, his deep voice laced with amusement.

"You could say that," you mutter, already feeling defensive. He’s really the last person you want to see while you’re sweaty and cranky. 

With a huff, you push the gate open and step into the dumpster enclosure, tossing the first couple of bags into the bin. The smell is overwhelming, but you just want to be done with it. You lift the last bag, but just as you hoist it up, the thin plastic rips apart, and cold, week-old pad thai leftovers land on your chest, feet, and everywhere but the dumpster. 

You freeze, mortified. Of course.

Before you can even process what just happened, you hear boots scuff against the pavement. Javier’s already hustling over, cigarette still between his fingers, that damn smirk still in place. 

"Need a hand?"

"I’ve got it," you snap, despite the fact that you aren’t moving. Unsure what’s going to make the situation any worse. 

It’s hard to focus on the mess when he’s standing so close. His presence makes your embarrassment worse. Like, you could climb into the dumpster yourself and wait until the garbage truck picks you up on Thursday and takes you away. 

"You sure about that?" He doesn’t move to help—just watches you with a look that’s far too amused for your liking.

"I’m sure," you grumble, tossing the ruined bag into the dumpster. "I don’t need your help." You commit to the mess, peeling cold noodles off of your chest and tossing them into the bin. You frown deeply, fishing out the leftovers that made it down your shirt. The smell and the texture make you nearly gag. 

Javier steps closer, chuckling under his breath. "Right. Because you’ve got everything under control."

You glare at him, wiping your hands on your already-ruined shorts. “I think you’re a little late to be a hero. I’m already wearing the leftovers.”

"Never said I was a hero," he replies smoothly, taking another drag of his cigarette. "Just trying to be neighborly."

As you turn to face him, the gate behind him swings shut with a loud clang. He tries to shove it open, but it doesn’t budge. His expression doesn’t change much, but there’s a flicker of realization in his eyes.

“Oh, that’s perfect,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “We’re stuck?” 

He tugs at the gate one more time before turning back to you, that smirk still in place. "Looks like it."

You stare at him, your frustration mounting. "You aren’t even going to apologize? How are you calm about this?” 

Javier shrugs, leaning back against the gate and taking a long drag of his cigarette before acknowledging your question. He’s like the opposite of an anti-smoking campaign. You want to be the cigarette. 

"Not my fault the gate’s a piece of shit. And I’m not in a hurry."

"You closed it," you counter, flustered and looking for someone to blame.

But even as you glare at him, you can’t help but notice how infuriatingly attractive he looks, the way his leather jacket pulls tight over his shoulders, the way his dark eyes glint with amusement.

Javier catches your gaze and quirks an eyebrow. "You’re staring."

You roll your eyes, heat flooding your face. "I’m not."

"You are." His voice is low, teasing, and the way he looks at you—like he knows exactly what he’s doing—is making it harder to keep your composure.

You step back, trying to regain control of the situation and you catch him laughing to himself. 

“I really don’t see what could be funny about any of this,” you wave your arms, gesturing to your ruined clothes and the small space you’re both trapped in. 

“Could be worse ways to spend the evening,” he drawls, taking a step towards you. 

You pick another piece of rice noodle out from between your tits. “Yeah, like if the dumpster was on fire?” 

You’re too aware of him. Of how his voice gets lower and rougher when he’s this close.

He chuckles, flicking his cigarette to the ground and stepping on it. "I’ve been in worse places. With worse company."

You swallow hard. The way his eyes flicker over your face, how his smirk never fully fades–it’s maddening. He knows what he’s doing to you. It feels like a sick joke. 

"Yeah?" you mutter, your voice sounding breathier than you’d like. "And what makes me such good company?"

Javi’s eyes darken, and he takes another step forward, close enough now that you could smell the leather of his jacket, the faint tobacco on his skin if it weren’t for the foul stench of all of half the apartment complex’s trash in the container behind you.  

"You’re more fun to argue with."

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “Don’t fuck with me, Javier. I’m already having a day from hell.” 

He gives you a pouty look that makes you want to scream. “Why would I be fucking with you?” he asks quietly, almost sounding hurt. 

You snort, incredulous. “I’m wearing last week's lunch and the only clothes that weren’t in the laundry. Don’t act like you’re flirting with me.”

He steps closer until there’s barely any space left between you. His voice drops, smooth and dangerous. "What if I am?"

For a moment, you forget where you are. 

“What if I think you look good? Even with a garnish?” he asks and pulls a piece of cilantro off of your cheek. 

All you can focus on is how close he is, the way he waits like he’s daring you to make a move. There’s no way he’s serious. He rarely says more than a curt hello, even though you walk to your cars in the parking lot at almost the same time every morning as you head out for work. Sometimes, he’ll wave if you pass him on your walk to the corner store. 

You only knew his name because of the time he caught you trying to drag a dresser you’d scored at an estate sale up the stairs to your apartment on your own. He’d helped you carry it, despite your protesting, all the way into your bedroom.

“I’d say you’re literally stuck in here with me for the foreseeable future, so of course you’d say that.” 

He sighs heavily, muttering under his breath at you, “Tan terca.” And in a move that makes your jaw drop, he turns away from you, stalking towards the fence with a fluid arrogance. Like an oversized cat in a leather jacket, he leaps at the chain link fence like he’s done it a hundred times. He hoists himself up, swinging over the top and dropping onto his feet on the other side. 

He’s grinning at you when he unlatches the gate and swings it open, but you snap storming towards him. “How long were you gonna wait to let us out?” 

He shrugs, “I thought Randy would’ve been out for a smoke before we had to wait long. Don’t exactly enjoy having to climb over a fence.” 

“Right.” You slip out of the gate with a thanks, but when he says your name, you feel like your whole body is drawn towards him.  

He eyes you, leaning in just close enough to make your pulse race again. “And if I were to flirt with you now?” 

“I’d question your judgment,” you point to yourself, “I’m still in desperate need of a shower.” 

His eyes lift, looking just past you, before he grins. 

“Oh my god,” you cut him off before he says a word, “were you about to tell me I could use your shower?” 

Everything about his mockingly sheepish look says you are right. You shake your head at him in disbelief, but you can’t stop the smile that spreads on your face. It takes all of your strength to walk away but head towards your own apartment. 

You make it to the top of the stairs before the sinking feeling hits. You deny it until you check the door for yourself. Of course. After everything that went wrong today, it only makes sense that you would lock yourself out of your own apartment. 

You berate yourself all the way to his door. It swings open after the first knock, and he gives you a look that has your cheeks burning. His eyes gleam, and you just know he’s going to enjoy this before his smoky voice even reaches your ears. 

“Changed your mind?” 

divider @cyberangel-graphics

General tags 💗:

@lovely-vamp-princess @gothcsz @auteurdelabre @adoreyouusugar @swankyorange

[iwritebigbellies-blog]

I'm stressed out and exhausted and I guiltily tell you that I'm just not up for anything tonight. I can barely stand the idea of answering a text message, let alone the energy and engagement needed to be sexy. I just want to heap weighted blankets on myself and blurrily grind through some repetitive game; disassociate from my brain and body.

You understand, and not even in a resentful way: I spend so much time insisting I am fine, fine, fine that you are just glad I am finally admitting I can't keep it up this time. You order something for dinner and help me build my blanket fort, you grab me a beer and kiss me on the head. Eventually food comes and you join me, suggesting we start that show we keep saying we'd watch. I gatefully snuggle up to your side and lay my head on your shoulder.

I'm still too tired to eat much, but you knew that would be the case. No pressure, you let me be. You munch through the delivery of pan-Asian dishes, curries and noodles, stir fries and rice, heaps of deep fried spring rolls and dumplings and fritters besides.

You didn't mean anything by it, you're just hungry, and you love food, and we're cozy and relaxed rolling into the fifth episode of the night. You don't even notice the way you hum and burp, shifting your weight now and then, idly petting your stomach when you finish a dish. You grunt a little when you lean forward to grab another serving, woof when you flop back. You can't help telling me how good everything is, since I am not really trying any. You're just content.

I'm watching the show but stroking your belly, slowly and casually, like I always do, because it is soothing. It's hard not to notice when your tshirt isn't really meeting your beltline anymore. It's hard not to run my hand from one love-handle to the other, noting how much rounder you are now than you were then. I'm pretty hyperfocused on a lot of little things by the time you instinctively reach for your belt, keen to unbuckle, then hesitate.

You hadn't meant to get this full. You weren't trying to show off for me. I made it clear I wasn't up for anything. I just want to relax--I should be relaxing. But the belt, that's a rubicon, you know that. That's so deeply sexy to me that there's no way for it not to seem like deliberate foreplay.

You think I haven't noticed. So maybe you can just...pretend everything is casual. You're not *that* full. So the belt is a little tight... you can ignore it. You think you can be good, for my sake.

So you leave the belt and settle back. You have one arm around me and my head is on your chest. You try to watch television.

I reach for the box of pakoras and eat one, then hand you the rest. You place them on the couch and try to ignore them, but they somehow find their way into your mouth anyway. Then I serve myself some pad thai but barely touch it, and you're suddenly clearing that out too. That belt is *really* tight now but you're really determined not to release it. You try to stifle a burp and a hiccup, but don't even notice the way you arch a little after each unintended plate.

Of course you are full now. But it feels so good, and the food really is amazing. You try not to serve yourself anything more but when I hand you something you cheerfully chow it down. You're feeling heavy and swollen, but surely I haven't noticed. It isn't like you've *said* anything. The only thing really bothering you is the belt. You subtly try to pull your gut up and out, driving the waistband down, but you exhausted extra inches that way half an hour ago. You lean back, shirt pulling up, and take as deep a breath as you can.

You finish almost everything, even though we'd intended to eat this again tomorrow, leftovers forsaken. It wasn't really just two dinners, but two dinners that should have been for two people. You don't think too hard about it. The evening has been wonderful, cuddly and close, relaxing and sweet. You can barely breathe, but this is hardly the first time. Life is good. If only you had just a little more space for your aching, stretched belly.

Your head lolls back against the couch and you drift off a little. It is only the feeing of my cool fingers on bare flesh that brings you back. I cup the hang of your belly dipping over your waistline, then burrow under a little to find your belt buckle. It is so tight that getting it undone is a struggle, even for the two of us. When we finally pry the prong out of the hole, pressure takes care of the rest. The belt pulls wide and the button pops open on its own. You can't help but groan as your belly seems to expand six inches all at once, rushing to fill the new space. Your shirt rolls up, exposing your bellybutton.

"Sorry," you moan, but I am not listening. The last hour and a half has steadily cured me. You were too overcome to notice the ripple of a body orgasm as your belly flopped out, but you are now very aware of me, peeling my fuzzy pajama bottoms off and climbing into your lap. You place your hands on my hips, fingers digging into my ass, and gasp as you feel how wet I am, grinding close after removing your pants too.

"No apologies," I murmur, curling around the orb of your swollen gut and kissing you fiercely. "Don't you dare be sorry. You are incredible."

You can't think straight enough to argue. You are swollen and spread out under me, made hard by your gorging and my abrupt, intense interest. Your head lies against the back of the couch as you let me take you with a gasp. Everything feels so much. You are going to explode.

"I couldn't help myself," you say, after we have both exploded together.

I kiss you again and lie heavy on you, settling in to stay.

"I know," I say. "Neither could I."

[written-by-jayy]

Tagged by @mj-iza-writer , thanks!

Rules: Tag 10 or more people you want to get to know better.

Relationship status: Single. Happily so, but still open to the thought of mingling 👀

Favorite color: Any blue or cool toned purple

Song stuck in head: Slow dancing in the dark, by Joji

Favorite food: Pad Thai

Last song listened to: What's good, by Tyler, the Creator

Dream trip: Going to Costa Rica this summer, so I'll just say that :D

Last show/movie: Terrifier 2 (love Art. he's my babyboy <3)

Spicy, sweet, or savory?: Probably spicy, but sweet is a very close second

Last thing googled: Are mason jars microwave safe (they are!)

Imma just tag some random blogs I follow <3

@sickiehugs @dainluvr @roblingoblin285 @sunnynwanda @saraswritingtipps @shibara @whumblr @wh3nturtlesfly @oprhan @dappermouth

Of course, no obligation and no pressure :]

[ryanmarshallryan]

Biggest Birthday Ever - A Pred's Birthday

My birthday is coming up, and a great birthday gift would be to share some of my stories, donate or commission for some, or maybe even eat me up like a birthday cake! To celebrate I’ve written a couple birthday oriented vore stories, and here is the first of the duo, from a pred perspective. And each weekend this Pride month I’ll be sharing another new vore story so stay tuned!

Pedro woke up to the smell of pancakes wafting through his house. This was peculiar, he thought, as he did not have any roommates. Once this realization hit him, he jolted up and went to scope out the kitchen and was surprised to find his friends, Finn and Orville making him breakfast.

“What are y’all doing here?” Pedro gasped.

“Happy birthday, mate!” Orville gave Pedro a big hug, and leaned back and grabbed Pedro’s belly and shook it vigorously, “We thought we’d help you have the biggest birthday ever, by making you the biggest ever.”

The three of them had met through a gainer site, so often when hanging out eating big was a topic of important discussion. Orville was a gainer himself, and had a gut that rivaled Pedro’s. Orville was quite the opposite, having a metabolism so fast he looked underweight. Pedro thanked them for making him food.

“Oh this is only the pregame. We’re going to a brunch buffet after this.” Orville said with a smile.

“Then your favorite thai restaurant for lunch,” Finn piped up.

Orville shot him a look, “Don’t give away all the surprises. Don’t shove them down his throat… just yet.”

And so they ate. Pancakes, sausages, eggs, bagels, fruit, bacon, french toast, then for lunch pad thai, crab rangoon, scallion pancakes, and the food did not seem to stop coming. Pedro was stuffed beyond belief, but as Finn rubbed his belly his eyebrows went upward to dare Pedro to eat more.

On and on the gluttonous gathering continued, as they went to Orville’s backyard and Pedro was surprised with the sudden appearance and chanting of a whole hoax of other friends who had planned a whole surprise birthday barbecue for him. He went from friend to friend, socializing and catching up, each friend in turn showering him with more treats and desserts to try. It seemed that each attendee had brought something to feed Pedro. It was truly a gainer's dream. Pedro wasn’t sure whether the feeling of fullness he felt was more from food he ate or the appreciation he experienced.

Orville came and found Pedro and blindfolded him, letting him know there was another big surprise for him waiting to get in his gut. Orville led him over to a table and lifted his blindfold to reveal a transformed Finn. Finn was covered, head to toe in chocolate and strawberry syrups, whipped cream and frosting. He was sitting on a sheet cake, and posing like a model.

“It’s your birthday, of course you need some cake!” Finn shouted in celebration, smacking his behind to emphasize the last word. He blew Pedro a kiss and mouthed “eat me.”

Pedro needed no more encouragement than this, he bent low to the edge of the table, putting his mouth by the edge and pushed down on his side, so that the contents of the table began sliding down towards him. Entranced by the sudden chanting of “Chug! Chug!” by his friends, Pedro opened his mouth wide and relaxed his throat to let a mountain of cake and Finn slide easily into his belly. As Finn’s face came close to his he could hear Finn shouting along with excited “Woo!”s. He felt Finn’s feet kick around inside his stomach and watched as Finn’s face passed out of sight, down his throat.

Once the cake had either entered Pedro’s belly, or fallen sideways onto the ground, Pedro relinquished his grip on the table and stood up, to reveal his squirming gut, filled with endless amounts of food, cake, and Finn. He wiped frosting off his face and gave a great big belch.

Everyone cheered, as another cake was brought out, and they all began singing songs of “happy birthday” wishes to him. He could hear one voice reverberating in song inside him along with the crowd of friends. Finn appeared to be massaging Pedro’s insides, to make room for more cake. 

They all ate and ate and ate some more, until everyone at the party had either tapped out to go home, or passed out somewhere on the premises. 

Orville, came up to Pedro, and aggressively shook his belly once more, leaning in and listening to the annoyed shouts of Finn, who must have fallen asleep in the soup of birthday gluttony.

Orville coaxed Finn to wake up enough for Pedro to hurl him up, then afterward Orville and Finn gave Pedro on last piece of cake to fill the void (not that there really was much space inside Pedro’s stuffed belly, gurgling away more food than it had ever had in it at once).

Pedro slept away, a bit fatter, and much fuller in more ways than one. He thought to himself that he must think of a way to thank Orville and Finn for planning a great birthday for him.

[leanteam43]

I have a criminal minds request! Spencer x Female Reader, where she has a very big crush on him but they coworkers and everyone else knows it but him. She is so scared to admit to him because they are friends and coworkers. But she tries to drop hints and be flirty, but he is too oblivious to know she like him And one day she is just like "I love you, you smart idiot!"

Hot Fudge Pop-Tarts and a Box of Runts

(Spencer Reid One-Shot)

summary : head-over-heels!reader x oblivious!spencer

pronouns : she/her | female!reader

warnings : SLOW BURN LIKE DANG GIRL SPEED IT UPPPP, crappy vending machine facts i googled, mild swearing, reader technically not getting proper nutrients but nothing serious at all, also not proof-read so cope </3

a/n's : i girlbossed gutair is making me a crochet derek morggan - 🌿 | HAPPY VALENTINES DAY (pretend this came out for valentines day - 🌿) - 🎸 | mowmowmowmowmow - 🐇

It was no secret, like...seriously. No secret.

It was bad enough the whole team knew, but once the entire office started catching on...(Y/N) could barely enter the same room as Reid before someone made a teasing comment.

Yet somehow, someway, Spencer Reid still had zero clue that (Y/N) (Y/L/N) had the biggest crush on him.

It really did start out as just an innocent crush. The way Spencer constantly seemed to gravitate towards (Y/N)'s cubicle, the way he always seemed to agree with (Y/N)'s profiles or the way Hotch constantly paired the two up when working a case.

So if you really thought about it, it was technically all Hotch's fault.

He had to have known that (Y/N)'s already budding affection for the Spencer would turn into something other than platonic.

It wasn't unjustified of (Y/N) to have a crush, I mean how could someone not have a crush on the infamous Dr. Spencer Reid?

From his charming smile, to that stupidly adorable satchel he carried around...(Y/N) honestly should've quit the first day she saw him if she wanted any chance of making it out alive.

And yet, no matter how many times he walked up to her desk to ask her opinion on a case. The crush only grew stronger.

The team certainly didn't help either.

"He never asks for my opinion on cases." Derek teased, leaning over (Y/N)'s cubicle wall. A cup of joe grasped tightly in his hand.

Before (Y/N) could answer, Emily chimed in. "Me neither!"

Both Derek and Emily looked towards Garcia who was on her way back to her 'BatCave' after dropping some files off on Hotch's desk.

"Nope!" She replied, already knowing the question that was soon to be flung at her.

Well that certainly had to mean something. (Y/N) couldn't help but feel heat rise to her cheeks as she realized just how often Spencer came clambering over to her desk asking about cases and reports.

Derek laughed, patting (Y/N) on the shoulder before returning to the report he'd been dragging his feet on all day.

----

Later that day, as (Y/N)'s workload was down to a few pieces of paperwork and a handful of emails. She found herself waltzing over to Spencer's desk, leaning against the cubicle in an attempt to seem relaxed.

It took a few moments for Reid to realize she was there, but when he did his big brown eyes trailed upwards like a puppy looking to it's owner.

He smiled, opening his mouth to talk but she cut him off beforehand. "Have you had lunch?" She asked boldly, mentally she was screaming at herself because of course Spencer had lunch. The man ran on a schedule.

A schedule she knew like the back of her hand.

"Oh! Yeah! I had leftover pad-thai." He smiles, his pen tapping against the desk rhythmically. (Y/N) let out a small "ohh..", trailing off into thought.

Spencer smiled at her, "...Did you need help on a case?" He asked, "No!" She shouted, before clearing her throat.

"No. I um- I wanted to see...if..." (Y/N) took a deep breath before biting the bullet. She was going to do this because she wanted too, because she wanted to spend time with Spencer. Alone.

"I wanted to see if you would be interested in accompanying me to the vending machine." She said, immediately regretting it when Spencer's brows furrowed and his head tilted.

"It's just down the hall?" He questioned, giving (Y/N) a puzzled look. "I don't like the snacks in that one." (Y/N) lied, she actually only liked the snacks in that one.

That totally wasn't the reason she originally wanted to be in the BAU though.

Spencer thought for a moment before he stood up, grabbing his water bottle on the way before waiting for (Y/N) to lead the way.

----

"Y'know, Derek's jealous." (Y/N) joked as they waited for the elevator to meet the bottom floor. "Jealous? Jealous of who?" He asked, his voice hitching like it always did when he asked a question.

"Of me" (Y/N) mumbled, trying to hide her smirk. "...because you don't ask him for help with cases...only me." (Y/N) added, the context causing Reid to laugh softly.

"Seriously? I thought Derek had a much stronger ego than that." He joked, (Y/N) wrinkled their nose up in laughter as the duo stepped out into the lobby of the building. Now in pursuit of the vending machines.

"I like how you format your reports." Reid commented as they turned a corner, in all honesty (Y/N) had zero clue where she was headed but as long as she pretended to be know where she was going, which she was scarily good at, Spencer would follow along.

"Really? Hotch said Strauss complained about them the first few times." (Y/N) remarked, a sense of pride spreading over her chest. Spencer liked the way she wrote her reports.

"It's easy to follow, but still detailed." He complimented, (Y/N) felt their ears turning a light shade of red.

----

After a lot of dead ends ( (Y/N) had words for the person who designed this building.), the duo had finally found the Lobby-Level vending machine.

"Y'know Florida holds the record for the most vending machines." Spencer noted as (Y/N) searched for what she wanted.

"Really?" She entertained. Unlike most of the team, (Y/N) never actually got tired of hearing Spencer's facts and statistics. In fact, she quite enjoyed them.

"Yeah! Texas and California being close runner-ups." He smiled, excited she'd taken interest in the fact he had spewed. "Don't mess with Texas." (Y/N) joked as she dialed in the correct numbers for the treats she wanted.

"That's all your eating for lunch?" Spencer asked, eyebrow raised. "It's not like we're traveling today, I don't need lots." (Y/N) shrugged. "But that's it? Just hot fudge Pop-Tarts and a box of Runts??" Spencer questioned.

"I'll be fine, you worry too much." (Y/N) laughed, picking up their treats and tucking them into her purse. Spencer rolled his eyes as he moved his hair away from his face.

As the two made their way back upstairs, (Y/N) couldn't help but stand a bit closer to Spencer. Even if there was nobody else there.

"Y'know Reid, your the only one I consult on cases too." (Y/N) shared, nervously biting the inside of her cheek as Spencer took a moment to reply.

"I know." Spencer replied, a smile evident in his tone. "Of course you know." (Y/N) teased, stepping out of the elevator.

Spencer laughed, beginning to make his way back over to his desk.

----

A few weeks had passed and Spencer hadn't missed a single trip down to the lobby vending machine.

"Y'know, you don't have to come with me." (Y/N) said, feeling bad she'd dragged Spencer away from his paperwork at least once a day.

"I know, but what if the vending machine like...falls on you?" Spencer joked, though the worry had popped up a few times in his mind. "In what world would that ever happen??" (Y/N) asked as she waited for her box of Runts to fall from the spiral.

"37 deaths happened just in the years 1978-1995." Spencer spewed, causing (Y/N) to roll her eyes. "Well, if that happens to me I promise you can sue to FBI and keep the money." She joked, picking up the boxed candy.

Spencer wrinkled his nose, "I don't want money, I want my coworker." He said. (Y/N) felt their heart beat faster. "Really? You'd take me over winning a lawsuit and getting rich?" She asked, eyes meeting his as he leaned against the wall.

"(Y/N), if I wanted to be rich I'd play more poker." He joked, causing (Y/N) to stifle a laugh. "It's still sweet." She mumbled, causing a light pink blush to spread across Spencer's face.

Holy Shit. She'd done it.

After working for him for over three years, after tirelessly trying to flirt with the man. She'd gotten Dr. Spencer Reid to blush.

Spencer blinked a few times before taking a deep breath, "Uh- are you going to Rossi's after work?" He asked, obviously trying to switch the subject.

(Y/N) didn't answer. Still flabbergasted over the fact Spencer Reid blushed because of her.

Spencer waited a reply, switching between glancing over at her and up to check the how many floors until they reached theirs.

"...(Y/N)?" He asked, his tone turning to one of concern.

Maybe it was the fact that (Y/N) had been surviving off of vending machine food for lunch everyday just to spend time with Spencer.

Or maybe it was the fact she'd waited 3+ years to get a blush out of Spencer.

Either way it didn't matter, because (Y/N)'s mouth started speaking before she could determine if what she was saying was a good idea.

"I like you." She said, there was no taking it back now. Not even the butterflies that instantly appeared in her stomach could take away what she'd just said.

Spencer's brow furrowed.

"Three. Years." She breathed. "I have liked you for over three years, Spencer." She said, her voice more confident now.

"(Y/N)-" Spencer's eyes glanced at the electronical sign that told him what floor they were on just for a moment before snapping back to her eyes.

"Over three years, I have...flirted with you, bought you gifts, I learned how to play chess." (Y/N) listed off on her fingers, the butterflies in her stomach turning to wasps.

"You love chess?" He said, tilting his head in confusion.

"THAT'S WHAT YOU CARE ABOUT?" (Y/N) yelled, "I hate chess. It's the most boring board game there is. My favorite board game is CANDYLAND." (Y/N) continued.

"I have put my love life on pause for over three years." (Y/N)'s voiced filled the elevator.

"For, you." She continued.

Her voice was so powerful, so full of frustration and desire that neither of the Agents heard the elevator 'Ding!' nor the door open.

"Spencer Reid you are the smartest idiot I have ever met." She finished, taking a deep breath.

The silence that followed was so thick, it couldn't have been cut with a butter knife.

"...I like you too, (Y/N)." Spencer muttered out, a deep shade of red overtaking his face.

Cheers.

Spencer and (Y/N) whipped their head towards the elevator doors, finally realizing that they'd opened.

There Derek and Garcia stood, cheering. Derek's arm in the way of the doors closing as Garcia excitedly bounced up in down spewing out excited nonsense. "Finally! Finally!" She cheered, her hair bouncing excitedly.

(Y/N)'s face turned hot with embarrassment as she looked between all three of her colleagues. Spencer's face was still red, but it was unclear for what reason.

(Y/N) pushed past both Garcia and Derek. Making a beeline for her desk, grabbing her car keys and rushing to the stairwell because the elevators were still too crowded.

"(Y/N)! Wait!" Spencer called after her, his lanky legs struggling to keep up. Reid didn't think he'd ever seen her run this fast in the field.

(Y/N), of course did not wait.

----

After both Garcia and Emily confirmed that (Y/N) hadn't quit her job out of pure embarrassment, all that was left to do is wait.

Hotch informed Spencer that (Y/N) would be coming back to work after a week, she'd used a whole sick week just to avoid the embarrassment.

Well, a week was up and Spencer was pacing by his desk looking at both the clock on the wall and his watch as if that would make time go by any faster.

Thankfully, the bundle of flowers he picked up from the supermarket yesterday hadn't begun to wilt. The hot fudge Pop-Tarts and box of runts were waiting patiently for (Y/N) to walk out of the elevator any second.

Spencer, however, was not waiting as patiently. "Kid, if you walk in one more circle your gonna tear the carpet." Derek mumbled, not taking his eyes away from the paperwork.

"What if she took another week off? What if she really did quit-"

DING!

Spencer's eyes immediately met yours as soon as you stepped into the bullpen. Then, he watched as your eyes trailed down to the flowers and treats he'd displayed on your desk.

A sweet smile was shared between the two of you. Spencer took initiation (it was only fair, you'd only been leading the way for over three years) and walked over to you, ignoring Derek's whispered encouragement.

"Spence, this is so sweet but...I think if I eat one more Pop-Tart I'm gonna actually need a sick week." (Y/N) said, laughing quietly.

"I KNEW IT!" Spencer yelled, causing her laughs to grow louder.

"You really are the smartest idiot I know." She joked, causing Spencer to roll his eyes.

Spencer smiled, "I uh...there's this place I like to go for lunch if-"

"Oh my god, yes." (Y/N) breathed, excitedly holding onto Spencer's arm. Spencer laughed, nodding.

"It's a date."

[goldencuffs]

afterglow

inspired by the spectral files series by s.e. harmon!!

The ghost appears in his office after Damen comes back from his lunch break. 

Damen’s had a rough week already. The free pad thai in his belly right now is literally the best thing that’s happened to him in months. That’s not even an exaggeration.

The ghost in his office has been around before. He showed up a few weeks ago, at the start of summer, his expression boyish, sunny, hands in his pockets as he’d surveyed Damen’s office with visible interest. Then he had followed Damen to the kitchen and watched him make tea. And then he had pulled faces last Tuesday, during their morning briefings, gagging at the photos of Victor Reynold’s dismembered body. 

“I smell Thai,” the ghost says now. He’s pouting. “I want Thai. I love Thai food.” 

Damen ignores him, sitting behind his desk and logging into his computer. It’s only twelve in the afternoon. Damen wants to throw himself off the ledge of the building. 

The ghost struts about his office, still talking, listing off the other cuisines he loves (Mexican, Indian, Lebanese, Italian) as Damen pretends to read his latest case notes.

“Not going to lie though, definitely shat myself when I had that. I’m talking blocked pipes and everything.” The ghost shakes his head. “Man, that was a rough weekend.”

Damen sighs. 

The ghost perks up. “I know you can see me, man. You always get that face when I’m talking to you.”

Damen picks up a pen, just so he has something to do. So he can school his face into something more neutral. 

Of course Damen can see the ghost. He sees ghosts all the time. He’s seen them since he was seven years old. As a kid, he didn’t know the children he would play with were dead until Nikandros’ foot had gone through the football they were kicking around. 

Since then, Damen’s seen them everywhere. There was a widow who used to hang around Kastor’s old place, shrilly telling him off for painting the kitchen the wrong colour. Kastor had moved out three weeks after Damen had told him that. 

Most of the time, ghosts leave him alone. Sometimes they get excited when they realise he can see them. Sometimes they just want to talk. Some of them have harmless requests, like messages they want to pass on to a loved one.

And sometimes there are ghosts like the ones in his office, who don’t seem to have anywhere to go, who only seem to be attached to him.

The last ghost like that had been Aimeric Gaul, this skinny, baby-faced kid who had sad, wide eyes. He could only go where Damen could, and kept mentioning how much he missed his mother. 

Three months into watching Aimeric cry in the corner of his office, Damen had driven down to Fortaine to see his mother. Aimeric had sat in the front seat, wide-eyed as he watched the rolling landscape.

When Damen had told Aimeric’s mother that he had a message from her dead son, her husband had pointed a gun to his forehead and said, Get the fuck off my property.

Damen was placed on suspension after that.

So, yeah. He’s wary of the ghosts like this—the ones that are, inevitably, drawn to him. They’re the ones that cause trouble. 

Damen’s been through enough, thanks. He’s only just back from his suspended time off, and Jokaste has cleared the last of her things from their place, and sometimes he still panics when he can’t find the ring on his left hand, until he remembers that it’s shoved in a drawer in his closet. 

The ghost is still talking. “You know what I really miss though? Dumplings. Highly underrated, man. When’s the last time you had one? Take it from me—have as many dumplings as you can while you’re still alive. ‘Cause, one day you’re gonna be dead, and there’s no fucking dumplings here. Which is shit if you think about it, the least—”

Damen’s phone rings. He picks it up, glad for the distraction. 

Makedon’s voice is no-nonsense. “My office, now. Bring coffee.” And then he hangs up. 

Damen deliberately doesn’t bring the coffee. Makedon frowns at him, but doesn’t say anything else. 

He pushes a file towards him. “Welcome back, kid. Latest cold case is all yours.”

Damen groans. “Seriously? You’re assigning me to cold cases? What about Reynold’s murder? I hear they need more manpower.”

“Nah.” Makedon shakes his head. “Don’t think you’re in the right headspace for all that shit.” 

“That shit?” Damen repeats, frowning. “You mean, my job?”

Makedon stares at him for a few beats. “This is part of your job too, detective. Everyone gets assigned cold cases every now and then.”

“Bullshit,” Damen snaps. “You haven’t assigned me a real case in months, even before—” And here, he falters, too ashamed to bring up Aimeric. 

Makedon isn’t a soft man. Everything about him is rigid and unmoveable. But he does relax his shoulders a little. 

“This isn’t just about what happened in Fortaine. When’s the last time you slept, kid?”

Damen frowns.

“Yeah, exactly. Divorce ain’t easy, and it’s clearly been affecting you more than you realise. You’re so… angry all the time. You clocked the new intern so badly last week, he had to go home early.”

Damen sighs, heart twisting a little. Yeah, okay, yelling at Erasmus in front of everyone hadn’t been a good move, but Damen had his reasons.

…He just can’t remember them right now. 

“Work the case with Huet,” Makedon continues, “He’s good company, and isn’t afraid to step up.” 

Damen snatches the file. “Whatever,” he mutters darkly. “What’s the case?”

Makedon sighs. “Some kid drove himself into a lake about a decade ago. Was conclusively claimed as a suicide at the time, but his brother’s statement is pretty interesting, suggests foul play.”

Damen’s eyebrows raise. “Murder?”

Makedon shrugs. “The brother was thirteen at the time, and very close with the victim. So it could be an emotional thing. But…”

“But?”

“He pointed fingers at their uncle. Claimed he had strong evidence it could be a murder, but no one really looked into it too closely.”

“Hmm,” Damen says. “So, what, we’re supposed to go on the word of a teenager?”

“A very persistent teenager. Have a look—he’s called at least several times a year to see if the case has been reopened.”

“No shit,” Damen says in surprise. “He actually share any of this evidence, though? Or tell us why the uncle could be the perpetrator?” 

“That’s your job to find out.” Makedon yawns. “Where’s my fucking coffee?”

But Damen doesn’t pay attention to him. The first page of the case file is a headshot of the victim. 

Damen knows that face. He just left him in his office.

***

Auguste Henri Revere is—was—twenty-five when he died. 

He was incredibly popular, well-liked, and good at pretty much everything he did. Damen reads everything in his file: football captain, scholarship student at Arles University, part-time volunteer at the children’s hospital…

He doesn’t seem like the guy who would kill himself. Then again, the worst part about this job has always been that people can surprise you—in the worst ways possible. 

Nothing about his death is suspicious. It happened close to midnight, near a popular stretch of road in the city centre. There were several witnesses that saw a cream 1972 Ford Mustang veer off the road, straight into the lake. Police found a suicide note typed on Auguste’s laptop. He had cleaned his room the night before, donated things like clothes, jewellery, and sneakers. 

Damen reads what Laurent Gabriel Revere said. Now that statement is strange. Laurent was thirteen when Auguste died. Sources say they were close, that Auguste doted on him, especially since they were orphans, living with their uncle. Two years after Auguste died, Laurent showed up at the police station and accused their uncle of killing Auguste. He claimed he had evidence, but failed to elaborate. Witnesses said they had heard Laurent and his uncle fighting at the Revere home just half an hour before Laurent showed up at the police station. 

Police issued a search warrant at the Revere house. His uncle had readily complied. Nothing had been found. Nothing had been found in Auguste’s recovered car either. And there was never an autopsy done on his body. 

“Huh,” Damen says. 

He looks up at Auguste, who’s staring at the view outside his floor-to-ceiling windows. For the first time since he showed up in his office, Damen feels sorry for him. Auguste is twelve years older than him, but now here he is, forever twenty-five. Damen’s older than him now, and it’s strange to think about. What makes him more deserving of life? He isn’t even a good person—not the way Auguste is. Was. 

It’s not the most conventional way to start an investigation, but hey, he might as well. “How’d you die?” Damen asks.

Auguste turns to him blinking. His eyebrows raise. “That’s the first thing you say to me after all this time? Jesus, that’s cold, man.”

Damen bites his bottom lip. “Do you remember the day you died? Did you… er.” He can’t bring himself to say kill yourself. 

“The day I died? Hmm.” Auguste’s golden eyebrows furrow. “Let me see… I took Laurent out that day. We went to the fair, and he kept pretending he was too old to go on the rides.” His smile turns fond. “Then we… I dropped him home. I went to meet some friends but I don’t think I made it.”

“Fuck!” Damen scrambles up from his seat, and he’s grateful that his office door is closed. He doesn’t think he could explain to anyone why he’s so horrified. 

Blood streaks down from Auguste’s mouth, the corner of his eyes. His clothes are soaked through, turning transparent. His golden hair is matted and wet against his scalp.

Auguste moans. “I don’t feel so good. I don’t… I can’t talk about this anymore.” 

The blood starts pouring out of his ears. 

Damen stands, paralysed, unable to move. 

And then in a blink, Auguste disappears.

***

“Damn,” Huet says. “How much do you think this place will sell for? Three mill right? I mean, at least.” 

“Shut up,” Damen says. Huet is a new recruit and he is far too peppy and talks far too much. He is definitely not good company. 

Privately, Damen agrees about the house. It’s huge, a sprawling mansion adorned with steep, gabled peaks and chimneys, topped with slate tiles that glisten in the sunlight.  Ivy and climbing roses cling to the walls. As well as being Superman, Auguste was also apparently incredibly rich. 

The man who opens the door is undoubtedly related to Auguste. It’s the eyes—Damen has been staring at those blue eyes in photos and in his office for weeks now.

Richard Revere is in his mid-fifties. His hair is dark, coiled, and his beard is trimmed and peppered with white. There are rings on each of his fingers—giant gemstones that glisten as he shakes Damen and Huet’s hands as they introduce themselves.

He has no qualms about being questioned and invites them in. 

Damen’s eyebrows raise. They’re greeted by a grand foyer with a sweeping marble staircase, its balustrade intricately wrought iron, leading to the upper floors. The interior is a blend of opulence and warmth, with high ceilings, ornate moldings, and crystal chandeliers casting a soft glow over the richly decorated rooms. Antique furniture, plush draperies, and elegant tapestries fill the spaces, each room telling its own story of centuries past.

Richard has no issues with them being in his house. Damen has done this for long enough to go by his gut—and so far this man doesn’t seem like a murderer. He just seems like a rich man from an affluent society. 

Richard makes them tea, and then says, “So. You’ve opened my nephew’s case again?”

“We have,” Damen says. They’re sitting on the most comfortable armchairs he’s ever been, in a room with far too many books and far too many globes. 

“Interesting.” Richard sips his tea. For the first time, his tone is cold, disapproving. “May I ask why? I believe the last set of detectives were incredibly thorough.”

Damen nods. “I’m sure they were. But you understand we’re in a delicate position. We can’t brush off… certain statements.”

“Ah.” Richard’s mouth quirks in amusement. “So this is about Laurent, then.” 

It’s Huet who nods this time. He says, “He called the last leading detective just six months ago, sir. He’s still adamant about…” He awkwardly trails off. 

Now Richard looks very amused. “Oh, I see. Of course. Did you know Laurent happens to make those calls to the police station every time we have a fight?” 

“Well,” Damen says, as Huet makes a note of that. “We’d like to talk to him too. Is he around?”

“He is.” Richard nods. “Upstairs, sleeping.”

Damen doesn’t react when Auguste appears in the living room. He looks like his usual self, dry and golden, free of blood. 

“You need to go upstairs,” Auguste says, and for the first time, there’s a note of frustration in his voice. “I can only go where you go. I want to go upstairs. I want to see my room. I want to see Laurent.” 

“We’ll come back later then,” Damen says. He ignores Auguste’s No! 

Richard leads them back out into the sunlight. Auguste trails after them, eyes flicking over every inch of the house, his gaze wondrous. It fills Damen with pity. 

They make their goodbyes out on the porch. Damen can see some of the neighbours take interest in their police car, but Richard seems unfazed. 

A portly woman at the end of the driveway asks them, “Laurent again? He’s a shame to the Revere name.”

Huet raises both eyebrows. Damen makes a mental note of that.

As they walk to the car, they hear a frantic, whispered. “Hey!”

Auguste gasps. “Laurent.” 

Damen follows his eyes. There’s a window at the side of the house on the second level. Someone’s opened it up enough to wave at them. 

Damen steps closer. Auguste rushes up to the window. “Laurent!” 

Laurent doesn’t hear his brother. But he does notice Damen approaching and beckons him over. 

Damen stands under the window, shoulder to shoulder with a dead man, and looks up at the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. 

Laurent’s hair is golden, falling across those same stunning, blue eyes, his lashes long and dark. His skin is luminous and sweetly pink. 

“Damn,” Huet says under his breath. 

“He’s so grown up,” Auguste whispers. 

“You’re here for Auguste’s case?” Laurent says. 

Damen has to strain to hear him. Laurent’s voice is low, anxious, like he’s worried about being caught. 

“Yeah, we are.” Damen clears his throat, which is suddenly scratchy.

Something bright sparks in Laurent’s eyes. He’s still whispering. “Great. You think you can meet me at the diner down the road in an hour? I can’t get away until he leaves the house.”

That instantly sets alarm bells in Damen’s head. He frowns. 

“God, he looks so different,” Auguste says.

Damen nods at Laurent, who’s still anxious, still waiting for a response. 

“Okay, we’ll see you.”

Laurent nods and shuts the window, disappearing from view. After a moment, Auguste does too. 

[nwjws]

while you were sleeping - pjs

; PAIRING - jay x gn!reader

; SYNOPSIS - in which you’ve had the same album on repeat, unable to get it out of your mind. just like how jay, your roommate, can’t seem to get you out of his.

; WC - 1.4k (minus the lyrics)

; TAGS - college roommates au, fluff, from jay's pov, based off laufey's 'while you were sleeping' ; WARNINGS - not proofread

i still can't believe that you noticed me

mindlessly scrolling on your phone, you patiently wait for your roommate, park jay, to finish cooking up some breakfast. a comfortable silence has settled between you two, with the only sounds being the sizzling oil on the pan and your humming.

"you've been listening to the same 14 songs for the past week."

"what?" you ask, looking up at him. you stare at his back, broad shoulders exposed by his tank top.

he turns his head to look back at you over his shoulder, raising a perfect eyebrow. you realise then what he's saying.

laufey had released a new album last week, and you literally haven't played any other song outside of it since it dropped. you can feel jay judging you, but you just shrug at him. you were definitely not stopping.

"so what if i've had bewitched on repeat? can you deny that they're good?" you challenged him.

"no, of course not," he chuckled to himself, turning back to the pan. "i'm just surprised you haven't gotten sick of it yet."

"i would never get sick of laufey," you say with mock offence.

"alright, then," he said with a teasing undertone.

you wanted to retort, but he placed a plate in front of you, making you forget what you were going to say.

"hey, you have a later clinical today, right?" he asked as you two dug in.

"mhm."

"take the box i left in the fridge with you before you go then. its some extra lunch i made so you'd have enough energy to get through the day."

"thank you," you say appreciatively. "you really don't have to do that every time i have a heavier day."

"well, if i have time to, then i don't see why i shouldn't."

"what about you? what are you doing today?"

"my professor cancelled class today, so i'll go check out if i can bother heeseung or jake."

"i'll pray for whichever victim you choose, then," you joke.

"maybe i won't make you extra lunch next time," he pouted playfully.

"no, no. those actually really help me. god knows if i didn't score you as my roommate, i would have passed out several times by now."

"grateful to be of service"

after breakfast, jay lounges around the apartment as you're getting ready. some show plays on the tv, but it doesn't drown out the sound of must be love playing from your speakers.

you shout your leaving when you exit the shared apartment, and jay wishes you a good day. he watches you close the door, leaving him completely alone.

i'll never forget the first time i saw you then

when he drives to the shopping centre with jake later that day, he pauses mid-sentence when he realises something.

"is everything good?" his friend asks.

"yeah, i just recognised the song playing."

"really? you listen to from the start by laufey?" jake asks. he had decided to connect his phone to jay's carplay, and had been in the one in control of the playlist.

"not really, but my roommate does."

"y/n? that's pretty cool. they've got good music taste," he replies.

"they've had her newest album on repeat since she dropped it," jay laughs, eyes on the road.

"do you find that annoying?"

"of course not, it's funny seeing them prance around the apartment, belting their heart out," he laughs at a memory of you singing at the top of your lungs. "i guess i'm more of a second-hand listener now? if that's even a thing."

"probably," jake shrugs.

a light pink bouquet, a promise you'll stay and i start to believe

the two had decided to eat out at wagamama's first, before anything else.

"i think i'll get the pad thai," tells the waitor, who nods and notes it on his ipad.

"hm, i'm feeling like trying the grilled chicken ramen," jay says. "oh, could i also get the miso mixed vegetable salad to-go?"

"sure," the waitor replies. he pockets the small device in his apron, and leaves for the kitchen.

"you ordered another meal?" the younger asks curiously.

"me and y/n go here often. of course, i had to get them something. usually, they'll go for the typical miso salad, or some curry, but they've decided they wanted to try being vegan recently. so i got the vegan one," jay explains nonchalantly.

"wow, you really care a lot about them, huh?"

"of course, we're sharing the rent, after all. have to be a good roommate, otherwise they'll leave and i'll have to pay the bills on my own."

"maybe i should get a roommate," jake chuckles. "but i don't think i'd be able to get someone like you."

"i'd feel sorry for whoever ends up with you," jay teases him. "and anyway, they're a good roommate. they do the laundry for the both of us, and we usually spend the weekends cleaning together."

"you guys are so lucky," is all jake says.

i don't recognise myself ; who've i become?

jake dragged jay into their third clothing shop that day, despite jay's protests. in self-defence, jake whines about needing some new shoes.

"don't you have like, thirty pairs? what could you possibly need another one for?"

"actually, i only have twenty-eight. and i need one for graduation, of course."

"right, because none of your almost-thirty pairs suffice," jay rolls his eyes.

"don't act like you dont have seventy pairs of the same polo shirt."

"i don't!"

"i've seen your closet, don't lie to me."

jay sighs and leaves jake to wander around the shop on his own.

"there you go again, buying another shirt," jake's voice sighs from behind jay fifteen minutes later.

"not for me," jay shakes his head. he turns to show the clothing piece to his friend. "for y/n. this is definitely their style, and it'll fit them so well. they have a pair of shoes that are this exact colour, so it would be good outfit if they sandwhich it with any bottom piece they choose."

"you think a lot about your roommate," jake raises his eyebrow at him.

"i see them all the time, why wouldn't i?" jay asks.

"no, like, you think too much about y/n considering you're 'only roommates'," he says with a quote gesture.

"stop suggesting weird things," jay walks ahead to the counter, leaving jake to follow behind.

"is it really so weird, though? if you like y/n like that?"

jay just ignores him, and pays for the shirt. it's not, he thinks to himself, because it's not a new thought either.

i trace it all back, 3:30 am that night something turned in my heart

"thank you, jay," you hug him when he shows you what he got. "you really need to stop buying me things."

"i can't help it," he smiles. "when i see something that reminds me of you, i just feel like i have to get it."

"with how often you buy me things, i'd say a lot of things remind you of me, huh?"

"seems like it..." he scratches his nape, awkwardly avoiding eye contact with you. thanks jake, he scowls in his mind. now he can't stop thinking about what he said earlier.

you and jay decide to watch a movie the next night, since it was a friday, and neither of you had to be up early the next day.

but jay couldn't focus on the tv when you two were basically cuddling under the shared blanket on the sofa. his skin prickled where his arm hung around your shoulder, and the weight of your head on his made him feel light and airy.

the warmth of your body seeped through your clothes, and brought him immense comfort. your sweet scent filled his nose, subconsciously recognising it to be one of the perfumes he'd bought you.

it was only when the movie ended he realised he hadn't been watching at all. and neither were you, if your light snores were any indication.

he huffed amusedly to himself, and shifted on the sofa to get you two in a more comfortable position, actually lying down. reaching for the remote, he carefully switched off the tv, leaving the only source of light to be a soft, warm yellow coming from a corner lamp.

jay stared at your features, illuminated by the dim light. he realised right then, in the comfort of your arms, far into the night, what he felt for you.

while you were sleeping, i fell in love.

; AUTHOR'S CORNER! do u guys ever feel like throwing up at your own work? ALSO THANK YOU FOR 200 this is my offer of thanks 🤭

; TAGLIST - @lovelovelovebts @miyseung @babyy-bambii

[nhl-stories]

Indoor Cat– Jeremy Swayman

Summary: Jeremy is excited to show his girlfriend Alaska, but she's not exactly an outdoor person

Author’s Note: Had so much fun writing this for @bqstqnbruin for @wyattjohnston's 2k24 summer fic exchange! Definitely made me want to write more Sway in the future

Word Count: 2.2k

“Sorry I was too lazy to fish my keys out of my backpack,” Catherine apologizes when Jeremy opens the door to his apartment.

“I wasn’t expecting you, so this is a nice surprise.”

She rolls her bike in and leans it up against the wall. Rubbing her hands across her face.

“I meant to text but I have a million exams to grade and my roommate was being a bitch and our air conditioning broke and I just had to leave.”

When she moves her hands away, Jeremy is standing in front of her with a sympathetic smile. He pulls her into a tight hug that makes her tension dissolve.

“You’re sweaty babe.”

Catherine gives him a shove, “Of course I am! No AC at the apartment and then I biked here in a million-degree weather with 50-pound backpack. I’m MELTING.”

“Sorry, my little ice queen can’t handle the heat.”

She levels a look at him that screams she’s not in the mindset for his little jokes and he bites his lips to hold back his smile.

After she takes a cold shower, she feels more like a real person. She throws on an oversized Maine t-shirt and makes her way to Jeremy’s dining table with a stack of papers.

Once she has a fresh red pen and her answer key, she gets into a sort of trance while grading. She doesn’t quite notice how far the sun has sunk when Jeremy comes behind her and wraps his arms around her kissing her right under her ear.

“Want me to order dinner?”

Catherine leans back into his touch, “Can we get Thai food?”

“Green curry and Pad Kee Mao?”

“Yes, please,” she kisses his cheek then goes back to focusing on tests.

When the food arrives, Jeremy moves her papers despite her protests.

“Stop, I have like so many tests to grade and only like two days to finish them and then enter the grades online.”

“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take a break.” He moves the tests to the coffee table so they’re out of reach.

This is the price she has to pay if she works at Jeremy’s, which is a pretty nice trade off even if she fights it. Every. Single. Time.

“So, school’s out in a week… any big plans,” he wiggles his eyebrows at her.

Jeremy is clearly hinting at their upcoming trip to Alaska, which Catherine has been actively avoiding planning specifics. She’s not exactly against seeing where he grew up and his parents, it’s the rest of the Alaska Experience™ that’s making her apprehensive.

She tries to be casual about what she says next.

“I’m moving in August.”

Jeremy stops with a forkful of noodles halfway up to his mouth, “Um- what?”

“Yeah, I mean I don’t get along with my roommate and our lease will be up then,” she takes a drink to stop herself from grinning, “And my boyfriend asked me to move in, so I thought I’d finally take him up on the offer.”

It’s a tactical distraction from Alaska, but also an announcement she’s excited to finally share, now that she’s informed her soon-to-be ex-roommate.

Jeremy is around the table and practically straddles her to wrap her in his arms around.

“Seriously?”

He doesn’t wait for the answer before kissing her.

Then he’s pulling back again, “Seriously?”

He goes back in for another kiss, it’s not very good. They’re both smiling too much for their lips to really meet, but soon they get in a rhythm.

 Then Jeremy starts to trail kisses down her jaw and neck. Catherine indulges him for a bit before gripping his hair to pull him back.

“I love the excitement, and I’m excited to move in too, but none of this tonight,” she kisses the tip of his nose, “I still have to be a responsible teacher.

He buries his face in her neck and mumbles, “No you don’t, just quit your job.”

“You say that now while you’re not working, but come fall when you’re back to work and I have nothing to do, you’ll be evicting me,” she rakes her nails through his hair.

“Is that why Taylor is being a bitch?” He says once he comes up for air.

“I mean, it’s not helping, but it’s also just her natural state as a roommate,” she gives Jeremy a gentle push, “Now let me eat my dinner so I can finish my work.”

“Then we can finish this later?” A quick, but filthy kiss follows.

“Maybe, no promises,” Catherine gives him her best stern teacher face, so he knows she means business.

She doesn’t finish all of her tests, mostly because Jeremy is determined to be touching her at all times. So, to keep him from moving around, Catherine holds him in place; leaning back on his chest on the sectional. His hands have free reign and she’s within kissing range. It appeases Jeremy, but greatly slows her grading speed.

Eventually, she just gives up and lets Jeremy rush her to the bedroom. Claiming they need to ‘christen their bedroom’ as if Catherine hadn’t already christened it every which way.

And it’s enjoyable and wonderful until her alarm goes off extra early to make up for the work she didn’t finish. Normally, she’s actually a morning person, but at the end of the school year, her body and mind are ready to call it quits.

Jeremy calls it teacher playoffs. A stupid joke that never fails to make her laugh. She’s soft for his goofy side, even when it’s telling the dumbest jokes.

“Need any help before school?” Jeremy comes up behind her in the shower, wrapping his arms around her waist, hands dipping dangerously low.

“Not that kind of help, that’s for sure,” Catherine giggles while she turns around then moves his hands back to his side.

“You’ve already done enough with this,” she points to a mark where her collarbone meets her shoulder, “this is almost ‘have an awkward conversation with my students’ visible.”

“Consider it payback for you putting off the Alaska talk again.”

Catherine clenches her jaw.

“You thought I haven’t noticed, but the trip is in 10 days and you keep ignoring me every time I bring it up.”

“Yeah, cause you’re gonna talk me into exploring the Alaskan bush or something crazy, when I can explore an Alaskan bush any time I want,” she playfully gropes Jeremy.

He lets out an involuntary groan, before backing away, “See! You’re doing it again! Although great joke, babe.”

Catherine steps back into the spray, rinsing out her conditioner, “Fine. I’ll stay late to finish all my grading and stuff and then we can talk after.”

“Thank you,” he gives Catherine a peck, “And afterwards feel free to explore the bush if you want.”

Catherine rolls her eyes and gets out of the shower.

She gets dressed, thankfully the outfit she packed covers the hickey even with her hair up.

Jeremy is waiting for her with a towel around his waist, a bowl of yogurt and fruit waiting for her and a to-go thermos of coffee.

“Want me to drive you in? So, you don’t have to bike there and back.”

“Sure, but you’ll have to drop me off a few blocks away. Cause if my students see me with you, I’ll never get them to focus, and they’re squirrely enough this time of year.”

◊◊◊

Catherine finishes her grading sooner than she thinks, even enters all the grades online. Now there’s two things to not look forward to; planning with Jeremy and annoying emails from parents about final grades.

She checks the weather on her phone, the heat doesn’t seem to be breaking and won’t until the sun sets a couple hours from now.

She debates her options for a few minutes before deciding to ask Jeremy for a ride home. The deciding factor being she’d rather have an uncomfortable talk without first having a sweaty bike ride. The less time out of the comfort of AC, the better.

“And this isn’t embarrassing for me to pick you up out front?” Jeremy snarks when he pulls up to the curb.

Catherine rolls her eyes and starts to load the bike in the back, “I should have just dealt with the heat.”

When she slides into the passenger seat, Jeremy grabs her hand intertwining their fingers and giving it a squeeze.

“I’m just buttering you up before I tell you about all the Alaskan adventures I have planned for us.”

“I’m already exhausted.”

Jeremy squeezes her hand again, then points an air vent more towards Catherine.

When they get back to the apartment Catherine flops onto the couch, “Okay lay it on me.”

Of course, Jeremy takes that as an invitation to drop right on top of her, barely catching himself before his whole weight lands on her.

He leans in to kiss her. Once, twice… he pauses like he’s trying to figure out if he can get away with more. Instead, he decides to sit up and pull Catherine up with him.  

“Why are you so anxious about this trip? You’ve met most of family and friends, and you’ve agreed to move in with me so I don’t think this is a commitment thing…”

She throws back her head and takes in a deep breath, “No, but it’s gonna sound stupid and miniscule in comparison.”

“But I like the sound of small rather than something more fundamental to our relationship.”

Catherine takes a moment, trying put the words the right way in her head.

“I’m worried that you have not spent a lot of summer time with me so you have not seen how much I wilt in the sun and heat and generally want to die. It’s a very ugly side of me both because of my sweat and my attitude and I spend a lot of energy trying to avoid it.”

Catherine feels like she has to avoid eye contact while she gets this off her chest. Mostly because she can feel herself flush with embarrassment about her confession.

“And then you’ll want to climb a mountain or something and you’ll see that we are not on the same outdoorsy level and realize we just aren’t compatible,” she looks down at her lap in shame.

“Oh sweetheart,” Jeremy cups her face, “that is stupid. Alaska rarely gets over 70 degrees.”

Catherine lets out a surprised laugh.

“I already know you’re a bit of an indoor cat,” he smirks at the play on her name.

“I’m being vulnerable here and you’re making fun of me!” She doesn’t mean for it to come out so whiny.

“And if you had talked to me before this, you would know I’ve already thought about all these things.”

She cocks her head in response.

 “I would never make you face your least favorite thing, temperatures over 80 degrees, if there was something I could do to stop that.”

“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said.”

“And that’s just the start,” Jeremy can’t help but grin.

“I’d love to show you the top of a mountain but everything there is so beautiful we don’t need to climb thousands of feet of elevation to see something great. I have so many options you can choose from, I made you a spreadsheet.”

“This is might sound sarcastic, but that weirdly turns me on.”

Jeremy pulls her into his chest, “If I really needed to do some crazy, difficult hike, I know people who like that. I’m going on this trip to spend time with you and if that means a flat, short hike, I’m going to love it.”

“Most importantly,” Jeremey untangles himself and leaves the room.

He comes back with a suitcase, “I bought you a suitcase just for books you want to bring. So, when we go out on the boat you can just read and look pretty if you don’t want to fish.”

“Oh my god, I love you.”

She gets up and jumps into his arm.

“So, you’re excited for our trip now?”

Catherine smiles and decides to show him with actions rather than words.

◊◊◊

Catherine has never been happier to be proven wrong, Alaska is honestly her ideal summer vacation. Not too hot, too gorgeous to describe with words, and the almost never-ending daylight made it seem all seem like some kind of dreamland.

The view right now is proof.

Book in her lap, Jeremy looking hot driving the boat in the foreground, and a glacier in the background.

The boat slowly comes to a stop.

“See something you like?” Jeremy smirks from the captain’s seat.

She shrugs, “this book is kind of dragging and I was thinking, you know I’ve never had sex on a boat?”

Jeremy raises his eyebrows.

“And we happen to be on a boat… in this very scenic… fairly romantic location,” she tries to use her best innocent, doe eyes.

In a flash, her book is on the ground and Jeremy is on top of her.

It’s something Catherine can see becoming a summer tradition.

[kleftiko]

Can I request a cute oneshot for Midorima x reader with forehead touching?

❦ FOREHEAD TOUCHES

cw: none, this is fluff

when i was little, my dad used to put our foreheads together so we’d look like cyclopses and say, “you have my eye” lol

he’s relaxing on the couch, legs stretched out, book in his hand, today’s lucky item sitting on the coffee table beside him. the novel was one of your favourites, but he has been staring at the same page for the past 10 minutes because his attention is really on you.

“please?”

“no.”

“why not?”

he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “you make your own money.”

“but you make more than me.” you retaliate.

“i’m not buying you a cart full of clothes when you make more than enough to pay for it yourself!” he snaps a bit, but that doesn’t bug you one bit.

instead, you climb onto his lap, straddling him as you put on a pout and try again. “pretty please? what’s the point in being rich if you don’t spoil your s/o?”

dramatically, midorima drops the book, letting it bounce onto the floor as his gives your puppy-dog eyes a stern glare. unfortunately for him, your begging face is one of his weaknesses, and he’s pretty sure his horoscope mentioned cancers being susceptible today.

he sighs again and closes his eyes to block out your cute face.

“are you just with me for my money?” he jokes and you laugh, that beautiful sound that he adores and that always brings a smile to his face.

he feels the weight of your forehead press against his, your soft breath fanning his face and smelling of toothpaste.

“please?” you whisper, barely audible, hand coming up to his cheek and lightly brushing your fingers over his skin.

he hums, finally giving in.

“take my card.” his voice is husky, almost like he was falling asleep.

“thank you,” he hears the smile in your voice before his lips are given a sweet kiss.

eyes finally open as you get off of him, and his love struck gaze is back on you as you skip out the room.

“but order some pad thai when you’re done,” he calls and watches you turn back to him. “‘m hungry.”

“of course,” you grin, “whatever you want.”

[bettyfrommars]

don't say you need me (it's understood)

vampire!steve x deliveryDriver!fem!reader

summary: you are a delivery driver who gets extra hazard pay to bring blood to the vampires of Crimson Alley, but this time, you get up the nerve to ask Steve for something you have always wanted. This story has a surprise ending and an appearance from vampire!eddie. Steve is not a typical vampire. Slightly True Blood au. wc:6.3k

18+ONLY, mature themes, Steve is a vampire but he is also something else, reader's first time feeding a vampire, smut, drinking blood, sensitive!steve, lovesick!steve, monsterfucking, doordash delivery for vampires, oral for all, reader wears a sportsbra, unprotected p in v, creampie, self-inflicted knife wound.

author's note: I've had this one in my wip's for a while, and it was going to drive me crazy if I didn't finish it. My Steve fics rarely see the light of day, but I can't stop writing them for some reason. This is my last little detour before I go back to working on my other series. Or, until I get distracted again, which will probably be in two minutes.

Part 2 smut extra Wolf Moon

Part 3 fluff request

The way you earned money lately was not your dream job, but it paid the bills.  Food delivery was a necessary evil with your life being as chaotic as it was.  The particular app you worked for paid better than the rest because of the “hazard pay” you accrued for some of the deliveries that required more “risk”.

The risk in question had you delivering blood to the local vampire population, most of which lived in a particular section of the city called Crimson Alley.  It wasn’t just an alley; there were apartment buildings and a long street full of picket fence houses, all with heavy, black out curtains over them during the day.  

One minute, you’re leaving tofu Pad Thai on someone’s doorstep, and the next—-you’re casually dropping off a grocery bag full of type O.  

It was dark, of course, when you made your final delivery before clocking out.  You took on as many deliveries to Crimson Alley as the app would allow, mostly because you needed the money, but also—you weren’t afraid of death.

Most of the vampire clients who signed up for deliveries on the app were decent, law abiding ghouls, but there had been two noted incidents where the vampire in question only wanted a live human to feed on, and ended up draining the delivery driver before disappearing into the night.

You told yourself they were just rumors, but also, you spent quite a bit of time ruminating on what the sensation of fangs breaking your skin would feel like.

The receipt stapled to the front of the paper bag from the blood bank said Harrington, and you matched it with the information on your phone before making your way up the sidewalk.  It was an old, vintage building with renovated apartments inside, and so you punched in the alarm code from the notes in your phone, waited for the beep, and then made your way up to C5.

Two female vampires were just leaving as you stepped into the foyer, and they seemed to be dressed for a night on the town.  You jumped back to make room for them, and they excused themselves with a laugh and a wave, fangs exposed, as if they were any other living humans going out for drinks. That was the great thing about vampire specific blood banks and the recently invented blood substitutes; fed vampires, for the most part, were happy vampires.  Sure, there were those who still lusted after the chase and the thrill of the kill, but most of the newer vampires were surprisingly chill.  

The customer requested that you hand the delivery directly to them, which meant you had to knock instead of just dropping it at the door and bolting.  

But, as your finger rose to touch the doorbell, the door opened, yanking back into the apartment so fast, and you scrambled back, startled, testing the handle of the bag with your vise grip.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” the vampire said, smiling around his fangs, wearing Wayfarer sunglasses even though it was dark outside.  “I didn’t mean to scare you, my bad.”

“You didn’t scare me,” you stiffened, shaking your head, hoping that was the correct answer, since the customer is always right.  

In the next few heartbeats, the two of you looked over each other.  Your vampire customer had a full head of lush, dark hair, just long enough to tuck behind his ears, and a solid, muscular frame.  He had on a white shirt that was of little contrast to his pale skin, rolled up to the elbows and unbuttoned to expose a swatch of chest hair, black pants that made it look like he was getting ready to go somewhere fancy, and a pinky ring with what looked like a skull on it.  He smelled like sandalwood and vanilla tobacco, and your mouth produced an overabundance of saliva that made you swallow and choke a bit.

Steve liked what he saw so much that he didn’t want to remove his sunglasses, so that he could continue to look you over without you seeing his eyes move.  But, eventually, he did, sliding them up on top of his head, clearing his throat.

“Harrington,” he said, leaning against the door frame, forgetting why he was about to leave the apartment in the first place. “That’s me, I’m Steve.”

You introduced yourself, and then lifted the bag up in the space between the two of you. “Would you like me to set this by the door, or—?”

“Oh, damn, yeah, of course,” he chuckled fondly to himself, as if remembering a private joke.  “I can—yeah, sure, here—I’ll take it.”

You passed it off and he opened it to look inside as if he didn’t know what he’d ordered.  

“Alright,” you backed up, offering a low wave.  “I guess I’ll be going,then? As long as everything looks okay.”

“Sure,” Steve said, uncertain, still staring into the bag.  You turned on your heel to head for the stairs. “But, wait—” he called after you.

You spun around to face him, rubbing your lips together, wondering if you were crazy, or if the vampire was trying to flirt with you.

Steve held the bag with one hand and let it fall to his side while his other hand shoved into his front pocket, smirking at you in a way that screamed trouble.  “Would you like to meet up later? After your shift? For a drink, or something?”

Or something.

This wasn’t a good idea, you told yourself, as you turned around to accept his invitation.  

“I’m free right now,” you told him.

—-------

Steve didn’t have a plan; he just knew he didn’t want you to go.

“Were you about to leave?” You asked, gesturing to his outfit as you accepted his invitation inside the apartment.  

“Nowhere…special,” Steve looked you up and down again, forgetting that his sunglasses weren’t covering his eyes.   He was about to go and meet up with his friend Eddie, but he’d shoot him a text real quick and let him know he got “caught up”.  Eddie had canceled on him at the last minute more times than he could count, so his conscience was clear.  

Steve had eclectic taste, and the first thing you noticed was the Depeche Mode poster on the wall, along with some original art, oil abstracts, and there was a retro sense to the place: a boombox from the 80’s, a panasonic tv/vcr combo on a stand in the corner and a 1960’s wicker rattan chair with a big, dark blue cushion.  He had a large collection of vinyl in vintage, wood apple crates stacked up the wall, and a yellow kitchen table set that looked like it was right out of the 1950’s.  

You turned to ask him a question, but he was right there on your heels, and your chests pressed into each other, your noses almost bumping, and that was when you took a closer look at his fangs.  They weren’t long, obnoxious fangs like in the movies, and could almost pass for normal, albeit extra sharp incisors, but for the way they extended down further than the rest of his perfect teeth.  

“Do you ever accidentally—” you motioned to your own tooth, tapping it.

“Bite my own lip? All the time,” he gave a snort.  “My tongue too, and it fucking sucks.”

He offered you a beverage and you were surprised to find out he had human food there.  

“I have several human friends. I cook for them sometimes too,” he assured you from the kitchen which was around the corner. He carried the grocery bag of blood in to pour some out for himself, and then you heard the top pop off a beer.  But then he peeked his head around the corner, raising his eyebrows at you. “Did you think all vampires were hermits that just hung out with each other in a cave somewhere? Like in The Lost Boys?”

You put your hands in your back pockets and went over to take a closer look at the bat with nail spikes through it that was mounted like a trophy above his stereo system.  He came out carrying a wine glass full of a deep claret liquid, and handed you the beer, gesturing to the futon with his elbow.

He’d only known you for a few minutes and he already wanted to kiss you.  He could see the heartbeat in your throat from where he sat, and he wanted to take a sip from your lifeforce and then kiss you with his bloody lips, smearing it down your chin.  He couldn’t smell any other man or partner on you, but he also couldn’t let you walk out and be with someone else; he was actively attaching to the scent of your blood, and if you stayed any longer, he’d have to do something about it.  

You took a few gulps of your beer, thinking that if you didn’t make you move, you’d lose your nerve.  A chance to be consensually bitten by a vampire did not come around as often as people would think.  Especially for the modern vamps of today who’d been following a set of rules for decades.  Most vampires had specific humans they “bonded” with, be it a familiar or a partner, or they ingested a specific type from the blood bank or blood substitute.  Vampires were very finicky creatures, and the blood had to taste good in order for them to want to ingest it.  The way it tasted had to do with a certain mix of hormones and chemistry, you really had no clue.

After a bit of small talk about where you came from, and how long Steve had been a vampire—he was turned in 1996 by an ex he didn’t want to talk about—you set your empty beer down on the rectangular wood coffee table and sat back.

“So,” you bobbed your head a few times.  “Here we are.”

“Yes,” he inclined his glass to you, taking the last sip of his Type O claret. “Cheers to us.”

And then, there was silence, but for the sound of people chatting out in the hall, the low hum of the Depeche Mode song It’s no Good, and your heartbeat in your ears.

But then, you just blurted it out, and Steve started to talk at the same time.

“How would you feel if I asked you to—”

“I have to confess that I—”

You licked your lips.  “You go first,” you said on a nervous exhale, fiddling with the arm of the futon.

“No, you—please,” Steve sank down and rested his head on the back of the cushion, his gaze lingering on you in a way that made your cheeks hot.  You couldn’t help but notice the bulge in his pants was abnormally large even though it wasn’t even erect.

This was crazy, what were you even doing in his apartment? Your friends would be screaming obscenities at  you if they knew, telling you to pull out your colloidal silver mace spray and run.  But yet, all of  your blood seemed to be tickling at the surface of your skin, wanting to escape.

You turned in your seat and Steve’s eyes followed your movements, watching how you bent your knee up and scooted towards him..

“Here’s the thing,” you cleared your throat, finding your words.  “I’ve never been bitten before, by, you know, a vampire, but I’d really love to know what it feels like.  I fantasize about it, sometimes.”

In an unexpected turn of events, Steve abruptly got to his feet, mumbling, “not another one,” as he put his back to you and rolled his head from side to side, walking away.

“Wait,” you stood up too. “What do you mean, ‘not another one’? Do delivery drivers normally show up here asking you to bite them?”

When he faced you, his eyes were full of weary disappointment.  “I’m not turning you, okay? I will never turn anyone as long as I exist,” and then he rounded the corner into the kitchen and you heard the wine glass drop into the sink.  

“Hold on,” you followed, coming up behind him as he bent forward to brace his hands on the countertop.  He appeared so suddenly distraught, your hand hovered at his lower back for a while, wondering if you should touch him, and then you finally did—feeling his cold skin through his shirt like winter marble.  

You made a few comforting circles with your palm, and he let you, secretly closing his eyes at the soothing nature of your touch.  

“Hey,” you whispered.  “I don’t want to be a vampire.  And even if I did, I would never want to put that on you, a complete stranger.”

This admission made him stand, and you watched the way the ends of his hair caught on the collar of his shirt, shoulder blades flexing under the material.

You rested your hip by the sink, eyeing his back muscles.  “I’m kind of embarrassed now, that I admitted that to you,” you laughed a little then, at yourself, at the situation, looking down at your nails.  Could you have fucked this up any harder? 

You barely had time to register that he had turned around and was coming toward you, it all happened in a human blink. But then he had your back pressed flush against the wall by the fridge, one hand cupped your throat while the other pinned your hip.  It knocked the air out of you, but it also turned you on, and he returned your stare with a flicker of uncertainty.  Silky brown eyes that seemed to go ink black as the pupils expanded.

He brought his cheek down, rubbing it against yours, inhaling the scent of your hair, his words a tight whisper at your ear.  “Why do you want me to hurt you?”

“I-I don’t want that,” you stammered, knees wobbling as he sniffed along the side of your face and down your neck; his skin was cold and it made  your nipples hard.  “I just want to know what it feels like to be…needed like that.”

Steve snapped his head up to look at you; brows clenched, cherry lips parted.  The urge to taste you, to feast on you, had him questioning almost a decade of sobriety from using his fangs to feed.  His teeth ached, his stomach growled.  The light in the kitchen was on, and aside from a lamp in the living room and the street lights from outside, the rest of the apartment was dark.

Steve nudged your nose with his; lips an inch or two away from yours.  “Maybe…just a taste.”

You lifted your chin to kiss his pouty lips, but he pulled back.  “We can’t do that, though.  We can’t kiss.”

You searched his eyes, confused.  

Steve released your throat, and the tension of the moment subsided.  “It’s too…intimate.  I can’t risk an attachment to a complete stranger.” You could tell he was using your words against you, and you wondered why that description bothered him so much.  You were both, indeed, strangers, and you didn't know how else to categorize him.

“I want it to be a good experience, though,” he hushed, taking your hand, guiding you back out to the living room. “It’s the least I can do.”

He told you to wait there while he got a towel from the closet; he didn’t want blood on his new futon.  If only you knew how many offers like this he’d turned down in his life; if only you knew how nervous he was to break this seal with you.

“Should I lay down or sit up?” You asked.  Your mind was having a hard time registering that this was actually happening.  

Steve came back and plopped down onto the squishy futon.  His shirt was off, and your eyes locked on the patch of chest hair over his milk white skin.  “It’s less messy this way,” he gestured to his bare chest, and then he raised an eyebrow, his face serious.  “Are you comfortable straddling my lap?”

“Facing you?” 

Steve dropped his shoulders, giving you a look, and then he patted the cushion on either side of him.

You were about to drop your knee down to do as he suggested.  

“Oh wait,” he stopped you, giving you an open, earnest expression.  “Do you want to take your shirt off?  It might get blood on it. It’s been a while since I’ve done this.”

You looked down at your shirt.  It was a vintage concert tee, and you didn’t want to risk it. “Um, yeah, okay,” you had a sports bra on underneath, so this was fine.  

Steve watched you remove your shirt with a hitch in his chest, but then looked down when you finished and tossed it over the chair.  

You climbed on top of him, bracing your hands on his shoulders.  “You’re so cold,” you observed.  “You make me want to get you a blanket.”

“You’re all the warmth I need,” he muttered, shifting as your core settled above his cock, his hands tentative at your hips. 

“Listen, it’s probably going to sting, or hurt, even,” he coached, watching the plump artery in your throat.  “But once I start drinking, your endorphins take over and it should feel…good, in a way.”

You nodded, pushing your shoulders back.

“Now, come forward,” he continued, pulling you close so that the two of you were skin on skin, his fingers spread out on your back.  “And tilt your head to the side, just like that.”

Steve’s mouth watered as he took in the sight of your neck so exposed to him, like an offering.  It reminded him of way back when he used to confuse the gift of blood as a form of love.  Back when he was naive and bursting with wet dreams about a home and a family and one love forever.

A few seconds passed and your chin rested on the cool muscles of his shoulder.  You could feel his breath on your skin, tingly like wintermint gum.  

“Should I count down?” He asked.

“No, I’m fine,” you returned with an edge of irritation. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You adjusted yourself in his lap and it made his cock throb, and now he was nervous that you could tell how aroused he was.  It’s been a while since he drank from someone he wasn’t in love with, and his cock assumed it was its turn to get involved too.

You felt his lips tremble on your flesh as he brushed over the spot. 

“Okay, here we go,” he mumbled. Steve’s stomach growled again as he made “O” with his mouth over your big, thumping artery, swiping his tongue a few times over your salty barrier.

But then his teeth broke the surface, making you choke and clutch his arm.

It did hurt, in the same way thorns from a rose bush hurt, and your adrenaline surged, preparing your body for fight or flight, but Steve’s arms were strong, and now they had you caged in a vice grip.

The sweet hesitancy of consent was gone now that he knew the honey nectar in your veins.

Now, his animal urges made him growl as he drank from you; whimpering, even, when he felt you ease into it, shifting to be closer to him.

There were only a few seconds of that sharp pain, but then as he sucked, you felt your pussy flutter and bloom—a reaction that you had not expected.  You closed your eyes, vibrating, leaning into each pull, turned on more and more by his wanton need for you. A trickle of blood trailed down along your breast and it made your skin raise with gooseflesh.  

Steve jerked his mouth away with a gasp after about a minute, breathless.  He looked at the dripping fang marks in your neck, and then, without thinking, he kissed you there. He released his double arm lock on you and held your upper arms, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Fuck,” be breathed.  “That was so good.” 

“You can have…more,” you whispered, keeping your head tilted to the side.  

Steve swallowed hard: the temptation was real. “I can’t,” he managed.  “I’m afraid I’ll take too much.”

You wanted to cry out in disappointment, to beg for more.  But then, Steve picked up the towel and started wiping you off. He pricked his finger to heal the fang holes with his blood and you felt a sizzle as they closed up and vanished.

You couldn’t look at him right away, but when you finally did—you saw the trickles of your life force in the corners of his mouth and the strawberry wine tinted hue of his lips. His cinnamon brown eyes that had somehow turned hazel  Your need was too great, and before you could stop yourself, you were leaning forward to flick your tongue out to taste the evidence of his feast.

Steve turned his head and that was when you remembered the rule: no kissing.  He was the Julia Roberts Pretty Woman version of vampires.  

But a  twitch of his cock against your inner thigh from inside his jeans betrayed him. 

“Oh, fuck it,” he hissed, acquiescing to his own desires, holding the back of your head to find your mouth.  He kissed you deep, without any hesitation.  It was innocent and urgent, like a man who had been starving in many different ways for a long time.

The taste of your blood in his mouth had your eyes rolling back in your head.  There was something about the closeness of it; the way he received nourishment from you.  You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him back, not paying any attention to the way your hips were grinding into him.

“Wait,” there was a smacking noise as Steve pulled his mouth away. He ran the back of his fingers down your cheek.  “Do you want this? Do you want…me?”

Your lips throbbed and felt bruised, and you nodded, unable to form words.

Steve would regret this the next day, he knew he would.  He wasn’t one of those people who could do casual intimacy like Eddie and Argyle.  He wondered if he was hypnotized by your blood, wondered if maybe he’d see clearer in the morning.  But right then, he didn’t care.

You crossed your arms over yourself and pulled your sports bra off, watching Steve’s breath catch at the sight of your nipples. He took one in his mouth, swirling his tongue, moaning as he did so, and you flexed your hips against him. His sucking popped off as your mouth went to his neck; you didn’t kiss him, you just planted your lips there and said:

“I love knowing my blood is inside of you.”

And for some reason—that was it for Steve.  

He gasped, clamping his hands onto your thighs, locking you in place. “Wait…fuck…oh shit—”

You felt him tremble and arch his pelvis up, his hips stuttered, and then his head dropped to your arm with a strangled cry.  

“Hold on…did you just?”

“I’m afraid so,” Steve admitted with a tight, aggravated sigh.  “Excuse me while I—”

He motioned for you to move out of his lap, but you stayed there, lowering your head to find his eyes.  “Can I clean you up?”

Steve shifted, feeling embarrassed and a little uncomfortable, about to decline your offer, but then you were sliding down between his legs, pushing them wider with your shoulders.  Your attention went to unbuckling his belt and zipper, but then your eyes flicked up to meet him, hovering there.

“What are you doing?” He asked softly, lifting his hips when you needed to scoot his jeans and red boxers down.  You saw the wet spot where his tip had exploded and the dark hair around the base of his cock.  You grabbed onto his length to bring it out of hiding and Steve shivered.

“You don’t have to—” but your lips were already on the fat, sticky tip, licking down the vein and the excess that dribbled down his shaft.  His cum didn’t really have a taste—it reminded you of something with a clear flavor, like glycerine.  He was semi-hard now; caught between being done and getting excited again.  He threw his head back onto the couch, exposing his throat to the ceiling, Adam’s apple jerking as he swallowed back a whimper.

His hips bucked up when you took the tip to the back of your throat, and Steve’s fingers dug into the couch, wondering if he should touch you.  “Do you like the way I taste?” He asked in a hush.

You nodded, meeting his gaze again, kissing the head of his cock.  “I want more.”

Steve leaned down to grab your face with both hands and coaxed you back up into his lap for another depraved kiss; moaning into each dive of your tongue.

“It’s my turn,” he said with a crooked grin, rubbing his nose on yours, and then he flipped you over with surprising strength.  You pushed your jeans down as he pulled them, yanking the denim all the way off your feet.  They landed inside out in a crumpled pile nearby.   He kissed down your breasts, your stomach, flicking his devilish tongue along the soft curve of your hip.  

Your legs stretched out to meet the width of his strong shoulders, cursing when his tongue licked a stripe up and down your slit a few times. When his mouth pulled away, there was a string of saliva connecting you to his chin, and he found your eyes before he moved to taste you again.

He lifted your thighs up off the couch—god, he was so strong—and licked down even further, until his tongue fluttered at your tight muscle back there, making both holes clench.  Your torso was almost bent in half when he looked up at you over your pussy.  “Do you like that?”

“Don’t stop Steve, please,” you gushed.

He took that as a yes, smiling to himself, continuing to work you over in that spot.

He lowered you and moved up to suck your clit and sank two fingers in a little too fast, making you tighten up for a moment.  “Shit, your fingers are so big.”

He made a guttural growl, staring at the way his fingers stretched you, and it sounded so unlike the noises he made thus far, it made your eyes snap open.

“More,” you gasped, taking his head in your hands.  Your fingers threaded through his hair that was a bit crunchy from styling product.

He slipped a third finger in and your cunt pulsed around him, making his cock get stiff and leaky again. “Fuck, you’re going to take my cock so good.”

The throb of the artery in your inner thigh caught his attention and so—that was all he could think about.

His fingers went in to the last knuckle, and twisted them a few times.

Your jaw went slack with a moan.  You watched his mouth lift off an inch so that he could stare at the spot just below the curve of your hip.  You could almost hear his thoughts, they were so loud, and the thought of him feeding on you again made  your cunt tighten like a fist.  

“Fuck, Steve, please do it,” you whined, squirming.  “Take more of my blood.”

Steve felt like a man out of control. Like the vehicle had already flown off the cliff, but he was still trying to work the break and steer.  There was no hope for him now—he might as well release his grip on the wheel.

His fingers curled up inside you as his fangs nipped at your tender flesh, toying with you.  When his his sharp teeth finally sank in, he didn’t give a shit about staining the couch or his clothes—he didn’t care if you could tell how much he fucking loved this.

When his mouth locked onto you, your pussy clenched around his fingers, and you were whimpering, clutching the back of his head, encouraging him, “moremoremore.” 

Steve had to push himself off of you with all of his strength, sending the couch sliding back a few inches with you on it, knocking over a table and a lamp that went crashing to the ground.  Your flesh was still leaking as he stumbled back, breathing quick and heavy, mouth and chin wet from his meal. His jeans were still down his hips a bit and his cock curved angry and sticky against his belly.

“Cover it,” he braced his hands behind him on the carpet, gesturing to your inner thigh, but you weren’t quick enough.  “Cover it now!” He barked, wincing, baring his teeth.  

You reached over for the towel and did as he asked, wrapping it around your thigh, securing it with your hand, watching whatever struggle he seemed to be having with himself.  It looked almost as if Steve was…changing? The hair on his chest and arms seemed to grow thicker right before your eyes and his jaw muscles strained as if making room for more teeth.

Once he caught his breath, his eyes locked on your cunt—so open and ready for him—and another animal growl escaped his chest.  You watched his cock twitch a few times, a sticky strand of precum connecting to his stomach.

No words were needed as he grabbed you by the crook of your knees and yanked you off the couch.  You yelped only because his movements were so fast and your lower back skidded on the rug, but you were equally opening yourself up wider for him, spreading your knees out.  

He knelt before you, chest hairier than ever, and his eyes flicked red for a moment.  He stretched his thick cock down along your slick and with one thrust, buried himself to the hilt, making you both throw your heads back with a cry.  

“Fuck,” you wanted him deeper, you wanted all of it.  Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the size.  He put one hand at your shoulder and one at the crease of your thigh and began to pound you onto his cock as if you were a toy.  Your breasts bounced and you kept eye contact with him as your jaw went slack, feeling a mounting orgasm already teasing in your core.

Steve’s hands no longer resembled the hands of a man; they were completely covered in hair now with curved claws. Honey brown fur covered his flesh entirely, and his nose was more of a snout as his eyes bore into you, burning an orange red.  His mouth was wider, teeth bigger and sharper as he revealed them to you in a sneer; his tongue lolling out thick and sharp.

You were not afraid though, and he could see it in the way you regarded him, as if the change had not taken place at all.   Your curiosity was piqued, but you were not disgusted, nor did you look away.

The curse, it was real.  He had not dared to tempt it for so long, thought maybe he had outrun it, but now he was mating you and he didn’t know how to stop.

You didn’t want him to stop. You wondered if maybe this was what happened when some vampires had sex—you’d never tried it before.

His strong, animal hips slammed against you; muscular, hairy legs splitting his jeans open so the seams ripped to accommodate his size.

“Steve, I’m gonna cum,” you gasped, brushing your fingers over your clit.

Monster Steve’s movements sped up and got erratic as you screamed his name again and the fire in your belly swelled to your entire body, exploding like firecrackers behind your eyes.  

Steve barked and locked you up against him, balls deep, as his cock pumped everything he had inside of you; body tensing, muscles straining.   

You were both panting when your eyes found each other again.  He searched your face with his feral eyes as his cock jumped a few times inside of you.  You wondered if he had lost the ability to speak since he hadn’t said a word since the transformation. 

He unhooked his hand from your shoulder and ran a claw down your face, gently, parting your lips with it, and then drawing down your throat.

There was a knock at the door, and somewhere in the deeply muffled civilized part of Steve’s brain he thought: “Shit, I forgot to text Eddie.”

You looked around, wondering what to do, wanting to cover yourself up, and Steve pulled out of you, savoring one last look at his cum leaking out before he bolted to the fire escape window on all fours and then crouched there.  

“Steve?” Another man’s voice came from the other side of the door.  “Yo Steve man, what gives? I waited at the bar for like two hours.”  He knocked on the door again, and then tried the knob.  “I’m going to use my spare key if you don’t answer, man.  It’s not like you not to text.”

Monster Steve growled low, staring across the room at the door, snarling like a dog.  

Getting the hint that maybe Steve didn’t want anyone to see him like that, you jumped up to find your clothes when you heard the key in the door.  You had your shirt on and were struggling to button your jeans when the door opened.  

You rushed over to greet whoever it was and found yourself face to face with another vampire, but this one had long, dark messy hair, and bangs that were too long, and a leather jacket over his Alice in Chains tee shirt.  

“Hey,” he paused, offering a confused smile to expose his fangs.  “I’m Eddie.  Is Steve here? We were supposed to meet me but he—-”

That was when Eddie caught sight of the huge, hairy monster dropping from Steve’s fire escape and into the street.

“Shit!” Eddie cursed, pushing passed you, yelling for Steve.  

You both made it to the window in time to see monster Steve bounce over the hoods of several cars like something out of a DC comic, and then bolt down an alleyway on all fours before climbing up the next building.  

Eddie turned to you, the only human in the vicinity, and cursed.  “You let him drink your blood, didn’t you?”

“Well I—” you stammered, trying to catch sight of Steve from the window again, but he was long gone.  “I-I didn’t know that vampires couldn’t—”

“Most can,” Eddie sucked in his bottom lip and put his hands on his hips, looking around.  “But not Steve.  He was already a werewolf when he was bitten and turned into a vampire, and if hybrids drink blood directly from a human, they turn into a beast, like what you saw.”  Eddie glanced down at how your jeans were unzipped, and then he quickly looked out the window again.  “Especially if there is some type of sexual act involved.”

Eddie paced back and forth in a line for a minute, wondering what he should do—-who he should call. 

You swallowed so hard there was a click in the back of your throat.  “How long will he…be like that?”

Eddie scratched his forehead, parting his bangs.  “It’s really hard to say.  Could be hours, could be weeks.  But the problem is—” Eddie trailed off, thinking about the last time this happened.  “----he’s out there all alone and there’s no way to find him or catch him.  He’s stronger than any vampire or a werewolf now.”

You told Eddie a little bit about who you were as you collected your things and went out in the hall with him so he could lock the apartment back up.  You told him that you didn’t mind waiting there, until Steve came back.  Maybe he just went for a run to stretch his monster legs?”

“That’s way too dangerous,” Eddie promised.  “Once Steve is back to Steve again, he’ll want to know I kept you away from him, that I kept you from danger,” he walked you out of the complex and down to your car.  “The smartest thing you can do right now, sweetheart, is go home and wait for things to go back to normal.  I’m sure he’ll call you when he returns to himself.”

You thanked him and shook his hand, even though you knew Steve didn’t have your number.

You had a plan you thought might work even better.

Once you got back to your place, you showered, cleaned up the sticky trail of Steve’s cum down your inner thigh, and then wrapped a towel around you and went to the kitchen to find a sharp knife.

You went out to your modest balcony on the 6th floor of your building, and blinked against the breeze as a hand-shaped cloud circled the moon.  The stars were bright and the air smelled of honeysuckle, and you held the blade of the knife tight before yanking it through your grip.

It slit the flesh of your palm like butter, and you bit your lip against the pain.  You squeezed your fist in the air—a summoning on the wind—and watched the dark red flow trickle down your forearm.

You let it drip onto the railing, all along the cement ledge, and then left the sliding door open and made a trail of droplets on the floor to your bedroom.

And then, you waited.  

[boxkitkat]

Random post on some small ZSakuVA verse headcannons! <3

(Mainly for Isaac and Elias o(>ω<)o)

Isaac: Isaac probably has a habit of doing that little leg bounce whenever he’s anxious. Before he met the listener and got closer with them he probably smelled A LOT like coffee.

When he was probably 8-11 he took piano lessons for a while but simply didn’t feel like music was something he was interested in.

Isaac as a kid (like around 5-7 years old) would struggle with sleeping so his mom (maybe sometimes joined by his dad) would end up helping him go to sleep by playing with his hair, putting on a small puppet show for him while reading a bed time story with cute animal hand puppets.

His favorite bugs are blue butterflies and ladybugs because they would remind him of whenever he helped his mom in the gardens and little butterflies and ladybugs would show up near the flowers in the spring.

He finds hot chocolate or a warm tea comforting on cloudy or rainy days.

His houses garden would probably have like a miniature waterfalls here and there.

Isaac probably has a messenger for himself like Adriel did to communicate through his workers, or just emails them or calls them but never meets any of his workers in person face to face.

He would be a girl dad. Dressing up in frilly princess dresses with plastic tiaras and attending the finest tea parties with the most high quality and rich wooden biscuits and cookies all to make his daughter happy. Of course when he had the time to. He probably has a black silk robe. Wouldn’t be surprised. As well as a really high quality grey or navy blue kimono stashed away in his closet. Maybe a gift from one of his older clients who is aware of his ethnicity background.

He’s really ticklish behind his knee.

He definitely has a disappointed and judgmental Asian dad glare if you do anything stoopid in-front of him.

He would appreciate the listener helping him with taking care of orchids that he gotten, maybe hug the listener from behind with his arms around their waist while they gently watered the orchids and he gives em a small peck on the cheek :D

He’s got a whole bunch of fancy watches, some as gifts from his clients and some from a collection his grandpa probably had of watches.

Elias: He’s mixed with Mexican and Filipino background, the Hispanic side from his mom and the Filipino side from his dad. He likes Thai food a lot. Specially Pad Thai noodles.

Some of his fave desserts are Ube cookies, and concha’s (specifically the white ones).

He would like to hold a grill with his old friends from high school.

He would tackle an enemy down like a football player.

He definitely uses the word “opp” in an unironic way.

He wears compression shirts during a workout, or loose no sleeve shirts that show off his muscles.

Kinda random but he was taller than most of the other Saku verse boys during their tween years.

In middle school and high school he would get really dirty and hurt a lot (scratches, bruises, etc) due to playing sports with his friends.

(this head cannon is inspired off of another crumpets head cannon so credits to them for this idea!) His mom was religious (not crazy religious but yknow) catholic to be specific so he was raised with an upbringing of some religious faith. He isn’t super religious himself tho, not as much as him mom was. And also he probably has a cross necklace as well that he sometimes wears.

Elias wears mostly silver jewelry because it goes well with his skin complexion.

Listens to the reggaeton genre usually and rap too, he would definitely get jiggy with it to El Coco No.

Speaking of dancing, Elias is probably a pretty good dancer but insists that he’s okayish.

He’d make listener dance with him, especially if it’s a romantic song.

He likes some of Franks Sinatras music mainly because it makes him think of his listener probably or his mom due to Franks music (from what I’ve heard) being very sentimental.

He likes to make himself banana milkshakes sometimes in the mornings.

He’s got a sick belt collection and is very much proud of it and WILL show it off to anyone who asks. He’d wear them on special occasions tho or not at all cuz they are his precious babies.

His jaw can open oddly enough very widely without dislocating it somehow.

He’d probably do that thing where people lift up their eyelids inside out to mess with James because James finds it icky and recoils and cringes at it. (He’s done this ever since he was 10 when he discovered James didn’t like that.)

His go to late night snack is a PB&J sandwich or instantly noodles.

Luca: He has a high pitched scream.

He’d have a comfort pillow, he’d cuddle it incase whenever his listener isn’t home (like on a business trip or something)

He has flat hair so he tries to blow dry it to make it have more volume but it isn’t able to hold up for long after a while sometimes.

His hair is very shiny.

He brings a small lotion bottle with him wherever he goes to keep his hands and arms moisturized.

He’s sometimes tempted to eat things that aren’t edible but look edible.

Half of his twitter feed is cats and capybaras.

He might’ve been in a few clubs in high school, like chest or volunteering work.

Luca was a really energetic kid with the people he was closest with and his parents would sometimes struggle keeping up with that.

He liked sandwiches a lot as a kid, he still does and I think he would have a great appreciation for those little tea sandwiches. He’d absolutely adore those sandwiches.

Whenever he’s cooking he puts little hair clips on so his hair doesn’t get in the way of his face and distract him while cooking or getting any hair into the food he’s making. The hair clips probably have little animals on them.

Small head-cannons for the others!:

Andrew likes to wear a lot of gold jewelry, he stretches a lot from having bad seating posture making his body feel sore. Kayson definitely plays around with his brothers by picking them up and throwing them over his shoulder, he’d do this a few time with his listener as well if they are being bratty or playful. Dontis wears those Hawaiian shirts and has crazy bed head. Jonah likes to dye his hair a lot with a bunch of different bright colors, his hair is very dead, and he likes subtle vanilla scents. Rowan likes garlic bread and he gently rubs his listeners hand with his thumb whenever therye nervous or upset. Asirel owns a sick blood red sports car and sometimes sun tans next to his smancy fancy pool with a speedo on and some fancy sunglasses (gotta keep the tan up.)

Okayy thats all for now!! Hope you enjoyed reading and ty for listening to me share! And ofc pls feel free to say your own personal thoughts and feelings on my head cannons or your own personal head cannons! Ty Crumpet Nation! ☆ ～('▽^人)

[atlabeth]

between colleagues pt 2 - anthony lockwood

part one

summary: the morning after and some shopping. this is still a great plan. right?

a/n: lol this took forever to come out but ive been busy asf and dealing with a lot of personal issues but i am really loving these two and they made me feel better so i hope you all enjoy!! they really are just two idiots in love lmao the shop scene was v fun

wc: 4.1k

warning(s): fem!reader, small mention of death in regards to a case, reader freaking tf out for a second. but basically no warnings this is all fluff

also im aware i use this gif a lot but it's like my favorite one of him so uhhhh yeah

Your shoulder was stiff when you woke up, and you had to stifle a groan of discomfort as you rolled onto your back. So much for staying off your injured side, you thought disdainfully. Typical of you to sabotage yourself in your sleep. 

A glance over at the other empty bed proved Lucy was awake, and a glance at the clock on the wall proved she might have been awake for quite some time. 

It was six in the bloody evening. Lockwood’s call with the Caldecotts must have gone well if you were able to sleep for 14 hours. You normally would have had the sense to be a little bit ashamed of sleeping an entire day away, but after the job you’d had and the arrangement you made with Lockwood, you felt like you deserved it. 

You pulled yourself out of bed and went through the paces of making yourself presentable at the very least, then threw on a sweatshirt and made your way downstairs. Lockwood was alone in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a half-eaten piece of toast in front of him and the agency’s case binder in his lap. 

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Lockwood said, glancing up from the files on his lap with a smile. You rolled your eyes at him as you walked into the kitchen. 

“Would you believe me if I said I was still tired?” You took a cup from the cabinet and filled it at the tap, taking a sip as you glanced out the window. Night had already fallen, and you could see the flickering of ghost lamps in the distance. 

“You know, I think I would,” he said. “You didn’t make it the full 24 hours you promised—I think you’ve still got some in you.” 

You chuckled and shook your head. “Where’s Lucy and George?” 

“Grocery shopping,” he said, and he looked at the clock. “It’s taking them an awful long while, though.” 

“Why are they shopping at night?” you asked. 

Lockwood shrugged. “George really wanted to make pad thai, but we have none of the ingredients. Apparently, it’s important enough to warrant a night trip to the store. Lucy offered to go with him, and I made them take their rapiers, so it should be fine.” 

“Of course you did,” you mused. “Did you tell them about our little arrangement?” 

His eyes filled with amusement. “No. I figured you would want the honor.” 

You sighed and let your head fall back. “Kind as always, Lockwood.” 

“You should probably start calling me Anthony,” he said. “Just to get used to it.” 

“What,” you said dryly, looking back down at him, “girlfriends don’t usually call their boyfriends by their last name?” 

“I think your family may frown upon it.” Lockwood checked his watch, then set the binder on the table and stood up. “If you get a kettle going, I’ll make us tea.” 

“Bored of write-ups already?” you asked, crouching down to pull the kettle out of a cabinet. Lockwood chuckled as he took the tin of tea bags out of the closet, and he turned the burner on just as you finished filling the pot up. 

“I try to do my part, but they’re really not my forte,” he said. “You and George are much better at them.” 

“And it comes from filing reports since the tender age of eight,” you said solemnly as you set the kettle on the stovetop.

Just then, the sound of a lock clicking open drew your attention, and you smiled as Lucy and George came inside. George had a reusable bag in one hand and her rapier in another, and Lucy also had hers drawn. 

Your brows knit together. “Run into any ghosts?” 

“Good morning to you too,” George said. You gave him a mocking look in return. 

“No,” Lucy answered, pushing the door shut with her foot, “just being careful. Because somebody swore he saw a Spectre and refused to let a Visitor run away with his goods.”

“I am starving,” George enunciated. “I wasn’t going to let a ghost ruin all my hard work.” 

Lockwood smiled. “Well, I’m glad you’re both intact.”

“I’m glad you’re finally up,” George said with a look at you. “I thought you’d never come out.”

“She slept like a brick,” Lucy said. “I knocked over all the bottles in the shower and she never even stirred.”

You shrugged. “Last night was exhausting. For many reasons.”

The kettle went off and you turned the burner back down. Lockwood took two more mugs out of the cabinet and set tea bags in them, then poured the boiling water into all four. You handed him the sugar container with a pointed look. 

“Remember, half—” 

“Half a teaspoon,” he nodded, taking it from you with a wry smile. “I remember.” 

“Good,” you said. “You’re always a little heavy handed.” 

“Are you saying I add extra sweetness into your life?” Lockwood asked, and you couldn’t help but laugh. 

“How did you know?” 

“You know, we’re also here,” Lucy spoke up, though when you turned to her she was barely hiding a smile. 

“As if I could ever forget you, Lucy Carlyle,” you said. “How’s your day been?” 

“Quiet without you,” she said. “Lockwood’s been on the phone all day, and even though George didn’t sleep quite as long as you, he still woke up at two in the afternoon.” 

“Oh, please,” George said over his shoulder, in the midst of rifling through his groceries, “I earned it. We all did, after the night we had.” 

“True,” she said, tilting her head. “I actually didn’t have any nightmares for once— I’ve never slept so soundly.” 

“See?” You gestured at her. “The charms I put on the walls are working.” 

Lucy gave you a look. “You can’t seriously believe that.” 

“No ghosts have gotten into our room!” you exclaimed. “And both of our nightmares have been getting better. That dragon is protecting us.” 

Lockwood bit back a smile. “I still cannot believe you bought that.” 

“Seriously,” George said, still organizing ingredients. “A week’s wages, just gone.” 

You frowned. “My iron dragon is incredible, thank you very much. Besides, I’m supporting local businesses.” You glanced at Lockwood. “So the supply calls were made?”

“Every last one of them,” he confirmed as he stirred sugar into your tea. “Satchell’s was very happy to get our business again. Salt bombs will be in on Friday, flares come next week, and we’re getting brand new chains tomorrow. Plus a couple new silver glass containers from Sunrise.”

“That’s smart,” you said. “I think I threw our last square container in the furnaces last week.” 

George frowned. “We went into the disaster that was last night without any silver glass?”

Lockwood cleared his throat as he handed you your mug, then set the other two on the table for Lucy and George. “Everything worked out in the end.”

Lucy just sighed. “We cut things too close for comfort.”

“The Lockwood & Co motto,” you said before taking a sip of tea. Perfectly sweetened. “How about the Caldecotts?”

“Rescheduled for tomorrow at half past noon,” Lockwood said. “Do you think you’ll be awake by then?”

You rolled your eyes good-naturedly. “I didn’t forget our deal that quickly.”

George raised his eyebrows. “What deal?”

“Oh, nothing,” you said. “Just sold my soul for a favor from Lockwood.”

Lucy frowned, eyeing the two of you. “Elaborate.”

Lockwood hid his smile with a sip of tea as he also looked at you. So this was still your treat. 

You shrugged. “We’re going to a wedding together.”

“Not exactly selling your soul,” George said. “Congrats.”

You rolled your eyes. “We’re going together.” 

“Congrats,” he said again. “Are we just emphasizing words now?” 

“We’re going as a couple,” Lockwood said. 

Lucy’s eyes widened and George nearly choked on his tea as they blurted out the same thing. “What?” 

“A fake couple,” you added hastily, “to fool my family.”

“…Oh,” Lucy said, glancing at George. “That’s…”

“Less exciting,” he finished. 

Lockwood made a face. “Less exciting? George, we’re going to be lying to her whole family for a whole weekend. I’d say that’s quite exciting.” 

He glanced at Lucy for a moment before he sighed and looked back at Lockwood with a shake of his head. “Sure.” 

“Anyways,” you segued, “I just thought you two should know. It’s not for another month and half, but between the usual ghost-hunting we’re going to be doing a fair bit of planning together.”

“Spend all the time together that you want,” Lucy said. “George and I are good enough at holding down the fort, right?”

“It was just Lockwood and I for months at the beginning of all this, and half the time I was on my own because of investigatory whims,” George said. “At least you’re usually sort of predictable, Luce.”

She frowned. “I take offense to that.”

Lockwood chuckled and shook his head as he set the other two cups of tea down on the table for them. “We won’t impede work at all, I promise. I’ll make sure everything still goes as smoothly as possible.”

“What Lucy said,” George said, finally satisfied with the order of all the ingredients as he got to work. “Spend as much time together as you want.” 

“Maybe you will,” you said haughtily. “Maybe Lockwood’s lying and we’ll completely abandon our duties.” 

“We won’t,” Lockwood assured, and you merely smiled as you took another sip of tea. 

“Speaking of work,” Lucy said, “we ran into Kipps and Godwin on the way to the store.” 

Lockwood’s expression hardened and he set his mug down a bit too forcefully. “Why didn’t you say that earlier?” 

“Because it was nothing,” George said, looking up from cutting vegetables. You were glad he was the one with a knife and not Lockwood. “Just typical Kipps posturing.” 

“He told us about some job they got,” Lucy said. “Some ridiculously rich widow hired Fittes to find and clear out the ghost of her husband, and they were put on the case.” 

“What was her name?” Lockwood asked. 

“I wasn’t really paying attention, if I’m being honest,” she said. 

“Agnes Colville,” George said. 

“That bastard!” Lockwood’s jaw clenched and he moved across the room to a stack of newspapers on the floor, toppling over from the height. He crouched down and began rifling through them, and after a second he pulled out one and held it up for you all to see. The look in his eye was only slightly crazed, which was admittedly progress. “He stole it from us!”

“I do remember seeing her in the paper,” you said after taking a moment to scan the cover. Her husband died of old age, and it was only because of their impressive fortune that anyone knew of it. “A tragedy.” 

“I talked to her first,” he insisted, still crouched on the ground. “I called her right after I got this paper, and she told me she wasn’t looking for any agents.” 

“She changed her mind, I guess,” Lucy said with a shrug. 

“Or Kipps bothered her until she changed it,” Lockwood grumbled. 

“Great,” George said wryly as he pushed garlic off his knife. “We’re going to be working double time to make up for this, aren’t we?” 

“Sharp as always,” Lockwood said, and he finally stood up as he set the newspaper back down. He pointed a finger at you. “After we go dress shopping tomorrow, it’s straight to the archives to pick up a better case than Kipps.”

You raised an eyebrow. “We’re going dress shopping tomorrow?”

“Did I not tell you?” He frowned. “Caldecotts then dress shopping. And now archives.”

“No,” you said, “you absolutely didn’t.”

Lockwood shrugged. “Well, now you know. We’re going dress shopping.”

“Awfully eager to get into this boyfriend role,” George said.

“I take my job seriously.”

“I already have a dress, Lockwood,” you said. “Dorothy Perkins, remember?”

“This is a special occasion,” he said. “You deserve something nice.”

You felt your cheeks warm and you looked right at him. “You’ll pay?”

“Of course,” he said. “Business expenses, remember?”

You laughed and shook your head. “Yeah. Alright, we can go dress shopping. But if I’m getting a new dress, you’re getting a new suit.”

“Fair’s fair,” he said.

“Do we get any new clothes on your bill?” George asked. “Or is that just reserved for your fake girlfriend?” 

“Oh, come off it, George,” Lucy said. “Let them have some fun together.” 

“Thank you, Lucy,” you said as you sat down across from her. 

“Of course,” she said. “You’re saving me from the Caldecotts and a day in the archives. I should really be thanking you.” 

You turned to look at Lockwood. “You’re not going to use this as an excuse to get me to come along on all your errands with you, are you?” 

“Do try and be supportive, love,” Lockwood said. “It’s only right as my girlfriend.” 

You groaned as you leaned back in your chair, trying your best to ignore Lucy’s smile. “Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.” 

“Another Lockwood & Co motto,” George mused. “How fitting.” 

-

“Is that Anthony Lockwood walking through my door?” 

You looked up when you walked through the door after Lockwood, a grin already on his face as the boutique saleswoman, a kindly older woman, greeted him. A worker at an upscale clothing store knew him by name—already a good sign. 

“Ms. Bridgeston,” Lockwood said, “it’s been too long.” 

“It certainly has, young man!” She pulled him into a hug and he returned it, and the woman looked at you when she pulled away. “And who is this darling girl with you?” 

Lockwood said your name with a gesture, and you smiled and held out your hand. “I’m his associate.” 

“And my girlfriend,” he added as she shook your hand. You shot him a look over her shoulder with wide, questioning eyes. 

“Practicing,” he mouthed at you with a shrug. He was so ridiculous that you had to stifle a laugh. 

“Yes,” you said, looking back at her with a smile, “his girlfriend, too.” 

“Well, it is wonderful to meet you, dear.” Ms. Bridgeston smiled at Lockwood. “Anthony here has wonderful taste in apparel—he was right to bring you here.” 

“I believe it,” you said with a glance around. “We’re actually in the market for wedding clothes—my cousin is getting married soon.” 

“Oh, congratulations!” She clasped her hands together, eyes shining as she looked between both of you. “Is there anything you need help with, or would you just like to look around?” 

“We’re good to just look,” Lockwood said, “but we’ll certainly let you know if we need anything.” 

Ms. Bridgeston nodded with another smile. “Certainly. I’ll be in the back stocking if you need me.” 

“Thank you,” you said, and you looked at Lockwood as she walked off. “Any ideas?” 

He shook his head. “Get whatever you’d like. This is a very special occasion.” 

You chuckled and nodded, going off to look at a rack of dresses. The agency had been doing well for itself lately. You supposed you could splurge on a nicer dress after nearly dying a couple dozen times. “What are you going for?” 

“Oh, I’m not getting anything here,” he said. “I’ve already got a suit at home, and I’ll get a pocket square that matches whatever color you’re wearing. We’re shopping for you—I’m just having fun here.”

“How exquisite,” you mused as you ran your finger over velvet. “We’ve only been fake dating for a day and you’re already all in.” 

“Consider it getting in character,” Lockwood said. “We’ll already have gotten all our mistakes out of the way by wedding time.” 

“Wise as always.” You took the maroon dress off the rack and continued moving down the line, and you glanced over at Lockwood. “You’ve already got what you want?” 

“Most of my wardrobe is black and white.” He held up a navy suit. “This is different.” 

“Hardly,” you said with a chuckle. “Dark blue is almost black.” 

“This is my version of fun,” Lockwood said wryly, and you smiled as he went into the dressing room. 

You spent the next while picking out dresses that struck your fancy, and by the time Lockwood was done, you had five in your arms. When he walked out, you nearly dropped them all. 

You didn’t know what was wrong with you. 

Perhaps it was lingering sleep deprivation from the near 24 hours you spent awake the other day. Perhaps it was lingering anger from your dealings with the Caldecotts—no amount of money could make dealing with Lorena worth it, but all those zeroes did help—or perhaps you were just already losing your mind. 

Despite your complaints, you weren’t averse to the day Lockwood had planned out. Seeing as you’d spent entire days rooting through the archives with him on wild goose chases, an afternoon after an interview and some shopping wasn’t the worst it could get.

But now, standing in the back of the store as Lockwood emerged, you were beginning to question the wisdom of this decision. 

Because you honest to God didn’t know what was wrong with you. You saw Lockwood in suits every day, or at least something suit-adjacent. Slacks, a jacket and tie, a million white dress shirts that you always end up folding. Pristine shoes, so shiny you can see your reflection in them, getting ruined by cobwebs and plasma over and over—you’ve spent many a night sitting with Lockwood talking as he polished his most recent pair of shoes, determined to get them back to their former glory. 

The point was that you were used to it. You were used to seeing Lockwood dressed up—when you first joined the agency, you honestly thought he slept in suits as well until you ran into him one night on a mission for midnight tea.

So why were you unable to look away from him when he emerged from the dressing room? Why were you rendered absolutely and completely speechless? 

It was nothing special, at least for Lockwood. Just a tuxedo. Navy blue rather than black like he always wore, but far nicer than the usuals. He was fussing with his bowtie as he walked out, muttering things under his breath, and thankfully not looking at you at all. You felt your eyes widen, your breath stolen from you for a moment, and all you could do was stare. Very classy of you, but you could hardly be blamed. He was stunning.  

You didn’t even realize he was saying something until you heard your name for what had to have been the third time, and you blinked and snapped out of your stupor. 

“What?” 

He gave that damn smile and inclined his head slightly, holding up one end of the tie hanging around his neck. “Could you help me with this? I don’t know what’s wrong with me this morning.” 

At least you had that in common. You cleared your throat and nodded, taking a deep breath as you walked up to him in the hopes that you looked far more composed than you felt. “Yeah. Of course.” 

You felt his eyes on you the entire time and you tried your hardest not to focus on it. You’d done Lockwood’s ties millions of times, usually before a particularly important interview or a particularly difficult night. He always said it was good luck, and you always rolled your eyes with a smile. 

“So?” Lockwood spoke after a moment, still watching you.  

“It’s good,” you said with a nod as you finished tying the bow, making sure it was straight before you stepped away. “You look good.” 

“Thank you,” Lockwood said, looking at himself in the mirror with a slight smile. “For the compliment and the help. 

“It’s what I’m here for,” you said. 

“And as much as I appreciate that,” he said, turning that smile on you, “we’re here so you can get a dress too. Did you pick any out while I was getting ready?” 

You nodded and picked up the hangers you’d set down to help Lockwood. “Which one do you want to see first?” 

“Definitely the maroon one,” he said with a nod. “Goes well with your eyes.” 

“You’re too kind,” you said, and he chuckled as he pressed his hand to his heart. 

You went behind the curtain, purposefully taking your time as you undressed so you could try and compose yourself further. It was just a suit, and he was just Lockwood, and this was just a fun little ruse to get your mum off your back for once. 

Just a suit. Just a ruse. Just Lockwood. 

You let out a deep breath and nodded, finally feeling like yourself again. You stepped into the dress and pulled it up, adjusting it around your figure before you zipped it up in the back, but you couldn’t get it all the way up. 

“Lockwood,” you called, “can you help me?” 

“Of course,” you heard him respond. 

You pushed the curtain aside and stepped back out, making some more minute adjustments along the way. When you looked up, Lockwood’s eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted. 

“Lockwood,” you said, staring at him. 

He blinked and seemed to focus back in, his head perking up. “What?” 

“My zipper.” 

“Right.” Lockwood moved just a bit too quick around you, and you shivered as his fingers brushed your bare back for a moment while he pulled the zipper the rest of the way up. “Sorry.”

“Your hands are always cold,” you said. “It’s fine.” 

“That’s—” he cleared his throat, and you turned just to see him shake his head. “Right. Yeah. Thanks.” 

You raised your eyebrows, the slightest smile tugging at you. “For what?” 

His own rose. “Hm?” 

“You thanked me. For what?” 

Lockwood shook his head again. “Don’t worry about it.” 

You chuckled and nodded, holding out the skirt of your dress with your hands. “So? What do you think?” 

“You look incredible,” he said, “obviously. It’s an honor to be your fake boyfriend.” 

“You’re gonna make me blush,” you said, but your cheeks already felt too warm for comfort. 

Lockwood grinned. “Good.” 

You had to turn away at that point. He knew exactly what he was doing to you, teasing you like this. “You’re taking your role way too seriously,” you said, busying yourself with rifling through the rest of the dresses you picked out. 

“I told you,” he said, “I take my job seriously. And as someone who takes their job seriously, I think that dress is definitely the one.” 

“Really?” You held up a sparkling blue dress against you and looked at him. “What about this one?” 

He shook his head. “Maroon is definitely the one.” 

“I agree, dear.” You looked up to see Ms. Bridgeston walking out carrying two boxes, that same adoring twinkle in her eye. “You look beautiful.” 

“Thank you.” You looked back in the mirror for another good, long moment, and you nodded decisively. “I agree. This is the one.” 

“Wonderful choice,” she said. 

“Perfect choice,” Lockwood said with a grin. “If you get changed, I can go ahead and pay for everything. We’ve already used up half our day—we’ve got to get to the archives.” 

You eyed him. “You didn’t just say this was the one so we could spend eight hours in the archives, did you?” 

“No,” he assured. “That is the one—trust me, love. You just happened to pick out the best one first.” 

You chuckled and shook your head as you started going back to the dressing room. “Whatever you say.” 

Soon enough, you and Lockwood were both back in your regular clothes, dress bag in tow, walking down the streets of London. 

“You seriously don’t mind spending all that money for this?” you asked, glancing over at him. 

“Of course not,” he said. “I can always take it out of your paycheck, if it’ll make you feel better.” 

You laughed and hit him on the arm, earning a chuckle in response. “As long as you seriously weren’t lying to me about liking this dress to get me to the archives.” 

“I would never lie to you about something like that,” Lockwood said, and he held up his pointer and middle finger. “Agent’s honor.” 

You smiled inwardly. “Thank you, then. I suppose I can handle spending the rest of the day in the archives with you with compliments like that.” 

“Thank you, then,” he repeated. “We do have to make a stop for tea, first.” 

“Naturally,” you agreed. 

As you continued on your way, not exactly arm in arm but close enough for your hands to brush every so often, you found your mind drifting back to Lockwood in that damned suit. You cleared your throat and shook your head, trying to physically push the thought away. 

“Everything alright?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” you said. “Just got something in my throat.” 

Lockwood nodded, thankfully oblivious to your inner struggle. You let out a deep breath. 

This was definitely still a good idea.

[starlightsearches]

Heloooos! I've been sober from using tumblr for almost two years but your recent Hux post has me relapsing and its all your doing in the best ways possible. If it gives you any inspo, could you mayhaps write a modern!hux who has reader as their personal guard? My current job has me babysitting a higher up as punishment (the guy makes my life miserable but if was The Armitage Hux I would bark if he asked). Like an enemies to lovers and refusing to just be his friend due to too many feelings ?????

Sleepless Nights

Thanks for the request, my love! Sorry if it's not "enemies" enough for you, I have this insane fear of people being angry with me so I've never been good at the whole enemies to lovers thing. Anyways, let me know if you like what you see :0) Comments, likes, and reblogs are very cool!

Warnings: Kind of slutty, kind of rambly, hux is kind of toxic, language. I think that's it!

You're about three bites into your wilty Caesar salad when the alarm on your phone chimes.

You fiddle with the volume buttons for a second before silencing the noise completely, steeling yourself in preparation for the look you just know Veronica is sending your way.

It's worse than you'd anticipated. You actually flinch a little when you meet her eyes.

She stabs at her own food ferociously, but doesn't take a bite of the pad thai she ordered, bringing the fork level with her gaze. Being on the business end of those tines makes your heart beat a little faster.

"I thought you had twenty minutes for lunch."

You sneak the lid of your Tupperware in between your fingers, slipping it back over the top what's left of your food.

"No . . . I said the meeting would be twenty minutes. I have to be back at my desk before he's done."

Veronica chews at her bottom lip, and you just know that—if you were sitting anywhere that wasn't right outside her boss's office—she'd be cussing you out for, once again, letting Hux take advantage of your truly incredible work ethic.

Lucky for you, if there's one thing your friend likes more than violent outbursts, it's office gossip. The urge overtakes her, and Veronica leans in closer with a passing glance at Phasma's open door, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

"What's his deal lately, anyway?"

Interesting. You thought you were the only one who had noticed a change in Hux's temperament.

He had a reputation, of course—there was a reason he'd had five different executive assistants in the past year—and everybody checked over their shoulders before they bitched about him in the break room.

It hit you hardest—always in the blast radius, so to speak—with your desk just outside his door. You'd spent plenty of time rolling your eyes behind his back, or muttering curses under your breath when you heard his door latch.

But you'd put up with a lot more for a lot less, and you found you were able to take most of your boss's asshole-ish tendencies in stride.

So what if the hours are long? Sitting at your desk late into the night, filing memos and typing up emails between coffee runs was lonely, but your nights before the job were, too. At least now you were getting paid.

The past few weeks had been strange, though. Longer hours, later nights. His presence hovering over your shoulder or watching you through the crack in his door, that nervous energy always focused on you, waiting for you to misstep.

Then there were the calls during the few moments you were outside of the office, filled with reminders for routines you'd never once forgotten. Hux had been fidgety and restless during those morning debriefs and stumbling over his words half the time he passed your desk with some new directive.

"What's his deal ever?" you counter, and she snorts—then when that feels too mean, "he said he hasn't been sleeping."

Veronica purses her lips, smiling around the next word.

"Oh."

You really don't have the time to wait around for an explanation—the elevator up to the top floor already takes three minutes on its own—but, god, the way she says that word stops you like an ice pick to the heart.

"What?"

"Come on," she rolls her eyes, wondering how you could be so obtuse, "everybody knows that when a guy says he can't sleep it's because . . ."

She waits for you to fill in the rest.

"Uhhhhh . . ."

"It means," Veronica sighs, yanking you closer by the arm so nobody will overhear, "that he's been thinking about you. You know, like—" she mimics the beat of some cheesy porn intro, with the bwops and the chicka-waahs.

As if you didn't already get the message.

Your stomach rolls, and not with hunger—although you're wasting valuable time you could have to shovel the rest of your lunch into your mouth on the way back to your desk.

It takes a moment, but you manage a weak laugh, shaking yourself out of your stupor.

Hux didn't think about you like that. He didn't think about you at all unless he was reading his dictations over your shoulder while you were still writing them, just in case he needed to preemptively correct your mistakes.

"Uh, okay, you're insane."

Veronica's brows come together at the challenge—you know she won't stand for that. She scans the immediate area until she narrows in on a victim.

"Hey, Stephen."

The new intern's on his third trip past her desk since you got here, turning so quick to the side you're surprised his head stays attached to his neck.

He's been waiting for this moment all day.

Stephen's cute—dark, fluffy hair and big eyes—eager like a puppy with his clumsy, loping walk . . . and he's got no fucking chance. Veronica would chew him into pieces.

He runs over to her desk, totally clueless to that.

"What's up?"

Veronica smiles, leaning over her desk so the top of her button-down starts to split open. Stephen develops a twitch in his eye trying to keep his gaze level with hers.

"What does it mean when a guy tells a girl that he's having trouble sleeping?"

He relaxes visibly, like someone just asked him the color of the sky.

"Oh, yeah. It means he wants to fuck her."

Stephen gives the answer to you—well aware of his role—then looks to Veronica, waiting for a good boy and a dog treat and a pat on the head.

You feel like you've stepped into the twilight dimension. When the fuck did that become common knowledge?

"Okay, you're both insane, and now I'm running late."

Your steps are harried on the way back to the elevator, begging the engine to move faster or the second-hand on your watch to tick slower. Trying not to think about your boss, thinking about you every night, twisted up in his sheets.

Because, yeah, you had your daydreams. Everybody needs something to distract from the drudgery of all those fucking emails. It never mattered much to you who had you pinned against the shelves in the supply closet of your mind.

Just a little entertainment to wake you up during the afternoon slump—feverish hands and desperation and the crisp smell of copy paper.

But you've always had a thing for a well-cut suit. And Hux had plenty of those.

So what if you were kind of into him and his weird little hard-ass routine? You'd never dream of going any further than your daydreams.

But was he going further? And what did that look like?

Your palms are sweating when you get back to your desk, and you can't get the image out of your head—Hux with sweat beading down the taut skin of his neck, with his arms caging you against a wall, with his hips pinning yours against the hard edge of his desk.

You hardly have time to plant your ass in your chair before you hear the tell-tale footsteps around the corner.

Speak of the devil—or, you know, daydream about fucking him.

"Any calls?"

Hux barely glances in your direction—always on the move lately—no room in his schedule to actually stop at your desk and speak to you. You'd guess he's only got time for three directives before he's out of earshot.

Good news. Maybe you could make it out of here before midnight.

"I'm still working through them, sir, but I'll let you know if anything important has come through."

Total lie. You haven't even looked at the phone. And you can't look him in the eye either, feeling flushed and frantic.

Oh god. Do you look flushed and frantic?

Hux doesn't notice either way. Maybe Veronica was wrong and decided to ruin your entire life on a whim.

"Make sure you have a car prepared for the event on Friday. I won't stay longer than twenty minutes."

"Of course, sir. I'll call and let him know."

You had already made that call, but you'd have to update Mitaka, still. That's ten minutes less than the original time you gave him.

He's half-way into his office when he turns back for his last demand, "and I'll need you late, again, tonight."

Fuck. So close. You'd have to reschedule that date with your vibrator.

"Of course, sir. Whatever you need."

I'll need you late, again, tonight?

Could he make it any more fucking obvious?

Hux feels like slamming his head against the wall. He would, maybe, if he wasn't sure you'd hear the rattling window and come to see what his problem was. And that would only present more opportunities for him to make a fool of himself.

He certainly doesn't need any more of those.

It seemed like good advice when it was first given to him—"spending more time together" would be an easy first step, if it didn't also involve time-and-a-half for you. The paychecks he was signing were starting to look as ridiculous as the little infatuation he's been carrying.

Not that it mattered. If money was what you wanted, he'd give it. Anything to endear himself to you.

But the extra time—and the money—aren't helping. You're as distant as ever, maybe moreso, with the fog of sleeplessness and your inevitable irritability at his constant demands.

It's his own damn feelings that get in the way. He can't concentrate, not with the shape of your legs in those pencil skirts. He spends most meetings in wondering how to find out the name of the perfume you wear.

And where he can find a bottle of it for personal use.

Nights, still, are worse.

That's where this all started. Hux hardly ever had dreams, and the few dreams he did have in those short, unconscious hours were never memorable.

Then he woke with the feeling soft skin enveloping his cheeks, tasting you on his lips. And god, those noises you were making for him, your fingers through his hair, begging for him to come closer, to give you more.

It flipped the switch. You went from a passive—albeit attractive—body in a chair to a person. A someone.

A need.

He knew it was wrong. He knew, even with his sweat soaking the sheets and his heavy hand resting on his abdomen that this would ruin so much for him.

The mind can be reasoned with, if the body is hungry enough. And Armitage is so, so hungry for you.

On the nights he manages to resist, he imagines, wonders. Are you alone? Do you think of him? Or are you warming someone else's bed, rolling from their sheets with a heavy sigh every time Armitage's contact pops up on your phone screen?

That worry has him sick to his stomach.

So it's best to keep you close. Keep an eye on you.

Hux looks up from the stack of reports he's been reviewing, shifts in his chair just right until he can see you through the window outside his office without you noticing him.

It puts a god-awful crick in his neck if he sits like this too long. His chiropractor commented on it during his last appointment.

Normally there's not much to see—a Solitare window pulled up when you think he won't notice, the shape of your back curved gracefully. Sometimes your bra visible through the fabric of your thin, white shirts.

Not today, though. You're sitting ram-rod straight, one hand brushing some loose hair behind your ear. All your attention focused on the towering man in front of you, his arms propped against the top edge of your desk and a leering grin on his face.

Ren.

Armitage almost falls with the force of his shock, and then settles along with an empty rage in the pit of his stomach.

Of course Ren would have noticed Hux's preoccupation. And of course he would wield Hux's feelings against him.

There's an animal inside his chest, clawing to get out, giving him half a mind to stomp out there, chase Ren away with some biting remark and a hand on the back of your chair.

But there's a fear that runs deeper. Maybe you'd prefer someone like Ren.

A man who is in every way Hux's opposite. Volatile. Domineering. Powerfully built.

Could Armitage compete?

His inadequacy floods him with a distasteful anger. Armitage will put an end to it immediately. Call you into his office and berate you for socializing during working hours, shame you for inappropriate and obvious mooning over a superior.

He'll make you feel small, ashamed. The way he feels right now.

Too late for all his bravado. Ren steps away from your desk with one glance back, a knowing smirk on his face. Hux almost feels like it's a look meant for him, like Ren can find his gaze through the wall.

Armitage stands from the chair, unsure what his purpose is and knowing he'll defer to anger, as always. Knowing it will make you hate him more than you probably already do.

You don't start immediately when the door opens, and he can't tell from his view of the back of your head what you're thinking.

How many times had he wished he could delve into your mind, pull out gauzy strings of your memories, any thought or emotional tug you'd had in his vicinity? How many times had he hoped you might give him a hint or a sign that you felt anything for him at all?

Armitage coughs, and you jump, turning in your chair until you meet his eyes.

"My office," he tells you, and turns back without waiting to see if you'll follow.

Your steps are quiet in the already quiet office. Everyone else has gone home by now, leaving the two of you alone, and the lights buzz menacingly over the sound of your heels rustling against the carpet. You take your usual seat across from his desk. Armitage stays on his feet, hoping to channel his anxious energy somewhere, liking the way it feels to tower over you.

"Did you need something, sir?"

He knows you're nervous. You don't try to hide it, fidgeting with your fingers, chewing at your lip, avoiding his eyes. Armitage wishes that it was him that made you feel that way, not his position, not his reputation for anger.

"What did Ren want?" he asks.

Your lips part, and then come back together in hesitation, planning an appropriate answer, wondering how he'll react.

"His assistant put in her two weeks notice today," you tell him.

He hums, waiting for more. Your lips flush a lighter shade when you press them more tightly together, and he knows you'll acquiesce.

"He offered me the position, sir."

Armitage sees red, feels his hands curl into fists where they rest behind his back. That arrogant, underhanded, low-life bastard. Hux would . . .

He keeps a cool tone, arches a brow. "And?"

"I told him I appreciated the offer but I'd prefer keep my current position."

And that gives him pause. Has the strange, effervescent hope alight in his chest, but something else snuffs it out.

"Why?"

Hux can't hide the skepticism in his voice, the aching disbelief that you would choose him in any context, but especially this.

Everyone knew working under Armitage was . . . trying. He saw the looks of pity you received from other secretaries as they packed their bags for the night, knew they were taking some solace at your misery while sipping on their happy-hour cocktails. He's well aware that he is demanding, and stubborn, and always so exacting.

He's like that in his personal life, too. Which is why he is always alone.

Your brows come together in an obvious but uncharacteristic sign of anger.

"I'm not afraid of hard work, sir."

"I am aware of that, but—"

Why is he so desirous to argue against himself? You are the best assistant he's ever had. Unfortunately, pushing people away is a skill he's mastered over and over and over again.

"Do you want me to leave?" you interrupt him, arms crossing defensively over your chest.

Part of him wants to say yes. To rid himself of this weakness you've blossomed in him, to keep everything under his control and eliminate all other variables.

Your lips press tighter together—Hux would assume he's hurt you, if he thought he had that kind of power.

He's been silent too long. You stand from your chair, brush your hands over your skirt to smooth out the wrinkles.

"Alright, then." You speak without meeting his eyes, heading for the door.

Armitage isn't sure what makes you stop, not until you glance down at your wrist, and he mirrors the movement, sees his own hand circling it.

A perfect fit.

"Sir?"

Your voice is hazy, blurred out by the warmth of your skin and the smell of your perfume and the way your eyes go wide when Armitage makes his approach.

Without saying a word or offering a hint of an apology, Hux is kissing you.