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esote-rika · 4 months ago

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𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐧 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Series masterlist Pairing: Spencer Reid x femBAU!reader Category: smut 18+ MDNI, angst Summary: Attending Rossi's wedding while nursing the betrayal of your boyfriend, you find solace (and revenge) in the arms of Dr. Spencer Reid. Content: 7.7k porn with a plot. Mentions of smoking and drinking, reader wears a dress, heels, and make up, and cheats on her shitty bf, semi-public sex, oral (m and f receiving), softdom!Spencer, fingering, overstimulation, squirting, reader is called naughty girl and good girl, very slight degradation, lots of praise, big dick!Spencer, size kink, unprotected p in v, creampie, rumination and references to sin and Eve and religion in general, probably blasphemous, Jeid mention, unhealthy coping mechanisms, this is kinda toxic but it's sexy I swear (I HOPE; yell at me nicely if i missed anything) A/N: this fic had been MARINATING for more than a month. Probably overwritten and self-indulgent, years of Catholic trauma rlly just spilled onto my docs ya know. Tried very very hard to make the smut worth it because there's so much build up and I'd hate for the smut to be meh. Lost the plot multiple times. Reached the point of i’m sick of this fic pls let it end but ultimately it's a piece that I’m actually proud of. Dedicated to user @notlongtolove for the yap fest and brainstorming, iykyk!!! Pls enjoy while I rejoice; this mammoth is finally over. Special request to leave a comment so I feel accomplished, pretty please tyyyy.

Rossi's wedding had been your opportunity to introduce your new boyfriend to the team. You've taken great pains to keep your relationship private, a feat that makes you proud because the amount of things that gets past Penelope Garcia is next to nothing. But somehow, in the past four months, you've managed. You've passed the threshold, the personal rule of three months of privacy, of keeping things on the down low, and you had been excited to stroll up to Rossi's fourth wedding in the arms of Cameron, your boyfriend of nearly five months.

Unfortunately, you'd caught another woman's underwear in his car nearly a week before the day of the wedding. He still hasn't admitted to his betrayal, no matter how many times you've pleaded and talked to him. You already know, anyway. It's easy enough to tell from his body language. The twitch of his lips he does whenever he's nervous, the way he overuses the phrase come on, every single one of his tells point to his infidelity. You've used every trick in the profiler handbook— interrogation, an attempt to seduce, anger— none has worked.

Your pathetic boyfriend would only repeat that he loves you so much, why are you acting like this?

So you're a depressing cloud on Rossi's big day. You hide it behind a big smile, which would normally be unconvincing, but everyone is too wrapped up in the festivities to look too closely at your hastily erected facade.

And it’s worked, for the most part. You know it’s not because of your acting skills, but more because there’s too much going on to pay attention to you. And disappearing as part of the crowd allows you to observe and stew in your betrayal, fingertips tingling with the desire to get even somehow.

You wish you could say he’d tempted you. Pursued you with gentle brushes of his hands on the exposed skin of your back, bewitched you with his dimpled smile, so inhumanly beautiful you just couldn’t say no. How could you resist temptation when it is being presented to you by someone who looks like he’s been carved by the hands of God himself?

Because Spencer Reid has always been something akin to divinity, at least to you. As the BAU's newest recruit— appointed and transferred by the infamous Linda Barnes herself—you've had to fight tooth and nail to earn the team's trust.

Now, Linda Barnes is gone, you have a spot on the team, and Spencer Reid remains elusive.

His reputation preceded him, of course, one of the smartest active agents, incarcerated for something he didn't do. He's kind in the moments you've spent with him, with a bumbling earnestness that you've found endearing.

He's also incredibly beautiful.

So who could blame you if you did give in to his advances? People stronger than you have succumbed, after all, and you, in your vulnerable, lovelorn glory, would not have been responsible if you decided to take a bite from the forbidden apple, right? Giving in to temptation is the lesser sin, more forgivable, would absolve you of guilt especially after the betrayal you've gone through.

Except Spencer Reid hadn’t pursued you. The meeting had been accidental, at least that’s what you tell yourself. You’d seen him leave towards the end of the ceremony. Of course you did, you had been watching him all night. Sometime towards the end of the ceremony, while the minister was talking about the importance of second chances, he’d slipped away.

You had been the one to go after him. In your defense, you’ve been itching to get your hands on a cigarette since you got here. Weddings have always made you giddy, excited. It’s a celebration of love, after all, a declaration of two people’s commitment to each other. In sickness and health. But Cameron's infidelity weighs heavily upon your shoulders, and though you've borne more than this—you're a BAU agent, after all, you face horrors on a daily basis—it's still difficult to set aside the burn when you're surrounded by happy couples.

��So you’d put your focus on Dr. Reid: handsome in his suit, but something about him seemed distracted. Perhaps he'd been banking upon the wedding as a distraction, just like you had been. Everyone is too busy with the happy couple to pay attention to two lonely souls.

But he's wrong. You've got your eye on him, and you see something in his amber irises that reflect your own.

Loneliness.

Why is Spencer Reid lonely?

It’s the intrigue that ultimately leads you out into the hallways. And when you stumble upon his brooding form, your excuse is truthful, “I'm trying to find the bathroom.”

He kindly escorts you to the correct wing, making small talk. Something about wedding dresses not being white historically. You smile and nod, thanking him graciously as you slip into the ladies room. When you leave the bathroom after basically inhaling a stick of cigarette, he’s still lingering outside. Waiting by the wall, smiling upon your return.

“Oh,” you return his smile, “You’re still here.”

“Figured we could walk back together.” his nose wrinkled a little as you stepped closer, the smell of your cigarette apparently not sufficiently disguised.

You're smile becomes sheepish, shaking your head, “I thought I was being slick by spraying perfume, but apparently not.”

He laughs. It reminds you of the church bells that rang for the wedding. Rich and lilting.

“Not to judge, but why the need for a smoke break?”

“Why should there be a reason?”

“You've told me you only smoke when you're stressed out.” Fuck. “Why are you stressed out?”

“Just having a bad day.”

It's the wrong answer, because his gaze zeroes in on you, oozing with an intense curiosity. “On Rossi's wedding?”

“Not because of it,” You laugh airily, but in the quiet of the hallway, it's much more difficult to pretend that everything is okay. Two can play at this game though. “Why are you out here?”

He averts his gaze to his shoes, brows furrowing in a way that makes you blood spike. He’s hiding something.

“I just needed some fresh air.” he pushes his hands deep into his pockets, lifting his gaze from the floor and dragging it through your form, taking in your appearance in the cocktail dress you’ve donned for the wedding. His voice is strangled when he speaks again,, “You look lovely. I don’t think I’ve had the chance to tell you yet.”

“Thank you. You look very dashing too.” A pause stretches between you. In that quiet moment, it seems like the universe has presented the perfect way of retaliation for you. The nicotine had made you bold, audacious. And if you’d read him correctly, then he’s in need of relief as much as you are, the kind of relief a simple cigarette wouldn’t fix. You step closer, looking straight into his eyes, “Truth be told, I’m not in any hurry to go back.”

You see his jaw clench, the beautiful brain of his going a thousand miles per minute, likely computing every possible meaning of your words. His eyes flicker to your lips, and you decide to help him out, taking another step forward and tilting your head up.

When you kissed him, he didn’t even hesitate to kiss you back. Mouth parting, fingers tightly clenched at your waist, pulling you closer and closer until space felt like a foreign concept altogether. He is an insistent kisser, leaning his whole weight into you as his lips opened and sucked at yours.

The dark corner isn’t ideal, but it was the closest space at your disposal. Neither of you are willing to spend more time looking for somewhere to hide, not when you could spend that time running your hands and lips in places undiscovered. Your lips across the strong angle of his jaw, his stubble tickling your skin. Spencer tonguing the space beneath your ear, fragrant with traces of your perfume. Your hand massaging him into an erection through the fabric of his pants.

He lets out the prettiest moan when you drop to your knees in front of him.

You don’t miss the irony of it as you tugged and undid his belt and zipper, fully conscious of the act you’re about to commit. Kneeling in a chapel, for all the wrong reasons.

“Are you sure?” the words spill from his lips so sweetly, as if he isn't standing before you with his erection only inches from your face. Long and thick and already leaking precum at the tip.

You take him into your mouth as an answer, condemning yourself to your fate. Spencer is beautiful like the devil, and you’re Eve succumbing to the first sin.

Two wrongs do not make a right. You know this. Everyone does. A lesson as old as time itself, written in languages you can’t comprehend. Even mathematics dictates that adding two negative integers does not cancel them out—the negative value merely increases. You should not retaliate on your boyfriend by committing the very sin that hurt you in the first place. By all accounts, nothing good should come from it.

Yet here you are, on your knees for a man as pretty as the devil himself. A man very much not your boyfriend.

Even fucking worse, your coworker.

Tucked in some dark corner—not even given the dignity of a dusty closet. That at least would have given you complete privacy. No, you’re on your knees in some seemingly abandoned hallway, half hidden by a combination of the dim lights, and ostentatious pillars, and him. His lean body shields you from general view as your lips stretched around his throbbing length.

You learn that he is a contradiction. A large hand gathers your perfectly styled curls, holding them at the crown of your head. Gentle, careful. The other rests just beneath your jaw, holding your head still as he slowly pushes his hips forward. Your nails grip his pants as your mouth stretches around his girth. The fabric wrinkles under your clutches as the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat, then begins to push beyond it.

Only half of his length in and you're already choking.

Wide, panicked eyes dart up to meet his deceptively honeyed ones. You consider pulling back, just to catch your breath but you can’t; his hands are holding you steady. Oddly enough, the look in his eyes helps you relax. There’s something inherently trustworthy about those ochre irises, despite the fact that his pupils have blown up so much and nearly eclipsed them. Maybe you’re too used to indifference from Cameron, too used to sex being so clinical and borderline perfunctory, that the unbridled lust in his gaze excites you instead of scare you away.

Still, it doesn’t help the little choking issue you’re currently having.

“Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs. You blink back the tears that have gathered at your lashes, still maintaining eye contact with him. Spencer sighs, pulls his cock out. Mercy. It's not something you deserve, but you take advantage of the moment wisely, following his instructions and breathing through your nose.

The stench of sin is musky and stale. You fill your lungs with it all the same, just as he rams his cock back down your throat and fills your mouth. He hisses when you gag around him lightly, but doesn’t stop. You realize that you’d probably chase after him if he does anyway.

His thumb caresses your cheek, “That’s it, good girl. You can take it.”

Well fuck.

It’s a little too much, balancing on your knees like this while he uses your mouth and throat, but you push through because he says you can. You fancied yourself the seductress, but somehow, the tides have turned and you’re little more than putty in his hands.

His cock glides in and out of your mouth with ease, painting chapped red marks from your lipstick along the veined length with every push of his hips. Finding your balance, you wrap a hand around the base of his cock, stroking up what you can't fit into your mouth. After a few clumsy attempts, you manage to match the rhythm of his hips.

What a pretty figure you make, on your knees, looking up at him with fluttering lashes. You moan around his length, sending vibrations up his spine, and are rewarded by his mouth falling open, a wordless expression of pleasure. He continues to fuck your mouth, never breaking eye contact as he eases his cock deeper with each thrust. Tears gather at your lash line every time he goes down your throat.

You’re sure your throat is distending in order to accommodate his girth, and it makes your own pussy clench at the idea. What would it be like to have such a large cock inside your walls, filling you? It makes you moan again, and Spencer’s hand tightens at your hair. His pace quickens, and you hollow your cheeks, urging him to continue.

You hear his undoing before you feel it, strained groans tumbling from trembling lips, before his hips thrust forward and suddenly your nose is pressed to his crotch, and there’s an explosion at the back of your throat. He holds you there, eyes watering, drool spilling from the corners of your ruined mouth as he blows his load deep in your throat.

Yeah, he definitely needed that.

You swallow what you can, but that’s difficult when there’s a huge cock obstructing your throat.

It ends up being a mess, combination of your saliva and his cum dripping out of your mouth and onto the floor. How fitting. In the back of your mind, you’re just happy that only a few drops landed on your dress. Easy enough to clean. Miraculously. Your conscience, however, is an entirely different story.

Still, some part of you can’t even begin to feel bad. Cameron had cheated first, he’d broken the bounds of your relationship first.

Sure, this is still wrong. You have no moral ascendency to stand on, but who cares about any of that when Spencer Reid is kneeling before you with gentle hands and even gentler eyes?

“Are you all right?” he murmurs, his voice slow and sensual like dripping honey.

Somehow, your voice does not betray you, coming out clear and far more confident than you’re actually feeling. “Yeah, I’m good.”

He smiles, thumbs wiping away some of the residue off your lips, “Are you sure? You look a little dazed.”

You laugh, “I mean, yeah, but I just need to catch my breath.”

He takes your hand, helps you stand back up. “I think another trip to the bathroom is in order.” he says as he guides you to the bathroom again.

When you get there, you are a wreck of the highest order, curls dishevelled despite his attempts to be careful, lipstick smudged around your mouth. Your chin is still a little moist from the drool and cum that had dripped down. Tear tracks drag down your cheeks, but thankfully your eye makeup and foundation are only a little smudged. Nothing a little dab of a napkin won’t fix.

You fix what you can—quick spray of perfume, reapplication of lipstick. Hands steady as you work. You aren't sure if this is a sign of guilt, or lack of it. You don't really care. He's gone when you leave the bathroom now, and the soft, treacherous side of your heart fills with disappointment. You remind yourself that it's better this way, less conspicuous, if he returns to the wedding before you.

Still, swallowing his load with an obstructed throat somehow had been easier than swallowing the bitter disappointment that builds in the back of your tongue.

The ceremony is just about to end when you return to the makeshift chapel, people standing and clapping as David and Krystall Rossi share the sweetest kisses. A celebration of love and second chances. After what you've done with Spencer, you know this is out of your cards now. You've fallen far beyond redemption, shot the remnants of your relationship with Cameron after kneeling in service of another man.

You catch sight of Spencer, standing in the midst of other agents. Clapping like everyone else, but his eyes are trained upon something else. Curiosity gets the best of you and you follow his gaze, trying to approximate what he's looking at.

Or rather— whom.

If you're correct, then he's looking at someone.

Oh.

Blonde hair, a slim frame in a beautiful red dress that perfectly accentuates the long, muscled lines of her arms and legs. Beside her, a man with salt and pepper hair and kind blue eyes. His arm at her waist. Your coworker and her husband. JJ and Will.

Oh.

Your gaze returns to Spencer, and despite your attempts not to dig deep, not to learn why he's looking so forlorn, it’s easy to put the pieces together. Whether or not this is a full blown affair isn’t important; all you know is he wants her, and she's married to another man.

Is this connected to the previous case? You recall the last case, the hostage situation in LA. He and JJ had been in there for a long time, but neither really shared what exactly happened. Nobody knows except for the two of them, the unsub, and the victims. You aren’t about to pull rank and ask traumatized people about the drama between your coworkers. You’re better than that.

Are you?

Yes. You don’t hold much sacred, but your job is important. It is above you. You aren’t about to jeopardize it over some workplace drama.

But still, the curiosity gnaws at you no matter how much you attempt to tamp it down. Does he have feelings for JJ? Does she, for him? She couldn’t possibly; she has a husband, two beautiful kids. Easy enough to deduce that it’s probably Spencer, then, who is pining after her.

As though he feels your stare, Spencer looks over at you. Hurriedly, you avert your eyes, heart pounding faster than you would like it to.

Was he thinking about JJ while he used your mouth?

The thought knocks the wind out of your lungs, and you banish it to the deepest crevices of your mind. It shouldn't matter.

It doesn't. It doesn't.

You don’t have any room to judge, anyway. You’ve dragged Spencer into your own messy relationship by sucking him off in the middle of the wedding. A relationship he doesn’t even know about. So, with a smile, you clap for the new couple, and follow the crowd to the reception.

Joy and excitement are nearly palpable in the room. A small, intimate crowd of smiling faces surrounded by the tastefully extravagant decor, obviously paid for by the wealthy groom. The air is filled with that soft, electric energy that often occurs when people are happy and sufficiently buzzed with some drinks.

The only thing on your mind is him.

How can it not be, when you can still remember the little tryst you'd had prior. The weight of him in your mouth, the fetid mess of skin and cum and the lingering nicotine.

It passes by in a blur. The food is delicious, you gush to Portia, you look so beautiful; congratulations, to the new couple. None of it is fake, but you are possessed by a single, irrevocable urge to watch Spencer. That glance at JJ has intrigued you more than you should be. What sort of web had you stumbled upon? And instead of trying to get out, you're eager to spin more.

Bringing the champagne flute to your lips, you pretend to sip, allowing the glass to obscure some parts of your face while you continue to watch them. They’ve met up at the bar now, deep in conversation, hands clasped together in a way that’s far too intimate to be just friends. You can't tear your eyes away as JJ leaves, returning to the embrace of her husband, and you watch with an almost sick sense of fascination as Spencer lingers by the bar. Longing, pure and unmistakable, is etched upon every line on his face.

Before you can stop yourself, your feet are moving, gliding across the floor until you're beside him. He startles, brows lifting as he gazes at you. Your name slips through his lips with an exhale.

“You don't have to act like I'm a ghost, Spencer.” your lips quirk up in a teasing grin as the bartender refills your glass of champagne.

He looks chagrined, the implications of your words hitting him like a brick. “I’m not, you just seemed like you were having fun with Garcia.” he says, leaning on the counter. His eyes travel down the length of you again.

“You’re right, but you were looking a little lonely,” you take a sip from your champagne, letting the bubbly drink fizzle in your mouth and wash away the taste of him. “So, what was that with JJ?”

He sputters, eyes wide as his gaze darts back to your blonde coworker—now currently wrapped up in her husband’s arms.

“Nothing!”

“Holding hands when you’re a known germaphobe doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“I’m not that bad,” he protests, shaking his head, “I’d hold your hand too, but that’s besides the point.”

“It is,” you agree, tilting your head innocently, as your voice lowers, “Just wanted to know who you were imaging in place of me.”

He looks horrified to be reminded of your little quickie from before, “No one. It’s not—I wasn’t using you to—god, it’s not like that.”

“I’m not judging you if it was,” It’s true. It’s exactly what you’re doing with him, using him to forget about Cameron, to get back at him. Poor Spencer just doesn’t know about your secrets. Your amused look only makes him fluster even more.

“It isn’t,” he insists, “I just –”

“Listen, it’s okay,” you interrupt gently, fighting the urge to rest a reassuring hand on his forearm. The words are true anyway; you don’t wish to unearth whatever secrets he wants to keep buried. You have your own, anyway; it’s only fair he’s allowed his secrecy. Your reasons for approaching him are entirely different, and perhaps a little self serving. But you’ve already condemned yourself to being the bearer of temptation, you might as well take full advantage of it.

“Don’t look so ashamed,” you grin as you lift the recently refilled glass to your lips, “You know I have a room for the night… in case you want to blow off more steam.”

The invitation makes his eyes darken in a way that’s becoming increasingly familiar. “You’re—we shouldn’t.”

“Who would know?” you quirk a brow in response, “Besides, it’s pretty much tradition for people to hook up at a wedding. Why shouldn’t it be us?” Please, say yes.

“We’re coworkers.”

“We’re adults.” you deliberately don’t say single adults, “It’s fine. Listen, I booked a room because I didn’t want to deal with the traffic, so if you want, it’s 309B. Completely up to you.” with a smile, you leave him at the bar and Spencer Reid is forced to watch a woman walk away from him for the second time.

That night, there's knocking at your hotel door—three sharp, no nonsense knocks that seem to mean business—echoes in your room minutes before midnight. You don’t bother looking through the peephole to confirm who’s on the other side. The moment you open the door, there’s not a lot of build up.

He’s shed his suit jacket; wearing only the white button down, slightly rumpled from the day’s events. His crown of light brown curls, carefully pushed back earlier, had fallen all over his forehead, messy tendrils tumbling across his face.

He takes one look at you—still in your lavender dress, but devoid of makeup and no more heels to add inches to your height. In the dimness of the room, you are diminutive, stripped of the ethereal mystique you bore from earlier. Human.

God, he wants you.

Not even as someone to help him forget about JJ. No, he wants you in your entirety, to possess you even for one night.

He kisses you again, but there’s no rush to his movements now. The previous rendezvous had been hasty in every sense of the word, made within minutes in an attempt to alleviate the desperate need all while staying safely hidden and inconspicuous.

Now, you have the entire night. He intends to make full use of it. He kicks the door closed behind him, one hand reaching back to lock it as the other tilts your face up so he can kiss you deeper. Your own arms snake around his neck, hands burying into those messy curls. There’s no more public reception to worry about; you can tug and twist and mess with it as much as you want.

Spencer groans into your mouth, hands tight at your hips, before pulling back slightly, “Jump.” he mumbles against your lips.

Your body reacts as if it’s wired to obey him, launching off the balls of your feet. His hands help to hoist you up, and you wrap your legs around his hips.

“You smell so good,” He whispers as he noses through your neck, before his teeth close around your earlobe. You giggle, urging him on by craning your neck to the side. His teeth tug on your earlobe playfully as he crosses the room to your bed. He toes off his shoes and lays you down carefully, his body hovering above yours while his kisses travel down your neck. Soft and sloppy and wet, they mark you like a brand.

Long, eager fingers hike your dress up, bunching it up your thighs, past your hips, and you hear him groan when your bare pussy is exposed to his darkened gaze.

“No panties?” he runs a finger up your folds, gathering your slick, “Don’t tell me you’re been going around like this all day?”

“Maybe I have,” you grin, legs parting even more to accommodate him. You haven’t—you’d just been touching yourself to the thought of him as you waited, but you’re not about to tell him that.

“Naughty girl,” he mumbles, one long finger pushing past your entrance and curling into you, “And so wet, too. You get off on being this dirty, or am I just lucky?”

A breathy laugh escapes your lips, “Which one would you prefer?” you ask, because tonight, you’re not yourself. Not really. You’re whoever he needs to be, the same way he’s exactly what you need right now. A body to which you can lose yourself.

“I’d like to think this is all just for me,” he adds another finger, the pace languorous and teasing.

“It is,” you gasp as he curls his fingers, then withdraws. Torturously slow, he fucks you with two lengthy fingers, hitting the spot inside you with ease. Your toes curl into the bed, sinking into the soft mattress, “Faster.”

“So needy,” he murmurs, shaking his head as he takes you in. There’s something addictive in the way you look in this moment, spread out beneath him like something unreal and sublime.

Your hips buck up. Something volatile simmers beneath your skin, desperate for more, “Please.”

Spencer chuckles as he watches you, fingers stilling inside your fluttering walls. Hovering above you with soft brown curls framing his face, he looks every bit an angel come to life. The laughter continues, his lips twisting into a sneer as you push your hips up desperately.

“So, so needy.” he repeats, but he acquiesces to your plea. More than that, he sinks a third finger inside you and speeds up. A cry of surprise and pleasure falls from your lips, head thrown back as he works his fingers inside you, “Oh, you’re taking it so well.”

Shame unfurls in your chest. What are you doing? Begging another man to fuck you with his fingers? Enjoying it? Is this truly what you’ve come to?

It’s not something you can dwell on, as Spencer begins to curl his fingers inside you while his thumb finds your clit. It circles the nub slowly, adding a layer of stimulation that has your thighs trembling. With a squeal, you writhe, moving to close your legs as the sensations become red-hot, building up closer and closer to a crescendo.

Spencer tuts teasingly, one leg pressing down on your thighs, and his other hand coming to grip your hip and hold you in place. “No, no, darling, I want to see you coming undone on my fingers.” he says, continuing to make come hither motions inside you.

“God—oh, I’m so—ah!” words trip over one another as you approach your climax, the world coming down into one point of focus. “Spencer!”

“That’s it, good girl,” he murmurs, laying his body over you as his fingers help you through your orgasm, “There you go.”

You’re thankful for the weight of him; it is a grounding presence in the midst of all the flurry. You’ve come undone at the hands of another man—literally. Never mind that Cameron had betrayed your trust first; you are no better than him.

But if sin felt as good as Spencer Reid’s kisses, then you have no qualms indulging.

His lips are upon you again, traveling down your collarbone and nipping at the skin there. You whine and wrap your legs around his waist, sensitive but still eager for more. He laughs against your skin with a tenderness that takes you by surprise.

“Are you always this needy?”

“No,” you’ve had a taste of the forbidden fruit earlier. Thrown out of Eden, you’re already past the point of no return. Might as well succumb and have one hell of a time. “Only for you.”

He hums, pushing your dress up again. It gets caught somewhere around your chest and there’s a brief moment of awkward laughter as he tries to tug at it, force it up and off you.

“Zipper,” you gasp when your brain finally works. Lifting yourself up on your elbows allows him to slide his hands to your back, find the dangling piece of metal and ease it down. The dress loosens across your shoulders and chest, and he’s finally able to pull it off altogether.

“Beautiful,” he sighs, descending upon you once again, “So beautiful.”

His words have you preening, and you wonder how something so insignificant as the word beautiful could make you feel so heavy. You used to associate delight with weightlessness, floating and light, but everything about Spencer is lumbering and grounded especially after he came back from prison.

You feel his lips and tongue making their way down, kissing every inch of your body. He tugs your bra down, not even bothering to take it off completely, your breast spilling forth and free for his touch. He takes one nipple and sucks, while his thumb circles and gently tugs the other. Every single act has you gasping, and you wonder when and where the hell did Spencer Reid ever learn how to do this? You shouldn’t question it though.

When his mouth lands upon your hips, you jerk. “Spencer,” you gasp, looking down on him, but there’s no more teasing from him now, no hesitation. Before you can even formulate what to say next—you don’t have to, I’ve already cum, I’m still so sensitive—his mouth is at your core, tongue lapping up what remains of your previous orgasm and all evidence of your arousal.

“Fuck!” you are not responsible for your actions anymore, not responsible for the way your fingers find his russet curls and tug hard, the way your thighs try to clamp shut around his head. He chuckles against you, the sound sending tingling vibrations that travel from your pussy to the tips of your toes and fingers.

“Settle down,” laughter drips from his gentle admonishment, “Or I’ll stop.”

“Please don’t.” you’re past the point of shame and guilt, eager to beg and obey as much as he wants. The positions have turned since the tryst in the hallway. No longer are you on your knees for him, no longer the one servicing him and choking around his length, yet somehow you’re still at his mercy. “Don’t stop, please, so good.”

He laughs, and you feel something sliding past your entrance. You clench around it involuntarily, as if you can tell what it is from the mere feeling, but then his mouth wraps around your clit and you’re reeling into oblivion once again.

“Spencer!” you thrash against the pillows, overwhelmed and sensitive but still eager to take more, “Spencer, oh my god, Spencer!” you lose count of how many times you’ve uttered his name from your lips. It has simultaneously lost every meaning, yet retained all of it. An invocation of fervent desire from a lowly, undeserving sinner. Thankfully, your god is merciful and giving, because Spencer wraps his arms around your thighs to hold you down, sucks at your clit harshly and thrusts into you again—fingers, you now realize, all three spreading you open and curling deep inside you.

With everything going on, your climax comes as no surprise. You and Spencer are both expecting it, you’re so worked up after all. What makes you both pause is the fact that something gushes out of you as you arch off the bed and cry out his name.

His movement stills for a split second, before he continues and helps you through your orgasm, tongue lapping at the mess between your legs as your body is wracked with the aftershocks, trembling beneath him. After a few moments, he stops, resting his head at your hip.

Looking at him feels like a risk. Fear keeps your eyes squeezed shut, afraid of what you’ll find. More teasing? Disgust? Doesn’t seem like it, from the way his fingertips are trailing over your thighs. You lift your lids again, eyes meeting his own hazy ones. They are nearly black, but what pulls your attention are his lips and chin. Glistening with slickness.

Your slick.

“Oh god,” your words are half groan, half laugh when the reality hits you, “Did I really?”

He laughs again, light and tender. “I believe you did.”

“I’m sorry.” you mutter, feeling utterly mortified that you just squirted all over your coworker’s face.

Spencer’s expression is one of mischief, but his eyes gleam with something darker. “What for?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

Another laugh, “But I wanna hear it,” he coos, pressing his lips to your hip bone, “Come on, darling, what are you sorry for?”

When you don’t answer, he nips at your skin playfully, slowly moving back to your center. Your pussy throbs both in anticipation and overstimulation.

“Spencer.”

“Mhm?”

“Too sensitive.” you try to squirm out of his grip. It only tightens, presses you deeper into the mattress.

A lick, teasing and light. “Tell me why you’re sorry.”

“Spencer!”

“Come on,” He's grinning, the bastard, “Why are you sorry?”

“Because I squirted in your face.”

He bites your inner thigh with more force than usual, “You shouldn't be.”

“Hm?”

“I loved it,” He murmurs, soothing the bite with a flick of his tongue, “Wanna see you do it again.”

You shudder, though you’re unsure whether it’s from his moistened tongue, or his words. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” he drags himself up, kissing along your body as he does so, “Think you can be a good girl and do it again for me?”

“I think that’s entirely dependent on how well you do.”

Soft, dewy lips curl into a smirk at your challenge, and suddenly he’s sin incarnate, a devil about to pounce. Once again, how are you to deny this man of anything? How could you resist temptation when someone who looks like he’s been carved by the hands of God himself is looking at you as though you were the masterpiece? Liquid gold irises take you in, inspecting every inch of your body with unabashed want, and you’re reminded of the fact that he’s fully clothed, cock straining through his pants, and you’re in nothing but your flimsy bra that’s been pulled down your chest it’s not even covering anything anymore.

You fight the urge to squirm under his gaze, but then his hands come up your sides, ghost over your ribs and your back until he finds the hook of your bra.

“Not really fair,” you say as the last strip of your clothing falls away, your chest heaving from the sheer weight of his gaze, “I want to see you too.” with that, you reach for him, deft fingers quickly undoing the buttons of his shirt.

He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t help, only continues to regard you with quiet intensity.

Once his clothes are off, he meets your lips again. His kisses are slower this time, an almost dreamy tangle of tongue and teeth, but his body is hot and slick with sweat even as he holds himself on his elbows above you. His cock rests upon your lower abdomen, its heft reminding you of how much your mouth had to stretch to accommodate him earlier. How the length and girth had all but blocked your airways as he thrusted into your throat.

You clench around nothing at the idea of that same cock filling your pussy.

His kisses move down your jaw, down the column of your throat, being careful not to suck too hard on the skin and leave marks. You never know when you might be called in for a case, and he doesn’t want any trouble.

“Last chance to back out,” he murmurs, his hand wrapped around the base of his cock, positioning the tip at your entrance.

You grin and shake your head, “No, I want to see if you can make me squirt again, or if that last one was just beginner’s luck.”

Laughter. You’re beginning to find sex with Spencer enjoyable on more than just the physical aspect. He drags the tip of his cock over your folds, combining his precum and your arousal into a heady, natural lubrication. He’s big, you already know that, but right now, you’re so pleasure drunk that you have no problem opening up to him.

You can tell he’s being careful, pushing his tip in slowly, and your entrance flutters, stretches around him. There’s a slight burn, but it’s accompanied by awe, overtaken by pleasure. You marvel at how his cock sinks into your slick, velvety heat, the way every slight thrust makes your body conform to his own as he carves out a space for himself.

As if he belongs there.

As if you’re his.

Every single memory about your cheating boyfriend is expelled from your mind with every thrust of his hips. You moan and clench around him at the thought.

“Fuck,” he groans, hips stilling. His cock is only halfway through, and you already look so fucked out, “Careful with that, darling, or this is gonna end sooner than we’d like.”

Your lower lip trembles, but you nod, spreading your thighs apart even further. “Sorry.”

He kisses that expression away, “Don’t be sorry,” two large hands hold your thighs in place, keeping you spread for him as he sinks in another inch. And then another. You’re so wet, and he’s done such a great job stretching you out that your walls engulf him easily.

“Oh god!” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut as he fills you. You hear a chuckle, before he retreats, pulls out almost all the way, and once again you’re clenching around his length as though you’re trying to convince him to stay buried inside you.

“Stop clenching.”

“Can’t help it!”

“Fuck, you’re so tight.” With a soft hiss, he thrusts back inside, still slow and steady. The curse makes you gasp; you’ve never heard him curse before, somehow it’s even more jarring than when he’s murmuring filth into your ears. When you open your eyes, he’s staring at you, unblinking and focused, watching your every reaction. “You okay?”

“Fuck yes,” you gasp as his thrusts grow steady. The world seems to disappear around you, the only point of importance is where your bodies are coming together repeatedly. You reach up, hands seeking for something to ground you, and finding purchase at his tangled curls, “Oh god, yes!”

It’s funny, crying out for a god you don’t really believe in. Crying out for a god when you’re in the midst of sin, carnal pleasure and infidelity and who knows what else, you were never religious to begin with. You wonder if this is what religion is, this free fall, the blind surrender. But faith as you know it believes in something unseen, the conviction to the intangible and unexplained.

Spencer is very much here, and you can feel him between your thighs, his very existence present in the stretch of your walls around his cock, the soft curls you’ve woven around your fingers. He keeps his thrusts slow but deep, letting your walls feel every single vein and ridge on his cock.

“Spencer,” you moan, one hand falling to his face, soft palm on the stubble at his jaw, “Feels so good.”

“You too,” he turns his face, pressing his lips to the warmth of your hand. He’s very tender, his movements measured to ensure your comfort, “God, you’re taking me so well.”

Your walls tighten around him in response.

Something seems to ignite in his brain, his hand catching your wrist, pulling it from his face and pinning it to the bed. “You like that, my pretty girl? Like knowing you’re doing a good job for me?”

Fuck. The same rush of heat from when he’d had you on your knees fills your stomach. The heat that compels you to do whatever he wants, take whatever he’ll give in order to hear more of his praise. Like a devoted servant, at the service of a benevolent god.

“Yes,” you gasp, hooking one leg around his hips, while the other is bent at an angle, foot pressed to the mattress in order to allow you some leverage to meet his thrusts. It’s sloppy at first, your body not entirely in your control right now.

“That’s it, my darling, you can do it.” he mutters encouragingly, pausing to allow you to join in this tangled, exhilarating dance. When you’ve gotten steadier, he resumes his thrusts, and you’re finally able to buck your hips up to meet them.

The action sends his entire length buried deep inside you, something he’s been very careful to avoid in fear of hurting you. But instead, you let out a cry of pleasure, eyes rolling to the back of your head, “Yes!”

“Right there?” he grunts. You’ve never heard him before, voice low and strained as he slams his hips into yours, again and again. The mattress begins to creak from the force of his actions.

“Mhm hmm!” You meet him thrust for thrust, the impact hitting spots deep inside you that you’ve never felt before. Toes curling in on themselves, one hand buried in his hair, the other pinned by his strong grip, “Oh, god, Spencer, yes!”

He loosens his grip on your wrist, intertwines your fingers together, “Good girl. Look at you, so pretty while you take me.”

No words come from your mouth, only his name, repeated over and over that it begins to sound made up, unreal. Perhaps he is divine. Nothing human can make you feel this way, surely.

He shifts, his free arm wrapping around your hips to elevate you slightly, and the new angle has you keening, every single muscle in your body tightly wound and white-hot as he pounds into you. It’s obscene how easily your body accepts every single inch of him, the way your pussy flutters and yields to the throbbing length of his cock.

“My god, you feel like heaven,” he groans, and that’s it, those words have you screaming so loud he starts to laugh and kiss you just to swallow the sound. You’re shuddering beneath him, crying, the pleasure coiling and building until it bursts and snaps, cascading over you with such fervor he has to wrap both his arms around your limp body to help you calm down.

Somehow, your hazy mind registers the wetness between your thighs, the loud, nearly pornographic squelching of his body plunging into yours. He’d done his goal; he’s made you squirt again. You are boneless in his arms as he fucks you through your orgasm, and chases his own. You only regain agency when he tenses, groaning into your ear.

“Gonna cum,” he says, moving his hips to drag his length out. He’s so long you’re able to wrap your legs around his waist before he’s pulled his cock out all the way.

“No, please, do it inside.”

His body stutters, head falling to the crook of your neck as he ruts his hips into you, not even bothering to argue or ask you if you’re sure. He thrusts into your sensitive pussy erratically, mouth open and groaning into your neck, “Oh my god, oh my — ah!”

Spencer holds onto you, breathing heavily into your ear as you both come down from your high. You feel simultaneously weightless and heavy, melting into your mattress with sweet, glassy eyes.

“That was incredible,” you whisper against his hair. He’s already half asleep on top of you, mumbling incoherently against your shoulder. You don’t bother to move, letting his still hard cock stay buried inside your pussy as you both drift off into dreamland.

Morning comes with a delicious ache in your lower belly. Spencer has you tucked to his chest, his arm around your waist. The air is heavy with the lingering smell of sweat and sex, but also oddly light with the knowledge of a new day. You shift in his arms, yawning as you will your body to wake up and shake off the sluggish feeling clinging to your bones.

He wakes slowly, groaning into your hair, “Morning.” he mumbles.

“Morning,” you reply, but before either of you can say any more, your phone rings. Mindlessly, you reach for it, not even bothering to hide the screen from Spencer, who’s nosing at your temple sweetly.

Cameron ❤️

Your heart sinks. Before you can hit the ignore button, Spencer turns his head, still half asleep as he catches sight of your screen. The name, the heart emoji, the multiple missed calls shakes off every single sleepy cell in his body.

“Who’s Cameron?”

more size kink fics in the BUD Chronicles. Forehead smooches to the many people who witnessed the conception of this fic and patiently listened and helped me as I crashed out and went screaming crying throwing up, hey nachos, @mggslover (who also proofread ty) @beenreidingaboutyou @reidingandallthat @burymagdalene and @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat good god there's so many, my need for reassurance is actually extremely bothersome and embarrassing but ily guys.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x reader smut #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you smut #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds x you #spencer reid x bau!reader #spencer reid criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #big useless dick chronicles #spencer reid big useless dick agenda #erika after midnight

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heartthrobin · 11 months ago

Text

all's fair in love and war (2)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 7.87k

warnings: enemies to lovers, still so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, archie being my fav oc, cheese fest

an: literally fell asleep on my laptop last night editing this, i was so exhausted from school so i’m sorry it’s late !!! but i had the most fun in the world writing this and i hope everyone enjoys :)) don't forget to comment and repost your favourite writers

summary: Oliver is still impossibly miserable, maybe more uncooperative than before, except now when you look at him: you can't think of much else beyond how sweet his lips tasted.

part one

You can’t sleep.

You're not sure you'll find sleep ever again.

“I knew it, I knew it—“ Cherry had bounced the whole way to your dormitory, howling into your ear. “I knew it!”

The image of Oliver’s fluttering eyes swum around your brain as you blinked into the darkness of the poster bed. The taste of his tongue and his words still right against your lips.

It was a riddle of a calibre that you can’t seem to detangle. More than anything, you try to remember how strong has he tasted of Firewhisky - was he so drunk to really dismiss it to nothing at all?

You lingered on it all weekend.

Cherry didn’t help at all — he’s been in love with you forever, that’s literally so obvious — and Enzo even less so once he’d been filled in: Oliver doesn’t seem a bloke who let’s alcohol make his decisions for him, something about Scottish genetics I think.

The interaction plagued you: digging a wide hole in the base of your stomach. You mourned the thought that you may never have the opportunity to kiss those soft lips again, more than anything: preparing yourself for the feud between yourselves to worsen.

There’s barely enough time to make sense of your situation before you’re racing down over the grassy hills of the grounds, bag swinging violently over your shoulder and extraordinarily late for your Herbology lesson in the greenhouse.

Your morning alarm had rung right into one ear and out the other, a product of the tossing and turning you’d been doing for the last two nights.

When you swing the greenhouse door open, panting and face flush from the beating sun, the whole room turns to you. Sprout pauses where her hands are flailing in explanation.

“Sorry I’m late professor,” you wheeze, readjusting your strap over your shoulder.

Cherry is smirking at you from her bench, sidled up with Jane Emmet.

It hadn’t escaped you that you’d be sharing the lesson with the Gryffindors, but you’d precious little time to worry about it in the five minutes you had to pull a robe over your head and stick a toothbrush into your mouth.

Your eyes are purposeful in not looking over the room. Scared to catch the wrong eyes.

“Not a problem peach, we’re just repotting some Fire-Seed Bushes.” She brings a stubby hand to her chin, “uhm … well, Mr Kumar there in the corner doesn’t have a partner. Go join him by his pots.”

Archie has a lopsided smile on his face when you approach, a thick black curl drooping over his left eye.

“Hey.” He nudges gently.

You set your bag down and grab a pair of gloves, chuckling. “Hey Archie.”

The soil is warm when you stick your fingers into the dirt, shifting it gently enough not to mess over the edge of the bucket. There’s a Fire-Seed Bush sitting tentatively at the end of the bench, spitting sparks and emitting smoke.

“So …” Archie speaks first, the back of his hand bumping yours between the black soil. “How was your weekend?”

It’s a veiled question, a poorly veiled one at that. The question draws a laugh from the base of your stomach.

You shrug, adamant on missing the point. “It was alright, I guess. How about yours?”

He shrugs right back. “Wasn’t the greatest. Penelope Clearwater rejected me for Percy Weasley.”

You don't mean to, you really don't, but it draws another bout of laughter out of you - you clap your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry—“

“No, I get it. Percy bloody Weasley?” His brow is creased, dirt-stained hands rising messily from the soil to swipe at a fallen piece of hair in his face. “Dead sure that bloke's own mother can't say he’s handsome. I’m better looking than him, surely?”

There’s the hanging insinuation that it was rhetorical, but you reply anyways: “you’re definitely more handsome than Percy Weasley, Archie.”

His head cocks down at you, stained paws finding his waist and pressing black fingerprints into the red jumper. “You really think so?”

“Without a doubt.”

Archie smiles, bumping your side against his. You think he might be blushing. “You’re very charming. I understand what Oliver sees in you.”

You jolt involuntarily, spilling some black soil over the edge of the pot.

Swiping at the mess lazily, you play the comment off with another crumbly chuckle: hoping it convinces him more than it does yourself. “Oliver sees in me what a bull sees in a red cape.”

Archie’s reaching timidly for the Fire-Seed Bush, lifting it off the counter and holding the dangerous botanical at arm’s length. “Not true. The boy’s half in love with you.”

This conversation is getting awfully uncomfortable awfully quickly. It picks at your curiosity nonetheless.

“He said that?”

He’s quick to shake off the question, eyes still trained on setting the roots of the bush into the gap in the soil. “Oliver doesn’t have to say anything. He spends practically every fucking mealtime mooning over at your table, and he talks about you way more than necessary—“

“That’s just because I work on his nerves. Oliver doesn’t love me, he barely tolerates me.”

The boy turns on you, confusion set in his brow. “Why is this news? Last I saw you, your tongue was halfway into his stomach.”

Zachariah Smith and his Gryffindor partner look up at that. Your face goes hot all over - Archie doesn’t seem to notice.

“We were drunk.” You say softly, eyes stuck on a loose leaf crackling against the wooden counter.

There’s a special kind of fear that's crawling into your heart where you stand. The fear of putting too much faith into the words of Archie Kumar.

That it’s an elaborate ruse. A set-up, canons of confetti and a banner screaming “you’ve been fooled!” if you were to indulge his words. The danger of allowing your mind to drift too far off into the possibilities of a world wherein Oliver Wood doesn’t hate you - at least not as much as he lets on.

Archie looks at you out the side of his eye, you can feel it, but says nothing. He hands you a miniature yellow-handled spade.

Instead you fill the space. "I heard Isla Flynn has a crush on you."

He perks: "really?"

Across the room, Oliver is bumping elbows with Poppy Davis.

"Ow!"

A loose spark has evidently landed on her exposed arm. The sparks that Oliver was supposed to be watching for, the ones that he is intent on ignoring with the constant glancing back over his shoulder to where you and his best mate are in the corner of the room fucking giggling at each other like toddlers with a box of matches.

“Oliver — can you just focus for five seconds!” Poppy isn’t impressed.

Oliver isn’t either, with the situation as a whole. The pads of his fingers are blistered from the repotting of the bush and Poppy’s careless bumps and his general indifference to the task at hand.

It eats at his brain. What are you guys talking about? Is it about him?

You laugh again and it’s loud enough that it draws his shoulders all the way taut. There’s another snap of a spark and Oliver feels where it lands at his wrist, but he doesn’t react.

“Just pass me the bloody spade.” He grumbles.

The lesson passes more slowly than Oliver could swim shoulder-deep through molasses.

It feels like years later when he tosses his gloves into the box with the rest, when the class shuffles to return tools and begin slinging half-open bags over their shoulders.

Oliver doesn’t think he’s ever packed up faster - Poppy is still scowling at him, he doesn’t care - before he’s knocking through yellow and red tied students to find Archie’s head of curly black hair.

“Hey!” He catches him by the wrist, tugging on it like a dog with a bone. Archie jumps, eyes winding down to find his friend. “What did she say?”

You’re far ahead, Oliver can make out the back of your head: hips bumping with Cherry’s up the hill towards the castle.

Archie grins. “She said Isla Flynn has a crush on me.”

Oliver groans, “Not about that, you prat. About— wait, really?”

"Yeah!" He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. "Can you believe it? She's got that hot Irish accent and everything."

Oliver nods, "Yeah ... yeah. Good on you, mate."

He's trying desperately not to steal this moment from his best friend, but he's fucking itching to know what else you and Archie had been giggling about.

"Did she ... say anything else?" He presses, more gently than his character usually allows. "Like about me?"

Archie shrugs without looking down. "I asked her, but she seemed tense about the whole thing."

"Tense?"

"Yeah, she said something about a bull and a cape, and went like all quiet when I told her you like her--"

At that, Oliver's stomach leaps up into his throat. He grabs his best friend by the arm, jolting him to a short stop. Some Hufflepuff bumps into their halted figures, grumbling before shuffling around them.

"You told her what?" His eyes flare erratically.

Archie shrugs, an innocuously confused look painting his features. "Well I said Oliver's half in love with you, or something like that and she looked all confused about it--"

Oliver's grip on his friend's wrist tightened to a degree that a ring was sure to form on his dark skin. "You fucking pinhead! You told her I liked her?"

Pulling his arm violently from his grip, Archie has the nerve to look affronted. "You don't?"

The morning sun shining over Oliver's head feels like it's growing hotter by the second, there's a dribble of sweat running down his spine.

"That's -- that's not the point. Even if I do, which I'm not saying is the case, she doesn't need to know that."

"Were you two obliviated in your sleep last night?" Archie's eyebrows are pressed down against his eyes, slouching down to meet his friend's face. "I caught you two making out like the world was ending less than three days ago! Surely she has to figure that you feeling something for her, she's not stupid."

Oliver struggles between his thoughts, worse around his words. "That was ... we'd been drinking. For all I know, she only kissed me back cause she was trollied off Dragon-Barrell--"

"She said that, too."

Eyeing him, Oliver's hands find his hips. "Said what, exactly?"

"That you were drunk, I mentioned the kiss and she said we were drunk."

A sensation he can only identify as closest to guilt seeps up into Oliver's chest from his stomach. "She thinks I kissed her just cause I was drunk?"

Archie's hand finds Oliver's shoulder. "You should probably talk to her, mate."

He sighs, eyes drifting over the silhouette of the castle in the distance. He shakes his head like it'll rattle the plaguing thoughts loose. "We're gonna be late for Transfig."

"I mean, Archie is his best friend." Cherry is trying to rationalise the whole story. "I don't see why he'd lie about it?"

You shake your head, knocking shoulders with a Ravenclaw girl trying to pass through the corridor. "I'm not entertaining it, Cherry."

"Come on," she sighs, practically skipping to keep up with the furious pace you've set. "Would it be so terrible if he likes you?"

"Yes." You don't look at her.

The redhead's eye-roll is practically audible, "Let me rephrase, would it be so terrible if he likes you back?"

You meet her eyes for the first time since you'd entered the corridor.

She sighs, "we're gonna see him in Muggle Studies in five minutes. I think you should say something."

"Forget I said anything, Cherry." Heat flares at your neck again, prompted by the embarrassment of even imagining how such a conversation might go.

The rest of the walk is quiet, but you feel Cherry's gaze warming the side of your face.

Burbage's classroom is over-populated with Gryffindors by the time you drop your bag against the marbled floor beside your desk. In the corner of your eye, your brain has already fixated on Oliver's silhouette leaned against the edge of his own desk. You flush hot all over again, as if your thoughts were transcribing into subtitles and floating above your head for the whole class to read.

The click of Burbage's heels prompt the lingering students to find their seats, "Please take out your copies of Muggle Wars: Cause and Effect. We left off on page eighty-seven--"

You suddenly regret snapping at Cherry. Wishing for the comfort of her presence, your eyes glazing over where she's perched in the first row of desks closest to the chalkboard.

Unusually, the class trickles on without disruption. There's a few glances over at your direction, like everyone is waiting for another outburst from the grade's most volatile duo. They're sure to be let down, you're adamant to not even breathe in the direction of Wood.

Burbage comments on it, too, nearly ten minutes from the bell.

"It's suspiciously quiet in your corner today, captains." she looks down through her fingerprint-smudged frames, brushing over you and then Wood three seats away. "Something the matter?"

You shrug, refusing to acknowledge the boy. He seems to be doing the same: completely unfairly, the thought that he wouldn't look at you made the hair on your arms stand straight. "We can start up if you'd like, professor?"

Her face contorts into that irritated look that you'd grown accustomed to when Professor Burbage addresses you. "You're flirting dangerously with another session of detention, miss."

"She's just answering your question, professor."

Nobody in the class seemed more surprised than Burbage, although that in itself was a feat. The two Gryffindor boys in the row ahead of you swivel all the way around in their seats to look at Oliver, who'd just spoken.

You fight the twitching urge to look at him.

"Detention for two, it seems. I'll be seeing you both Friday afternoon."

A calm air settles again over the class, as if order had been restored. You and Wood had lost the interest of the room and students shift back to the board where WHAT IS A PRIME MINISTER? is sprawled across it in chicken-scratch handwriting.

Sighing, your eyes find the clock against the wall. Eight minutes left.

You pick at the end of your quill irritably: electing to dip it into the ink at the edge of the desk and entertain yourself quietly by drawing a miniature snowman at the corner of your page, trying not to think about another Friday afternoon in too close of a proximity to Oliver Wood. There's a soft whir, barely audible if you weren't so focused on outlining pebble eyes, and a tiny paper-airplane whizzes quietly from under your desk: landing squarely on the nose-less head of your snowman.

Fear prickles at you. You don't look up for the source, lest a suspicious sideways glance earns you another weekend with the party-animal Charity Burbage.

Instead, you carefully undo the intricately folded wings of the plane. It's barely big enough to fit into your palm once open, the top of the little note marked in black ink.

It was the same handwriting that marked the sign-out sheet for equipment in the Quidditch storage rooms down at the pitch.

'Thanks for that one, smart-mouth.'

Your eyes flicker up to Burbage, who's back is turned, before you dip your quill into the ink and scribble out a response. In your peripheral, Oliver is leaned back in his stool: biceps folded over each other. There's an unexplainably airy-fairy, fuzzy feeling warming your rib cavity.

'Believe this one was your fault, dickhead.'

You quietly refold the creased edges, before tapping it lightly with the end of your wand: then watch how it takes off the airstrip of your page and zips quietly under the cover of desks to land back in front of the sender.

There's a long pause - enough for Burbage to draw out a whole flow diagram of something called "parliament" - before the edge of the paper wing grazes at your calf again. It lands quietly again.

'Maybe.

We good?'

There's a gentleness to the sentence. Like you can hear it from Oliver's mouth, like he's avoiding your gaze when he whispers it.

You hunch over the note again.

Oliver's knuckles are turning white, twisting his wand in his hands under the table. He shouldn't have said anything. He's regretting the whole fucking idea of the stupid paper-plane now.

He's trying not to watch you write, not to notice how long you stared at his writing before you picked up your own quill. He does anyways.

When the airplane flutters down into his palm, Burbage is already excusing the class. Stools are scraping against cold tile, the clutter of textbooks being crammed back into bags.

'Never :)'

His eyes run over the word once, twice, three times over. A smile is tugging at the edge of his lip, he forces it taut - but his eyes are still shining unusually brightly when Archie knocks his shoulder to his.

"What you looking so damn happy about?"

Oliver tucks the note into the pocket of his robes. "Don’t know what yer talking about."

"But professor, why can't Hufflepuff take Saturday?"

"Well, Hufflepuff already gave up our practice days for Gryff--!"

Hooch sighed so deeply she almost melted back into her armchair. "The decision is made, Oliver. The pitch is being cleaned out on Wednesday, your team can take Saturday for any extra training."

He could practically hear the smile creeping onto your face, the smug crossed-arm look he'll no doubt find when he turns to you.

Irritation bubbles up in his throat, a familiar companion in your presence, and just as he prophesied: you are grinning.

In the weeks that followed that day in Burbage's class, it seemed that both parties decided that the topic of their shared kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room was best left undiscussed.

The arrangement is working. At least Oliver thinks so.

You still bait him and he still snaps, rising to your taunts. He still finds himself in detention more Fridays than he spends free, and his body ripples with anger when you roll your eyes at him.

But it was in moments, like this now, where your little self-satisfied grin doesn't quite vex him to the degree it once did. It's now harder to find a retort, to snap at you with a sharp-edged comment. Not when amusement crinkles at the corners of your eyes where your black lashes kiss so prettily.

Hooch swivels in her chair to find a document between one of her cluttered drawers, you take the opportunity to stick the tip of your tongue out childishly at him.

Oliver draws a tight breath, he hopes his face is still taut in annoyance, because his heart has slipped like a stone down into his stomach. That's the other issue, the tiny little obstacle in these recent weeks: he can't stop looking at your mouth. It's distracting, disarming - paralysing at the best of times.

He strips his gaze away, before he can be outed by anyone in the room. "Whatever." He mumbles.

You seem disappointed in his lack of a real response, but it passes quickly - like a shadow - over your face.

"Thanks professor." You grab up your roster from her desk and turn to the door, practically skipping out into the corridor.

He huffs.

Somehow, you and Archie have become fast friends. Mornings around Fire-Seed Bushes and Venomous Tentaculas in the heat of Greenhouse Three seems to do wonders for a friendship.

It prickles at Oliver's nerves when you pass in the corridors, when you perk up with a high "hey Arch!" and he grins down from his towering height right back at you: "hey Y/n!"

You don't look at Oliver. He's notably sour the rest of the walk.

Alright, maybe the whole arrangement wasn't really working. You were a distraction to him before, no doubt, but somehow your powers of beguilement had tripled. Especially since you seem to be behaving perfectly normal: like you hadn't given Oliver the best snog of his life outside the Ravenclaw common room that night.

Maybe it was just alcohol, maybe he is the only one plagued by the knowledge of the other's taste.

The castle has turned impossibly colder, the bitter bite of winter stinging at the loose cuffs of his robes on walkthroughs of the corridors. He can't imagine how cold the air above the pitch is going to be on Sunday when Hufflepuff faces off Slytherin for a spot in the finals.

It's all Hooch has been going on about for the last two weeks.

Oliver's had to shift around at least four practices - Roger almost twice as much, he's a pushover - to allow for you and Marcus to have more time on the pitch. His complaints fell on deaf ears, Hooch dismissed him with a wave of her bony hand and a "your time is coming, Wood."

You prance into dinner late most evenings, hair in every direction and face flush with sweat: sticking it out like a bumblebee in those awful yellow quidditch robes.

Oliver only notices because, annoyingly, he's found that he is frequenting the bench at the Gryffindor table that faces over to the Hufflepuff's. His eyes drift over the yellow-tied heads to where you clump up with Enzo and Cherry, watches you talk around mouthfuls of toast lazily, giggle behind your napkin: head rolling back to showcase that smooth neck, how it runs down to the soft slopes of your shoulders: disappearing down into your button-up.

Archie has noticed, he's sure, but hasn't done more but allude to it with teasing glances or suggestive comments.

"The Hufflepuffs up to something particularly interesting over there, Ollie?"

The speed with which Oliver's eyes snap to his peas is almost comical. He shrugs and mumbles like a child. "Don't know."

On Sunday morning, you don't go to breakfast.

There's an uncomfortable gurgling in your midriff, like a snake is slithering between your organs and you're sure even just the smell of eggs on toast would bring up your dinner.

Instead you find yourself at the pitch a whole hour before the game is set to start. Marcus is running laps around the grass, something he's done since you've known him.

He offers a curt wave, face set like cold stone.

It reminds you of Oliver a little bit, the distraction in his eyes.

Oliver is never all the way there, wherever he is, you think. His eyes mist over like he's halfway between this world and another. You know it's Quidditch: he dreams it, eats it, sleeps it.

But lately he's foggier than usual.

You think it's your imagination, brush off the idea as you have all the millions of others you'd had in the preceding weeks about the surly brute that was Oliver Wood. He plagues you.

Just the vibrato of his unimpressed huff when you get your way, when you quip something purposely annoying at him. It's addictive, the feel of his sugar-brown eyes glaring a hole through you.

Lately, his reactions have been closer to underwhelming. Allowing for only a moment of eye contact: gone are the quick-witted retorts, the Scottish-laced "princess" usually attached. The thought makes you wince in embarrassment, knowing that you've been pressing him harder lately: like a seven-year old jabbing at a claw machine, outwardly desperate for that brown plushy on the top of the pile.

Maybe he's over it. So deathly mortified of your shared kiss that he doesn't want to know you anymore, much less take the effort to hate you. Your chest pinches tightly.

You dress into your match robes slowly, taking your time with the loops of your shoelaces and the buttons down the sweater you're wearing underneath everything. Oliver Wood should be at the bottom of your list of priorities, normally, but now more than ever.

The team filters into the change-room, exhibiting varying degrees of nervousness. Cedric is practically green, but Herbert looks like he's about to go down a water-slide he's waited over an hour in line for. Beyond the swinging doors, you can hear the crowd shuffling loudly into their seats.

Before your wits are completely about you, Hooch is rapping on those same doors. "Onto the pitch, Hufflepuffs!"

You muster up your best excuse for a captain's speech for what might be the last match you ever play as one. The team seem satisfied, you figure it's easy to find solace before a game when you know it's not your last. As the only seventh year, comfort doesn't come so easily to you.

The crowd is deafening when yellow robes take to the sky: Marcus looks over, offering another nod, not unlike the one he'd given you earlier. You can tell he's feeling the dread of finality too.

There's a whistle blow and the quaffle flies past your face with a speed that nearly evacuates your nose from your face. Lee is announcing in the distance and the rumble of adrenaline forces your fingers over the handle. It tilts and you dip, disappearing into the sky of players.

The winter air at Hogwarts was biting enough roaming the corridors, but thirty metres off the ground is something wholly unnatural. Your face was burning crisp from the icy wind, the feeling in your cheeks and nose lost to the Scottish cold.

Foggy white clouds puff out with each heavy breath. Cedric zooms past and Jane loops around his moving figure to knock a stray bludger in the opposite direction.

Your eyes flash between them and the fast approaching Malcolm, he tosses the quaffle at you with a grunt and you catch it at the tips of slippery, ice-frozen fingertips.

Shooting forward again, you duck under Marcus who is hurtling through the sky at you: gone is the look of friendly fondness from his eyes, replaced with a hunger for the leather-bound ball in your grasp.

Just missing the grasp of his meaty hand, the ball passes onto Heidi.

"Another ten points to Hufflepuff," Lee's voice echoes as if from heaven. "That brings the score to ninety for Hufflepuff and eighty for Slytherin!"

It's been nearly ninety-five minutes of sitting on your broom growing colder, and you're not alone.

Around you, the team is descending into frost-induced exhaustion: Jane's nose is as bright red as a Christmas ornament and Cedric has been peeping over the top of his thick woollen-scarf for at least the last half - barely enough to catch a glance of the whizzing canary and emerald robes, much less of a tiny golden snitch.

You sigh out another white breath, letting your eyes drift over the stands. It's saturated with moving heads of faces you can't make out and yellow and green swaying banners. Your gaze lingers on the top left, in the corner facing the castle. It's where Cherry and Enzo park themselves during every match, where you know they're screaming in support, clenching their teeth at every quaffle handover. You can feel them, even when their faces blur into the crowd.

Unintentionally, you think about how Oliver's mixed in there too. Somewhere between your peers. If you had been granted another moment, if the quaffle wasn't mid-air between two Slytherins just under your nose and you'd not taken the opportunity to snatch it from them, you would have meandered into the trap of hoping that deep down in his chest - even if it was core of the earth deep - he was rooting for you, too. That he seethed at a missed goal or clenched a tight fist at his side in celebration when a Hufflepuff makes a beautiful play.

Meanwhile in the stands, Oliver has decided that the desire to play his allegiances in secret has since disappeared from his heart.

He'd played it light in the first few minutes. Mumbling under his breath at a fumbled pass or a slimy move from the Slytherins, but by the forty-fifth minute he'd found himself on his feet.

"Diggory!" His hands waved in front of him, "it was right there you fucking git--"

A Hufflepuff third year a row ahead looked at him askew, but he paid her no mind.

Archie had taken the hint early. As soon as Oliver was out of his seat, so was he. Despite being Oliver Wood's best friend, Archie had somewhat limited knowledge of the game himself and eyed Oliver's reactions to find the appropriate moments to whoop and cheer. Oliver didn't say anything, but he appreciated it more than he could verbalise.

His eyes tracked you more than anything, when you were flying between players or just floating in place: eyes like a hawk, watching over the game. His heart swelled and his pride fell to the wayside.

Just short of the two hour mark, there was a rise in the crowd.

"The seekers have caught sight of the snitch!"

Oliver's stomach rose into his throat.

"They're diving for it, Malfoy and Diggory head to head-- and Slytherin grabs the snitch, winning by 140 points!"

It sank back into place, like a stone to the bottom of the river. He watched how you froze, how you twisted over your shoulder to find Diggory's figure lingering at the bottom of the field. You shoulders sagged, hanging in the air as the others dropped to the ground.

"Slytherin have made it into the finals against Gryffindor for the quidditch cup, back here at the pitch next month!"

After a long moment, the last in the sky, you followed them down.

The raucous cheers from the Slytherins were hard to drown out, he wasn't even sure Archie heard him toss a "i'll find you at the castle" before he found himself pushing through the masses of people.

He fought against the wave moving to find the stairs, eager to return to the warmth of their dormitories, but Oliver was markedly more motivated than the majority. He stomped on some toes and nearly tossed a first year off the stands to race down the stairs.

Only once his feet had found the mushy grass of the pitch, did he pause to consider that he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say. What was the rush for? To comfort you, tease you for your loss?

The latter option was definitely what he could do, what he could say. What was expected of him, if he was being honest. Recently, however, he's found it harder and harder to come up with remarks to hurt your feelings. Found that he quite prefers that little smile that tucks into the corner of your mouth when he says something unexpectedly fond. How your eyes practically gleam.

There's shoving from all sides of him -- get out the way, bloody hell -- and the teams pass ahead of him. Leading the march, despite it being nothing more than a slow trudge, is your figure: squashed between those of who he recognises to be Cherry Stretton and Enzo Musa's.

Their arms wrapped over your shoulders, talking animatedly into your ear on each side. Enzo tips his head to meet yours, a small touch of comfort.

Oliver sighs. He has nothing to say and no comfort to offer, wondering for a moment what he could possibly bare to hear in his own final moments as captain. He thinks that anything from your mouth would work.

So he waits, parks himself beside the stairs and waits for Archie: watching the six-legged figure disappear up over the hill.

You're not at dinner.

He knows because he's been watching the door for the better half of an hour. Archie pushes his plate at him, "Eat something there, Ollie."

Begrudgingly, Oliver brings his drumstick up to his mouth. "She's not eaten a thing since breakfast, it's almost eight."

Archie passes a sympathetic look over him. "Her friends are here, I'm sure she'll be by soon. There's no use you joining her on a hunger-strike."

He's right. Cherry and Enzo and some others that frequent your circle are talking around the table, around the spot that you usually fill. But dinner goes on and students leak steadily out towards bed without your return.

Eventually Oliver huffs, like an irritated bulldog, and grabs for the nearest napkin: unfolding it out in front of him.

"What are you doing?" Archie asks thickly, spitting bits of rice at him.

Oliver reaches for two chicken skewers, placing them neatly on the white square: alongside a dinner roll and a pumpkin pasty.

He wraps them over, double wraps it with another napkin too.

"What does it look like, Arch."

Placing it carefully into the deep pocket of his robe, Oliver goes to stand - lacking the patience it takes for Archie to answer, or for his inevitable teasing. "I'll find you back in our room."

He's halfway out the hall when Archie's voice calls out to him, "You don't even know where she is!"

Oliver shakes his head, brandishing a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "I know where she is." He mumbles for only himself to hear.

You’d watched close to twenty-one quidditch matches from the stands at the pitch on Hogwarts grounds: played in almost half of them.

The seat is still slightly too small, just uncomfortable enough to make a person shuffle. Beyond the rim over the other end of the pitch you can see the orange sun dipping behind the horizon, drawing to darkness over your moment alone.

By now you're sure the party in the common room has long since found momentum. The one you'd been promised by the team, "it's your last game, cap, we need to celebrate!". You're sure someone somewhere is looking for you, bracing a plastic cup of Firewhisky with your name on it, but you can't find it within yourself to face it all just yet.

The silence of the evening is enough, you only wish you'd been fast enough to retrieve your broomstick that's somewhere off with Enzo. Just for one last lap.

The serenity of your loneliness doesn't persevere, however. You can hear shuffling up the steps, you're tempted to look but the sunset is slipping so quickly out of your hands that it's not worth the time wasted.

It's only when the footfalls draw closer, stopping when a body slumps into the seat beside you. The seats are so cramped that his knee brushes yours, the figure long since identified from the corner of your eye.

"Come to gloat?" You ask, eyes never leaving the sky.

He shrugs. "Not today."

You nod. His smell drifts on the breeze under your nose, like peppermint and soap and Oliver.

There's a long silence. Your robes crease against the fist sitting in your lap, you've yet to change out of your quidditch uniform, you know it will be the last time.

"You missed dinner."

"Does it matter?"

Despite your avoidant gaze, Oliver's is warming the side of your face. The evening air cools the same spot.

There's a shuffling that finally draws your eyes. Oliver is still in his robes too, and his hand emerges from a deep pocket with a folded napkin square. "Figured you'd be hungry."

He places it onto your lap with a gentleness you're coming to find more of in him. Something frighteningly warm erupts in your chest and your hands come up to it, pulling apart the napkin to find picky bits inside.

You're fighting between smiling and starting to cry. You do neither.

"You carried this in your pocket the whole way from the hall?"

His eyes flicker between the food and your face before he shrugs. "Yeah."

By now, you were fighting a losing battle and the smile pulled up at the ends of your mouth so tightly that your cheeks started to hurt. "Gross."

You pick up a chicken skewer regardless, biting into it and facing the sky again. You offer him the other one and he looks for a moment like he's going to argue but takes it quietly in the end.

The chicken is tender and only after you'd swallowed the first bit did you realise how hungry you'd actually been. You finish it without a word, going to tear the pasty in half and offering a piece to your companion.

You're picking at the roll now, tearing tiny bits off and feeding it piece by piece to yourself like a bird. "Last game."

He nods. "I know."

"What could someone say to you after your last game, Wood?" You pick at him, eyes flittering between him and the now nearly black sky. "You know, to make you feel better?"

Oliver shakes his head, leaning back and rolling his shoulders: as if the thought itself unsettled him.

"Nothing, probably. I'd probably just walk into the Black Lake and drown myself."

You think he's joking, but with Oliver Wood that was hardly a sure thing.

"You wouldn't."

"What's there left to live for?" He says it with an airy chuckle.

Shrugging, your head falls against your shoulder. "You'd have to figure it out, because I'd go marching in right after you. Carry you out if I had to."

Oliver stills, eyes wide and blinking at you. Your chest goes tight, the ghost of a smile pressing at your face.

"Bridal style and everything ..." You add quietly, stifling your chuckle.

He seems to come back to himself, nodding. "We should get back. Been a long day."

The napkin crumples in your hand, shoved down into the depths of your own pocket. You walk ahead, the pathway to the steps is only narrow enough for one person at a time, and he trails behind.

By the time you've hit the steps, Oliver moving down beside you, you're brewing around an apology. A way to thin the air, to ease where your chest is tight: swirling around well done, now you've made things awkward you git. It's halfway up to your tongue when skin brushes against the back of your hand.

Warm fingers explore your knuckles to find your cool ones, slipping to knot between them.

You work not to look down, because Oliver's skittish like that. From the corner of your eye, you can see he's concentrating his gaze ahead.

His hand tightens against yours, palm callous from years wrapped around the wooden handle of his broomstick. It's a little sweaty and sticky but you're smiling so hard you're about to be sick.

You dare to look at him, Oliver's smiling too.

Oliver hasn't been sleeping.

His last few days of seventh year are slipping like water through his calloused hands and he can feel it. Every hour that passes, shadowy and fleeting.

Classes feel shorter than before, the terrible jokes Archie bombards him with over dinner sound funnier than he ever remembers them being and the glimpses he catches of you in the corridor never feel long enough. The ceiling of his poster bed flashes with moments of the day that's passed, feeling like a dream you'll be jolted out of as soon as it gets good.

Even over all his hours of broody contemplation, none of it makes the final whistle any easier to swallow. It hits him like he's been smacked with a bludger in the chest.

"Gryffindor has won the quidditch cup, two-hundred and thirty points to twenty!"

He can hear the crowd's roar, the whoops of the twins floating somewhere below him. Harry's standing on the grass of the pitch holding up his tiny golden trophy. The pitch is red all over: Oliver won.

He won.

Every moment building up over the last seven years culminated into the final blow of the whistle. The wind is whipping at the hair over his forehead: Oliver thinks this might be the happiest moment of his life, but he's not entirely sure.

He never realised that it would all be so fucking soaked in sadness.

It's over. He's leaving the castle empty handed. His engraving will live on the Quidditch Cup in a dusty cupboard for years to come, yes, and he might have a frame up in his future apartment somewhere, reminiscing on the old days. That's all.

He's struck with the devastating fear that in a few short years, nobody will remember him. More than anything, he can't believe he hadn't come to this overwhelming conclusion before right now. Before Angelina is yelling to him, waving a frantic hand and sporting the biggest grin in all of Scotland, before he was seconds from taking the prize he's held in his mind for so many years into his very hands.

Will you forget him?

It nearly knocks him off his broom. He finds that it scares him the most, more than the thought of the dust-caked trophy or the lonely corner at the back of his cupboard where his Hogwarts robes will no doubt live until eternity.

He won't forget you, he thinks. He knows.

You're just so damn annoying. And beautiful, fucking whip-clever and hilarious sometimes--

The handle of his broom is tilting down to the earth now, the crowd zooming into a blur on either side of him. He hits a shaky landing, broomstick abandoned on the grass behind him as he's pulled into the arms of his team and well-wishers.

A golden trophy passes over the heads of the twins and it's shoved into his sweating hands. It's cool to the touch and so much heavier than he thought it ever could be, but he can't seem to keep his mind on the situation long enough to realise any of that. His mind is racing around the castle wondering where you might be and what's the fastest way to get there.

His eyes are racing over the heads of the roving crowd. "Wood, Wood! Speech!"

Shadowing over everyone is Archie's tall figure standing at the back, grinning down at him. The team watches expectantly.

This is it. The moment for the speech he's been practicing in his bathroom mirror since he was seven.

"I--" he looks down at the cup for the first time, his face reflecting up at him in glimmering gold. He finds he can't remember any of the words. "I need to go find someone."

There's a buzz of confusion, but Oliver doesn't linger: shoving the Quidditch Cup into Harry's arms.

"That's the shortest speech Wood has ever given." He hears Angelina quip, but he can't be arsed to turn. He's already flying, moving through the crowd at such a pace he might just have been on his broom.

The sea of students had long since started moving up to the castle, particularly the non-gryffindors: trying to beat the stampede of scarlet that is no doubt to come. Oliver's legs carry him over the smooth green hill up towards Hogwarts, head craning over students to find your side profile somewhere in the mass.

He catches few oy, watch it!'s and congrats, Wood!'s but he doesn't turn, doesn't stop running. Students bespeckle the grass like ants lining up for crumbs, and he's all the way up into the stone corridor leading to the Great Hall when he spots Cherry's velvet red curls over the crowd, and sure enough, he finds you're knocking her shoulder with your own.

It only takes one shout of your name and you turn to peek curiously back, by which time he's taken both your shoulders into his hands and steered you to the wall of the corridor.

"Wood! What are you do--"

His hands squeeze around the plush at your upper arms. "Oliver. My name is Oliver."

Your eyes are wide in surprise, the window behind you showcases the gardens and the pitch in the distance. Sunlight forms a halo over the crown of your head.

With a head tilted in confusion, you nod slowly. "Alright ... what are you doing, Oliver?"

He can feel the eyes of Cherry and Enzo burning a hole through the side of his head, but doesn't bother with it. You're blinking up at him, gentle and benign in your features. He wonders when it became like this, when you'd lost the tight brow and the frown every time you looked at him.

"I won the Quidditch Cup." He says blankly.

You nod, a small smile tucked into the corner of your lip. "I saw. Congratulations."

Oliver only nods back at you. "I wanted to tell you. I wanted to come shove it in your face."

He's shuffling closer to your figure, and he's more than pleased to discover that you aren't cowering from it.

"Of course you did, because you're a prat." But you're smiling so hard now that it's impossible to take your jab to heart. "Is that all, Oliver?"

A warm sensation is spilling into his rib cavity and his fingertips are buzzing with electricity when they come to find either side of your face.

"No." His forehead is nearly touching yours and your hands have wrapped around his wrists. "I came to ask you out on a date. A sappy, disgustingly romantic date where I bring you flowers and pay for your hot chocolate. You'd hate it."

"That truly sounds horrible." Your smile is so wide he can barely see the whites of your eyes and it pumps more adrenaline through Oliver than any argument you'd ever shared over the last seven years.

"So, is that a yes?"

You're bouncing on your toes a little bit, bumping your nose against Oliver's clumsily. The babble of passing students and gawking onlookers has practically fallen mute to him.

"Depends, are you going to kiss me goodnight after?" You whisper it, like it's a secret between just you and him.

He nods slowly, "pretty desperate to kiss you right now, if I'm being honest princess--"

You don't wait for him to finish, thank Merlin you don't wait for him to finish, and push up onto your toes: crashing against his mouth. You're kiss is as dizzying as he remembers, but softer this time. You kiss like you know he's not running away, hands pressing softly over his neck.

It's nothing like your kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room: where that one was desperate and hot and angry, this time it's born from longing and tenderness and acceptance.

It leaves him just as fucking breathless as the first time.

Somewhere behind him, he hears wolf-whistling (he's sure it's Cherry) and when you pull your lips off his, your face is flush with embarrassment.

"I will go on a date with you, Oliver."

He takes your hand into his, curling his fingers between your own. You lean up to peck him softly and bat your eyelashes at him, grinning innocuously when you whisper: "If you treat me like you did with Delilah, I'm throwing your broomstick into the fireplace."

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pagesfromthevoid · 2 months ago

Text

Future Fest | b. f. | 2

Bob Floyd x teacher!reader

She briefly considers that if he asked her, she’d go anywhere he wanted.

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: Tooth rotting fluff

Author's Note: My hand slipped

Masterlist | Talk to Me! | Coffee?

Bob is sitting to the side with Phoenix, anxiously shaking his leg. He’s been checking his phone every five minutes it feels like, waiting for a text from her. They’ve been at the Hard Deck for an hour or so. He’s pretty sure the school let out at four, but he wasn’t positive. Maybe she’d forgotten; he’s kicking himself for not getting her number instead.

“I can’t believe we go to a school thing and Baby on Board here manages to snag a teacher,” Hangman complains, hitting the cue ball across the table. He stands up straight, motioning to him. “C’mon. Look at him. No offense, I mean.”

“You really gotta stop saying ‘no offense’ when you say shitty things, Bagman,” Phoenix comments, rolling her eyes.

“She’s got a point,” Bob finally offers, looking up from his phone. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, keeping them in place. But he knows he has a shit eating grin on his face. “You’re the one that went out to lunch –I just happened to have stayed back. Right time, right place.”

“Don’t get cocky on us, Bobby,” Hangman warns, pointing the pool stick at him. “She hasn’t even texted you yet, has she?”

Bob deflates some, nodding sheepishly. Then, as if the universe wanted him to have a win, his phone buzzes.

Hey! It’s your new favorite teacher :)

He grins at the text, unable to help himself. Hangman groans in the background, but Bob isn’t paying any attention to him now as he focuses on what to say. Then he decides to be honest –it only made sense.

Glad you texted me. I was starting to kick myself for not getting your number lol.

There’s a beat, and he stares at the screen and the little bubble that pops up as she’s typing.

I’m pretty sure if I didn’t text you, my kids would have found out and murdered me. They’re so nosey lol

“You gonna play, Bob, or you gonna sit there and make eyes at your phone?” Fanboy teases, coming around to throw his arm around his shoulders. “Let’s see what your new friend is saying –,”

But Bob moves out of reach, holding his phone away from his friend as he stands up. “Knock it off –I’ll shoot later. I’ll be back in a sec.”

They all holler after him as he moves his way through the crowd and out the back doors. He considers, for a moment, if he should just call her. Would that be weird? He doesn’t really like texting; there could only be so much behind the words and it’s easy to misunderstand. And truthfully, he wants to hear her voice again.

He caves, and she picks up the first ring.

“I think you must have been able to read my mind,” she says from the other end of the call, and he can just see the pretty smile on her face. “I was just thinking I wanted to hear your voice.”

He blushes, running a hand over his jaw as he grins to himself. Then he sits on one of the chairs outside the bar, kicking his feet out. “I’m glad I’m not the only one, then,” he admits with a small chuckle. “How was the rest of your day?”

“Chaotic,” she admits with a laugh of her own. And Bob swears he’s never heard anything so sweet. “Once you left, the kids lost their damn minds on me. They’re so nosey –I couldn’t get them to focus at all.”

“I got the impression they’re a bit nosey,” he agrees, leaning back in the chair. “Are they always following you around, or was today a special sort of day?”

She sighs in a wistful sort of way, and he imagines her sitting in her living room. Maybe she’s relaxed after a long day, maybe she’s winding down. “Today was a special sort of day, but I do usually have a group that eats lunch with me every day. They were especially mad that I kicked them out.”

“I’ll have to make it up to them,” he offers without a second thought, sitting up again as Rooster comes outside. The pilot gives him a questioning thumbs up and Bob returns it with a smile. “I can bring lunch for them sometime, if you’d like.”

“Lieutenant Floyd, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to earn brownie points by being so nice to my students.”

He chuckles again, shaking his head. “Is it working?”

“It is,” she admits, and he covers his mouth because he knows he’s smiling like a damn fool. Even if she’s not here to see it, he can’t help it. “Let’s have that date before we start bribing my students to like you though.”

“I can make that happen,” he concedes, leaning forward now to rest his arms on the tops of his knees. “How’s Friday sound? I can pick you at six –there’s a nice little place on the water. The sunset’s always real pretty there.”

“That sounds like a great idea,” she agrees. “I’ll text you my address. What should I wear?”

“Anything you want.”

She hums at this, and he wonders what she’s thinking. But the thought is banished when she speaks again. “Well, I’ll see you on Friday, Lieutenant Floyd. I have to finish grading these essays before then, or our date will consist of you helping me grade.”

“I can do that too,” he offers without missing a beat.

“I…really believe you would do that,” she admits with a soft laugh. “Text me, though. Seriously. I can’t chat on the phone, but I…I would like to keep talking to you.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says confidently. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

He hangs up the phone and stares at the screen with what’s probably the dopiest grin possible. Bob stays there for a little while longer, texting back and forth with her until Fanboy comes out and forces him back inside.

I want to say duty calls, but all that really means is that they need me to drive them home –have a goodnight. I’ll see you soon

There’s not a beat missed when she replies back,

I can’t wait, Lt. Floyd. Goodnight.

There’s a little blue heart at the end of the text, and Bob swears that it makes his heart lurch in his chest. He’s already a smitten fool for a girl he just met; the team is going to give him so much shit.

*****

She’s not pacing exactly, but she’s definitely not standing still as she waits for Bob.

She doesn’t know why she’s so nervous; they’ve been texting back and forth all week and she called him at least twice after the initial chat. But she is, and so she’s finding things to do so she doesn’t sit and stew in her nerves. Touching up her lipstick, switching out the jewelry she’s wearing, changing her shoes…until there’s a soft knock on the front door and she takes a quick breath in.

“I got this,” she reassures herself, slipping her sandals back on, then opening the door.

Bob is standing there with a bouquet of flowers. He’s not in his uniform today; just a light blue flannel shirt that’s rolled up to his elbows and a pair of jeans. But she can’t help but think he’s just as handsome as the first time she saw him.

She’s distracted, and he clears his throat, but there’s a sheepish smile on his face as he speaks. “I wasn’t sure what flowers you liked, so I got probably one of everything.”

“These are beautiful,” she finally manages to say, taking them in her hands. “You can come in –I’ll put these in a vase then we can go.”

He follows her to the kitchen, where she fumbles around for a moment until she finds a vase big enough. She can feel his eyes on her for a moment but when she turns around, he’s looking at the photos on the wall just outside the kitchen. She comes up behind him, pointing at one of her as a little girl, with bright pink hair, and a younger boy with a green mohawk.

“That’s my little brother and I when we went back to Seattle for the first time since moving here,” she explains with a fond smile. “We weren’t supposed to be going anywhere, so my mom let us dye our hair and cut it up for the summer. My grandma got sick though and we had to go up there to help…My mom got the nastiest looks in the airport.”

“You miss it up there?” He asks, looking down at her.

“Sometimes, but it’s too cold for me now.”

He nods in agreement as she motions for him to follow again, grabbing her purse. “I was stationed briefly up in Bremerton, at Naval Base Kitsap. It rains…a lot.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” she laughs, shutting the door behind them. “Cold and wet. If it wasn’t so pretty, I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to live here.”

He opens the passenger door of his truck without hesitation, holding out his hand to help her in. She blushes at the motion, smiling to herself as she settles into the seat.

The drive isn’t long, and when they arrive, they’re seated out on the deck, right on the beach. The sun is just setting, and she thinks it’s the most magical thing she’s seen in years. Then, he pulls out her chair for her there as well. She wants to thank his mother for raising a proper gentleman, because she can’t remember the last time anyone pulled out her chair for her or helped her get into the car.

“Where are you from, Lieutenant?” She asks after the waiter takes their drink order.

“Montana,” he offers with a grin. “And you can just call me Bob.”

“Bob from Montana,” she repeats, nodding as if she suddenly understood a lot about him. “That does explain the accent –that midwestern chivalry too. Were you a cowboy before you were an officer, Bobby?”

He leans back in his seat a bit, watching her with that same grin he gave her at lunch the other day. “I did work on my family farm –can’t say I was a cowboy, though.”

“Shame, I bet you’d look cute in a cowboy hat.”

He blushes at that, and she laughs as she lifts her wine glass to her lips. “What made you wanna join the Navy? Isn’t Montana landlocked?”

He nods in confirmation, looking over at the water for a moment. “My dad, and his dad, and his dad before him –they were all military. It wasn’t even a second thought to join. But I wanted to work with planes, so the Navy had my best chance at that.”

“How often do you deploy?” She asks, and it’s a question she doesn’t really want an answer to, but she knows she needs to get it out of the way now before she’s hooked. Though, it might be too late.

“I just recently got back from deployment,” he explains, leaning his elbows on the table to look at her. His tone has shifted some, a bit more serious than before. “I’ll be here for a while, I think –they’re having our squad train a few teams of pilots on a new weapons system.”

“So that bodes well for a second date,” she offers, trying to ease any tension or concern he might have.

His smile says it all as he nods. “I think it does, yeah.”

The rest of the evening goes just as smoothly, conversation flowing easily between the two of them. They talk and eat, sharing a variety of things about themselves. She tells him about her favorite books, both personally and the ones she likes to teach. He tells her about his favorite movies and what he did before he moved to California. They don’t have a lot of things in common, but she tells him she’s interested in the things he talks about and is open to trying new things –but he has to be the one introducing them to her. He shares the sentiment, a grin on his face.

By the time the check comes, neither of them want the night to end.

“C’mon,” he suggests, taking her hand in his.

She follows without question, distracted by how large his hand is compared to hers. How calloused it is, which she knows is because of his work. There’s a brief moment where she considers how they would feel on other parts of her body, and the thought makes her flush as he pulls her down the boardwalk to the beach.

They slip off their shoes, leaving them up on the boardwalk in hopes they’re there when they get back. Feeling a little more bold, she pulls herself close to his side as they walk, other hand moving to hold onto his arm. Bob looks down at her, and even in the dark, she can see the blush creeping up his cheeks.

“I’m having a great time tonight, Bob,” she sighs when they stop, sitting down in the sand. She rests her head on his shoulder, still holding his hand, and looks out over the water. “Thank you for this.”

He squeezes her hand gently, and she can feel him looking down at her. “Thank you for saying yes. I’m not…usually one to ask a pretty girl out the moment I meet her. But I’m glad I did.”

She looks up at him, and they lock eyes for a second. A fondness is in his eyes —more than just a passing date or two, but actual care —and she smiles. There’s a charge between them; a tension that they both know all too well. It’s just up to them now to decide who's going to give into it first.

“I’d like to kiss you,” he admits, and she can’t help but let out a laugh. Because of course he’d ask; he’s too sweet not to.

“I’d like it if you did too,” she promises.

And that’s all it takes for Bob to lean in and close the gap between them. He’s soft, but a bit urgent, like he’s afraid if he stops, he’ll never get to kiss her again. But when she reaches up and touches his cheek, deepening the kiss, he slows down just enough to let her enjoy the feeling of his mouth on hers.

He tastes sweet —and a little salty, though that could be the ocean sticking to their skin. His hands find her waist, and he’s pushing her back into the sand. Her tongue traces along his bottom lip, a silent question of more. And he accepts, half on top of her, as she tangles her tongue with his.

She thinks she’s definitely hooked now. There’s no way she’s not; his weight against her, his hands on her hips. He tastes like honeysuckle and vanilla, and she briefly considers that if he asked her, she’d go anywhere he wanted.

When they finally pull apart —half because they need to breath and half because neither of them want to push this any further in the sand —he rests his forehead against hers. That boyish grin is plastered on his face, and her lips are swollen from kissing. They’re staring at each other like they think they both hold the stars in their eyes.

“Can we skip to the part where you ask me to be your girlfriend?” She asks, voice soft as they sit up slowly.

“After one date?” He points out, but not because he doesn’t want to. But because he’s surprised she does. “I…yeah. Absolutely.” She stares at him expectantly, grinning at him until he catches on. Then he nods quickly, fixing his glasses like it’s a nervous habit. “Sorry, yeah —I’d…I’d kill for you to be my girl, if you’d want that?”

“I do like the sound of being called your girl,” she admits, leaning over to kiss his cheek gently. “I definitely want that, Bobby.”

He nods again, unable to help the smile that’s spreading across his face. Then he’s kissing her again, like his life depends on it. But she’s laughing into the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“My girl,” he whispers against her lips when he pulls away.

“Your girl.”

#bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #robert floyd x reder #robert floyd #top gun maverick #top gun #lewis pullman x reader #lewis pullman

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shaiyasstuff · 4 months ago

Text

intimacy | rafayel

synopsis : He’s the perfect man for you, sweet, caring, a little aloof but he’s also very good at making you safe. However, he’s never initiated contact with you beyond just a kiss. One girl talk later, you find yourself wondering if it was time to give it a try. content : smut(well it’s more romance than actual smut), first time, no pull out, a little bit of awkward ness, rafayel x non-mc!reader, Shaiya is an OC, fluff, MDNI

You’ve been dating Rafayel for over a year now.

You first met him at the amusement park one evening, when you overheard a particularly dramatic sulk-fest about a missing cotton candy.

Apparently, some kid had “stolen” it from him.

You later found out his lady hunter friend had given it away.

Willingly and with a smile.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Out loud. Before you could slap a hand over your mouth, it was too late.

Two pairs of eyes landed on you.

One, vaguely confused and highly entertained.

The other, hopelessly love-struck.

He asked for your number five minutes later, pressured—or really, bullied—by his lady hunter friend, who gave him a not-so-subtle jab in the ribs and whispered something that sounded suspiciously like “grow a pair.”

The next day, he brought you to the sea.

Just a chill, no-pressure, totally-not-romantic beach date.

Until he asked you to be his girlfriend with all the nervous energy of a schoolboy confessing to his crush behind the gym.

And things just… took off.

You had café dates where you tried, and failed, to beat him at Kitty Cards.

You endured constant third-wheeling by his lady hunter friend, who took it upon herself to be your official ship captain—teasing the both of you mercilessly and often.

Despite the chaos, you were genuinely happy.

Life was good.

You had a boyfriend who was equal parts adorable and infuriating, and a new best friend who always had your back when said boyfriend decided to be a lovable idiot.

Then came the day it hit you.

Like a truck.

Or a surprise test.

You were lounging in your living room with Shaiya, legs tossed over your couch arm, when she peeked at you over a bag of chips and asked with a smirk, “So… have you two done it yet?”

You choked on your drink. “Excuse me?”

But before you could even mount a proper comeback, something clicked.

Wait.

Hold on.

In the ten months you'd been dating Rafayel, he hadn’t initiated anything even remotely intimate.

You gasped. “…No…”

The horror in your voice only made it worse.

That was all the invitation Shaiya needed. Your loveable—albeit infuriating—lady hunter friend burst into laughter, clutching her stomach as she doubled over.

“Don’t laugh!” you hissed, watching her wipe away tears from the corners of her eyes.

“I was just asking for fun,” she said with a smug grin. “You’re the one who took it seriously. That’s one point for me, zero for you.”

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “You’re right. He’s sweet. He’s an adorable puppy when we’re out and about, but I’ve never… thought of that.”

Her laughter softened, and so did her expression.

“Maybe it’ll happen soon. Don’t let it get you down.”

You threw her a half-hearted glare. “Now I’m insecure.”

That set her off again.

She laughed, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. “I’m sorry! But it’s part of my job, being your personal third wheel and emotional instigator. Besides,” she leaned in slightly, her tone more sincere now, “if I don’t talk to you about this, who else will?”

You paused. She wasn’t wrong.

There weren’t many women in your life you could talk to like this. And the old lady who sold potato sticks outside the café definitely didn’t count.

You let out a quiet sigh. “I just… never really thought about that.”

Your voice dropped as the weight of the thought settled.

Shaiya reached out and rubbed your shoulder gently. “Hey. I’m sorry if I went too far.”

You gave her a faint smile. “No, it’s not that. It’s just…”

Your words drifted off.

It wasn’t like you actually wanted Rafayel to be intimate with you.

Well. Maybe you did.

But it had never been the point.

You liked the playful arguments. The way he curled around you on the couch when you were sick or too tired to move.

The quiet comfort of simply existing beside him while he just… was.

And somehow, that had always felt like more than enough.

A knock tapped gently against the doorframe.

Both you and Shaiya looked up.

Rafayel stood there, casually leaning against the wood, his dusky purple hair slightly tousled, a paint-stained jacket slung over one shoulder.

His mismatched eyes flicked to you, then to Shaiya, one brow raising with practiced laziness.

“Well, well,” he said, voice smooth and low, “should I be worried, or flattered?”

Shaiya grinned. “You’re always worried and flattered.”

“I prefer revered, personally.” His gaze settled on you, softer now. “Everything alright?”

Your heart hiccuped.

You nodded quickly, too quickly. “Yeah. Just… girl talk.”

“Dangerous territory.” He stepped in, the scent of charcoal and citrus trailing after him. “I could feel the emotional tension from the hallway.”

Shaiya laughed. “I should go before I get accused of emotional arson.”

She rose and headed to the door, whispering as she passed you, “Think about what we said.” Then she tossed a wink at Rafayel. “Be gentle with her.”

He gave a mocking bow. “Always.”

When the door clicked shut, silence settled between you two.

Not uncomfortable, but charged.

Rafayel stayed near the door for a moment, watching you.

Then he crossed the room and lowered himself beside you with a graceful kind of stillness, the way he always moved when he wasn’t performing for the world.

“She meant well,” he said, voice barely above a murmur. “But she rattled you.”

You looked at your hands. “She just… made me think about things I wasn’t ready to think about.”

His fingers brushed yours. “Things like me?”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t push.

Instead, he leaned back slightly, eyes searching your face—not with judgment, but a quiet kind of curiosity, as if trying to see what you were protecting.

“I never expected you to be ready,” he said finally, “but I’m not going anywhere.”

There was no playful smirk now. No lazy swagger.

Just Rafayel, stripped of all the performative charm. Just him—deep and devastating and completely real.

And in that stillness, something shifted.

Maybe it was the way he didn’t demand anything. Or the way he offered the truth so gently.

But maybe—just maybe—you were starting to think about him after all.

“Well…” you began, turning to face him slowly, unsure where the words would land.

“I mean… we’ve kissed. A few times.”

He tilted his head, watching you with that same unreadable calm, eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. “Yeah…?” he said. “That’s normal, isn’t it?”

You nodded too quickly, then froze, your thoughts catching up to you a beat too late.

The memory of those kisses—soft, fleeting, innocent—brushed through your mind.

But then your thoughts slipped further, imagining what could come next. What might come next.

And suddenly, your face burned.

You glanced away, unable to hold his gaze now.

The idea of anything more than those kisses… anything more than the safe rhythm you’d settled into with Rafayel…

It felt daunting.

Especially when you looked at him.

Your boyfriend, with his tousled hair and teasing grin, who always reminded you of an affectionate puppy curled too close to the fire.

It was hard to align that image with the heat curling in your stomach.

Hard to reconcile the softness he gave you with the weight of want.

Rafayel leaned in a little, not close enough to crowd you, but enough for his voice to dip lower.

“Are you scared?”

You hesitated, then whispered, “I don’t know.”

And that was the truth.

You weren’t scared of him. Not really.

You trusted him with your life.

It was the idea. The change.

The possibility of crossing that invisible line where intimacy stopped being soft and started becoming something raw, something deeper, something you couldn’t undo.

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease.

He just nodded, like he understood.

“Then we don’t rush,” he said simply. “You tell me when you’re ready.”

And that, somehow, made your heart ache more than if he’d kissed you right then and there.

Because he meant it.

Because he saw you.

“I mean…” you trailed off again, glancing at him, your voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t you have… needs?”

The words hung in the air like fog—equal parts awkward, honest, and unintentionally hilarious.

You watched his expression shift, not in offense or surprise, but in that subtle way he always did when he was trying to read between your words.

There was no malice in your question. No pressure.

Just confusion.

Because it had started to gnaw at the edges of your thoughts—this quiet, growing need to understand him.

To repay him, even, in your own clumsy way.

For tying your shoelaces without being asked. For picking up the things you dropped when your hands were too full.

For tucking you in during thunder-heavy nights and crawling under the covers just to be near, to be warm, to be something steady when your world wasn’t.

For all the ways he took care of you without ever asking for anything in return.

And that’s what made it strange.

That he had never once initiated anything beyond a kiss.

Never reached for more.

Rafayel blinked slowly, his lips quirking—not into a smirk, but into something softer. Something unreadable.

“I have needs,” he said eventually, voice smooth, but not flippant. “But they’re not more important than you.”

You felt your breath catch.

“But… I want to make you happy,” you murmured. “Isn’t that part of it? Like… giving back?”

A shadow crossed his features, fleeting but there. He reached over, his fingers curling gently around yours.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said, and for once, there was no teasing in his tone. “I do those things because I want to. Not because I expect something in return.”

You looked down at your joined hands.

“I just… thought maybe you were waiting. Or holding back. For me.”

“I am,” he said, without hesitation. “But that’s not a burden. That’s a choice.”

He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, warm and unhurried.

“You’re not a debt to be paid. You’re a story I want to keep reading, one page at a time.”

Your cheeks flushed hot, your heart thrumming in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

It was the way he looked at you—like you were already enough.

And that, somehow, made you want him even more.

“But what if… I want to?”

Your voice was barely more than a breath, but it was enough to break the quiet between you.

You hesitantly lifted your gaze to him.

Rafayel’s expression softened immediately, as if the weight of your vulnerability wrapped around him like silk. Not fragile, but precious.

You felt nervous—tingly all over, your skin aware of every inch of space between you and him.

He was the first.

The first guy you’d let this close. The first who made it past the walls you didn’t even realize you’d built.

You’d never actually done it before.

Never crossed that invisible line with anyone.

And now, here you were—sitting beside the man who looked at you like you were made of starlight and sea glass. Like fire couldn’t burn him if it came from you.

“I…” You swallowed. “I’ve never done this. With anyone.”

Rafayel didn’t move at first. His gaze lingered on your face, absorbing every word you didn’t say.

Then, gently, he reached up—fingertips brushing the side of your cheek, slow and featherlight.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

You blinked. “For what?”

“For trusting me with that.”

Your breath caught.

He leaned in, close enough that his forehead almost touched yours, but stopped short. His voice dropped to a near whisper.

“If you’re ready, really ready… then I’ll be whatever you need. I’ll move at your pace. I’ll hold you. Kiss you. Worship every inch of you.”

A flush bloomed down your neck.

“But if there’s even a sliver of doubt,” he continued, thumb brushing your jaw, “then I won’t lay a finger on you. Because I want all of you. Not just your body.”

You nodded slowly, your heart thrumming in your chest like wings caught in wind.

Rafayel didn’t ask again. He didn’t rush.

He just waited.

And something about that—about him—made your fear melt into something warm.

Something that felt like love.

You stayed still, your breath mingling with his, your heartbeat loud in your ears.

Rafayel didn’t move any closer. He didn’t try to sway your decision.

He just stayed there—close enough to feel, but far enough to wait.

Your fingers twitched against your lap before finding his. You laced them together, slowly, tentatively, and he squeezed once. Firm. Steady.

“I don’t know what I’m ready for,” you whispered. “But I know I want you.”

His smile was soft, almost pained in how tender it looked on him. His eyes shimmered—not with fire this time, but something far more fragile.

“You already have me,” he said.

There was no heat behind his words. No hunger, no pressure. Just truth.

And for the first time, that truth didn’t feel daunting. It felt like a quiet, open sky.

You leaned into him, letting your forehead touch his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you like you were something precious, not breakable—but worth protecting.

His breath came slow, steady, and you felt it rise and fall beneath your cheek.

No more words were needed.

No promises, no decisions.

Just this—warm skin, slow breaths, the sound of his heart beneath your ear.

He held you like that until your nerves melted into calm. Until the tremble in your hands faded into stillness.

And outside, the night rolled on, untouched.

—•

When you woke the next morning, everything felt soft.

The light was dim, filtered through the curtains in streaks of pale gold.

The room was still, quiet, heavy with the warmth of sleep.

You blinked slowly, disoriented at first, until the familiar scent of smoke and citrus drifted through your senses.

You shifted slightly.

That was when you felt it.

Something firm, pressing lightly against your lower belly.

You froze.

Rafayel was still asleep, his arm draped around your waist, his breathing slow and even beside your ear. His body curled protectively around you, one leg tangled with yours, holding you in place as if even in dreams he couldn’t bear to let go.

And you realized, slowly, that you were still on the couch.

The two of you must’ve fallen asleep like that last night, somewhere between hushed confessions and shared stillness.

You swallowed.

You had never noticed things like this before. You’d always been so… innocent.

But after yesterday—after Shaiya’s teasing and the conversation that followed—you were suddenly aware.

Aware of the way Rafayel’s body was pressed to yours.

Of the heat between you.

Of every subtle shift in his breath when your thighs brushed.

You felt your heart stutter in your chest, a flush creeping up your neck.

Not from fear.

But from knowing.

From finally understanding the unspoken gravity that came with loving someone like this.

You tilted your head, just slightly, watching him. His hair had fallen over his eyes, his expression soft, almost boyish in sleep.

Still, there was something undeniably real about him like this.

Vulnerable.

Human.

And maybe a little bit yours.

You closed your eyes again, pressing your face gently against his collarbone.

You weren’t ready for everything.

But you were ready to hold this moment.

To feel.

To want.

And to slowly, carefully, let yourself fall.

You weren’t sure how to do it.

Your knowledge was limited to a blurry, awkward twenty-minute video from sex ed in high school, filled with sterile diagrams and uncomfortable silence.

Nothing about it had prepared you for this.

For the quiet rise and fall of Rafayel’s chest beneath your cheek.

For the weight of his arm still around your waist. For the strange, beautiful ache blooming low in your belly—tender, unexplainable, but insistent.

There was no plan. No clear thought.

Just a need.

Something stirring and restless and new.

You shifted carefully, your fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt as you tilted your head.

Your lips brushed his collarbone.

Featherlight.

A second kiss followed. Then another.

Each one just a little more deliberate. A little more brave.

You felt it when he stirred.

The faint hitch in his breath.

The way his muscles tensed slightly beneath you, as though part of him was trying not to move.

But he didn’t stop you.

He stayed still. Waiting.

You kissed your way higher, barely skimming skin, heart hammering in your chest. It wasn’t about knowing what to do.

It was about feeling.

Rafayel shifted, just enough for his hand to find the small of your back.

Not pulling you closer—just resting there.

Warm. Grounding.

His voice came low and rough with sleep.

“…Y/N?”

You froze, your lips hovering near his throat. Embarrassment flooded your chest.

“Sorry,” you whispered, already pulling back. “I didn’t mean—”

His hand tightened just slightly, not to stop you, but to hold the moment in place.

“Don’t be sorry,” he murmured. “Just… tell me what you want.”

You looked at him.

Really looked at him.

Hair tousled, eyes still hazy with sleep, voice like smoldering embers.

He looked breathtaking like this.

And vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen before—waiting for your answer, for your choice.

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

His gaze didn’t waver.

“Then we’ll learn together.”

There was no urgency in him. No hunger that would push past your hesitation.

Only patience. Only care.

And in that silence between your heartbeat and his, you realized this was what it meant to be ready.

Not to know everything.

But to want to share the unknown—with him.

Rafayel’s touch was warm against your back, his fingers tracing lazy, soothing circles as if he were trying to calm not just your nerves, but his own.

You felt the way your heart stammered against your ribs.

You weren’t sure what you were doing, but you knew one thing.

You wanted him.

Not just in the way people talked about behind closed doors, not just out of curiosity or some shallow idea of closeness.

You wanted this.

This softness.

This warmth.

The reverence in his voice.

The way he looked at you like you were something sacred.

You tilted your head, brushing another kiss over his collarbone.

He exhaled slowly, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek.

Your eyes met.

And even though your chest felt tight and your fingers trembled, you whispered, “I want to.”

His expression softened.

Not with desire—but with something deeper.

Something tender.

“Are you sure?” he murmured.

You nodded. “I don’t know how. But I want it to be with you.”

Upon hearing that, there was a subtle flicker of something in his eyes.

Something that resembled desire.

Rafayel leaned in and kissed you, slow and full of meaning, as if he’d waited forever to be told that.

His lips moved against yours with care, slow and deliberate, as if he was memorizing the shape of your mouth with every kiss.

He gave you space to breathe between them, never rushing, never pushing.

But then, something shifted.

A warmth, low and unfamiliar, unfurled beneath your belly—soft at first, then insistent.

You found yourself leaning into him, seeking more, like your body was moving on its own.

And when you exhaled a quiet moan into his mouth, you felt it.

The way his body tensed against yours.

Rafayel pulled back, barely, his forehead resting against yours as he fought for breath.

“I can’t hold back,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “not if you sound like that.”

His eyes met yours, no longer just soft with affection.

They burned now.

Still full of love, but threaded with something deeper—raw need, and desire so carefully restrained it made your chest ache.

You could see it in the way his jaw tightened. In the subtle tremor in his arm as he held himself still.

You reached up, brushing your thumb gently along his cheek.

And with a soft, trembling smile, you whispered, “Then don’t.”

His lips found yours again—this time with hunger.

There was no hesitation now, no careful pauses between kisses. Just heat. Intention.

You startled slightly at the sudden intensity, but his hands were already there, grounding you, guiding you—and soon enough, you melted into him.

The kiss deepened, breath hitching between the spaces where your mouths met.

Soft, involuntary sounds slipped from your throat—quiet, breathy mewls that you couldn’t have held back even if you tried.

And that was all it took.

Whatever restraint Rafayel had left unraveled, unraveling with the delicate curve of your waist beneath his palms, the way your fingers clutched at his shirt like you needed more of him.

His hands roamed now—reverent, searching, hungry. Not to claim, but to feel.

Desire poured off of him, thick and tangible, warm enough to set your skin alight beneath his touch.

And through it all, he still moved with care, even in his urgency.

As if your body was a canvas, and he wanted to memorize it with every brush of his hands.

Every kiss tasted like longing.

Every breath felt borrowed from something sacred.

And still, you wanted more.

When his fingers found the hem of your shirt, he stilled.

The heat between you didn’t fade, but his hands—once so eager—held still now, trembling faintly as his eyes rose to meet yours.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

It was written all over him.

The reverence. The restraint.

The barely contained desire he kept shackled beneath every careful breath.

You nodded.

Just once. But it was enough.

His jaw tensed, and he exhaled slowly, as though the motion alone steadied him. Then, with hands that betrayed nothing of the fire he felt, he lifted your shirt—inch by inch, never rushing, never daring to look away from your face.

As if watching for the moment you might change your mind.

But you didn’t.

You let him undress you with that quiet devotion, every movement full of patience, full of care.

His touch never once felt greedy.

Only awed.

As though this was something sacred. As though you were.

And in that silence between heartbeats, you realized—he wasn’t just touching your skin.

He was memorizing you.

His lips found your collarbone, warm and open, pressing kisses that trailed lower with aching slowness.

Each one was deliberate. Soft. Reverent.

You gasped, the sound catching somewhere between surprise and surrender, as a moan slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

It was a sensation unlike anything you’d ever known—foreign, yes, but raw and deeply, inexplicably real.

His mouth moved against your skin like he was learning it, worshiping it. Like this was something sacred to him, something he didn’t dare rush.

Your breath came shallow now, fingers curling gently into the fabric of his shirt, the weight of his body a comforting warmth above yours.

Rafayel paused only to look up at you again, his lips brushing just below your throat, his voice low and rough with restraint.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, as if the words weren’t for you, but something he needed to say aloud. Something he needed you to know.

And with every kiss that followed, you believed him a little more.

You let yourself explore him with trembling hands—fingertips grazing along his collarbone, then gliding lower, over the firm lines of his chest and the warmth of his skin.

He felt solid beneath your touch, alive and real in a way that sent shivers across your spine.

Your palms traveled along the curve of his back, tracing the dips of muscle, the heat of him burning beneath your skin.

Rafayel inhaled sharply, his hands catching yours in his own, gripping them tightly.

Not to stop you.

But to hold you.

As if anchoring himself.

As if grounding you both in this fragile, precious space between hesitation and surrender.

His fingers wove through yours, then slowly guided your hands back to him, encouraging, wordless, wanting.

He made you feel safe even in your uncertainty—made you forget the quiet fear of not knowing what came next.

Because with him, it wasn’t about perfection.

It was about presence.

And the way his body reacted to yours—the slight tremble in his breath, the way his muscles tensed when your touch lingered—made something ache sweetly within you.

His mouth returned to your throat, kisses hotter now, lingering longer, trailing lower.

When his lips closed gently around your skin and sucked, your breath hitched, a soft sound leaving you without permission.

The friction of your bare skin against his, the growing heat, the mounting need between your legs—it was all overwhelming in the most beautiful way.

And when his hands slid down your sides, drawing you flush against him, every inch of you humming, you let yourself stop thinking.

You just felt.

You moaned again, breath catching sharply, when his fingers found your nipple—already sensitive, already aching for more.

The contact sent a jolt through your body, a sharp gasp slipping from your lips before you could stop it.

Rafayel’s eyes darkened at the sound, and in one swift, practiced motion, he unclasped your bra, letting the fabric fall away.

Then came the heat of his mouth.

Warm. Wet.

You almost cried out at the sudden sensation—his tongue swirling, lips pulling gently around the peak of your breast.

It was overwhelming, the way he worshipped you, the way his mouth moved with such purpose and reverence that your spine arched off the couch.

You felt his hands on your hips, steadying you, holding you in place as he continued—slow, focused, unrelenting in the way he tasted you.

Your hands threaded through his hair, desperate for something to hold onto as your body writhed beneath his.

Every flick of his tongue sent sparks scattering through you, every subtle graze of his teeth made your thighs clench, the heat building between them unbearable.

And through it all, he never rushed.

He took his time—worshipping you like you were the only thing that existed.

And in that moment, in his arms, beneath his mouth, you felt like you were.

“R–Rafayel…” you whimpered, your voice trembling with need.

Your fingers tangled into his lilac waves, clutching them tightly as your body instinctively arched into his mouth. You pulled him closer, unable to help yourself, craving more of his warmth—his weight, his worship.

He growled low in his throat, the sound rumbling against your skin like thunder.

The way his name spilled from your lips—it undid him.

His tongue returned to your nipple, this time slower, more deliberate, tracing teasing circles before flicking softly across the sensitive tip.

The sensation sent your breath stuttering, your moans spilling freely now, raw and unrestrained.

You could feel him pressing against you, his arousal impossible to ignore—thick and straining against his jeans, the heat of it pressing right into the growing ache between your thighs.

Even through the layers of fabric, the pressure made your body tremble, made you more aware of how badly you wanted him—every inch of him.

Your legs shifted instinctively, parting just enough to invite him closer, to let him settle between them.

He rose slowly, lips trailing up your body, peppering your skin with kisses as he came to hover over you. His breath was ragged now, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with desire, but still watching you—checking, searching, waiting for your consent.

His voice, when it came, was rough and strained.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours. “Anything, and it’s yours.”

“You,” you breathed, barely able to form the word. “I want you.”

And with that, whatever thin thread of restraint Rafayel had been clinging to snapped.

He surged forward, capturing your lips in a kiss that was nothing like before—sloppy, desperate, filled with the kind of need that had been simmering far too long beneath the surface.

You gasped into his mouth, startled and breathless, but welcoming it—welcoming him.

His hands fumbled at the button of his jeans, the motion rushed, clumsy in a way that made your heart stutter. This wasn’t polished or perfect. This was real.

Raw.

Human.

And it made your chest ache with affection, even as your body burned for more.

He kissed you through it—deep and unrelenting—and when your lips parted on a shaky breath, he took the invitation without hesitation.

His tongue slid against yours, slow and claiming, exploring you like he had all the time in the world.

You whimpered beneath him, hips lifting instinctively as your thighs framed his waist, inviting him closer, pulling him in.

The heat of his body pressed into yours, every inch of him now impossibly close, and still it didn’t feel like enough.

You wanted all of him.

Not just the weight, the warmth, the passion.

You wanted the connection.

The kind that set fire to your body and soothed your soul all at once.

And Rafayel—he gave it.

Every kiss. Every touch. Every breath.

All of it, only ever for you.

He pulled away from the kiss, breathless, lips swollen and eyes dark with heat.

“I have to prepare you,” he murmured, voice husky and low. “Is that okay?”

You couldn’t find your voice, so you nodded—your body already trembling with anticipation.

Rafayel’s hands moved with care, helping you out of your underwear.

Every movement was gentle, reverent, his touch lingering as if he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you like this.

You nearly cried out when you felt it.

Hot. Wet. Unbelievably intimate.

His tongue pressed firmly against your core, slow and purposeful, and your back arched instinctively off the couch.

Your toes curled, thighs snapping shut on instinct, but his strong hands were already there, holding you open, steady, as he groaned into you.

The sound vibrated through your skin, deep and raw, sending another wave of pleasure crashing through you.

“So… sweet,” he breathed between licks, his voice thick with hunger and awe.

He devoured you slowly, like he had all the time in the world, like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered.

Each stroke of his tongue was deliberate—teasing, tasting, coaxing soft, helpless sounds from your throat that only seemed to spur him on.

And all the while, his grip never loosened.

Like he needed to keep you close. Like he wanted you to fall apart in his hands.

And slowly, piece by piece, you did.

The sounds—wet, lewd, unrestrained—filled the quiet of your living room, echoing off the walls like a secret you were no longer trying to hide.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Not when he was between your thighs like this.

Not when Rafayel, your purple-haired boyfriend who always held you like you were something fragile, was now tasting you like you were something divine.

He buried himself between your legs with single-minded devotion, tongue gliding through your folds, slow at first, then firmer—more confident—as he found the places that made you gasp and twitch beneath his hold.

Your fingers dug into the cushions, your hips rolling into his mouth without thought, chasing every flick and swirl of his tongue.

He groaned again, the sound low and hungry, vibrating against your sensitive skin as he mouthed at you like he was drunk on the taste of you.

And maybe he was.

His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you open wider, grounding you while your legs trembled around his shoulders.

You felt exposed, undone, utterly vulnerable.

But with him—there was no shame.

Only heat.

Only want.

Only the slow, steady build of something that was about to consume you whole.

Something coiled deep under your belly—tight and burning, like a knot drawn taut with every languid stroke of his tongue.

Your breath came in shaky gasps, the tension building faster than you could keep up with. Your body trembled, hips rising instinctively to meet his mouth, to chase the feeling you were terrified and desperate to reach.

Your fingers found his hair, sinking into the soft lilac strands, gripping tight as your body began to shake.

“R–Rafayel,” you gasped, your voice high and breathless.

He growled softly at the sound, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through you as he doubled down, tongue flicking and pressing with deliberate, perfect rhythm.

The coil inside you tightened to the breaking point.

You were unraveling beneath him, your entire body flushed, teetering at the edge of something you had no words for—only feeling.

“Just let it go,” he cooed gently.

Rafayel’s hands never left you, his grip firm on your hips as he kept you grounded, held you open, guided you through it.

You felt yourself shatter.

Quietly.

Completely.

With his name on your lips and his mouth still worshipping you like you were something holy.

You were still shaking, the aftershocks rippling through your limbs like waves on a trembling shore.

Before you could catch your breath, his lips were on yours again—urgent, hungry, claiming.

You could taste yourself on his tongue, warm and heady, as he kissed you with a passion that made your head spin.

Your moan was muffled by his mouth, your mind hazy and dazed from the high you had barely begun to come down from.

A sharp gasp tore from your lips as you felt him slide into you, slow but unrelenting.

You broke the kiss with a choked cry, the stretch overwhelming, unfamiliar, real.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes—not from pain, not exactly, but from the intensity of it all.

The sensation. The closeness. The raw, unfiltered reality of finally becoming one with him.

Rafayel stilled immediately, his hands cradling your face as he leaned in close, lips brushing your temple.

“Shh… it’s okay,” he whispered, over and over, each word a soft litany, a promise.

“I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

He kissed the tears before they could fall, his forehead resting gently against yours.

His voice was low, trembling with restraint. “Just breathe… we’ll go slow. You’re safe.”

And with those words—his warmth, his love wrapping around you like silk—you let yourself relax into him.

Let yourself feel.

Because no matter how overwhelming this moment was.

You weren’t alone.

You had him.

All of him.

You rolled your hips slowly, cautiously at first, adjusting to the stretch of him inside you. The ache was still there—sharp at the edges—but with every slow grind, it dulled, softened, giving way to something deeper.

Something hotter.

You gasped softly as your body relaxed around him, the pain melting into a slow-burning pleasure that made your skin tingle and your breath catch.

Rafayel groaned above you, his jaw clenched, chest rising and falling as he fought to hold himself still beneath your careful rhythm.

His fingers gripped your waist, firm but reverent, like he was anchoring himself with you.

“God,” he hissed through his teeth, voice low and wrecked, “you’re so warm… so tight.”

The words sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly.

He dipped his head, lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “You feel like heaven.”

You whimpered, your thighs trembling around his hips as you moved again, grinding just enough to feel every inch of him drag deliciously along your walls.

He shuddered, his breath stuttering as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, mouthing at your skin, kissing and biting gently as your pace gradually built.

Each movement became easier, slicker, the room filled with the obscene, wet sounds of your bodies moving together.

You moaned louder this time, your hands running over the planes of his back, nails dragging lightly as your hips met his again and again.

The friction, the fullness, the stretch—it overwhelmed you in the best way, your body burning, trembling, needing.

Rafayel lifted his head, eyes meeting yours, completely undone.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, thrusting into you with a slow, deep roll of his hips. “So perfect around me.”

You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders as the pleasure began to spiral inside you again, tighter this time, urgent and all-consuming.

And as he began to move faster, matching your rhythm, all you could do was hold on—moaning his name like a prayer, unraveling piece by piece beneath him.

“Let me,” he whispered, voice rough with desire.

His hands slid firmly to your hips, holding you in place as to still you, then began to move.

The first thrust was slow, deep, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you.

You gasped, fingers tightening in his hair, your head falling back as your body trembled from the sensation.

He set the rhythm carefully at first, hips rolling into you with steady, deliberate strokes. Each one made your breath catch, your core fluttering around him with need.

He moaned into your ear, low and broken, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

“God… you feel so good,” he groaned, pace beginning to build.

You moaned as he picked up speed, your voice rising with every thrust—soft gasps giving way to louder, breathless cries as pleasure rippled through your body in waves.

Your walls clamped around him, clenching with every stroke, the friction maddening, perfect.

“R–Rafayel,” you choked out, your body rocking with his, overwhelmed by how full you felt, how completely he claimed every part of you.

He answered you with a kiss—hot, desperate—his mouth crashing into yours to swallow the sounds spilling from your lips.

You kissed him back, open-mouthed and hungry, moaning into him as his thrusts grew deeper, harder, the slap of skin echoing with every movement.

His hands roamed your body—palms sliding up your back, thumbs brushing the swell of your breasts—never stopping, never breaking the rhythm as he lost himself in you.

You felt it building again, that heat coiling low in your belly, unbearable and perfect, and with every breathless grind of his hips, it drew tighter, closer.

He felt it too, in the way you pulsed around him, in the way your cries turned into sobs of pleasure against his mouth.

And still, he didn’t stop. He gave.

All of him.

Your body tightened around him, trembling with the rising pressure that coiled low and hot inside you, each thrust sending sparks down your spine.

Rafayel groaned against your mouth, hips moving harder now, more desperate, his rhythm faltering just slightly with the intensity.

“Fuck—” he breathed, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were wild with heat, pupils blown, flushed skin glowing under the low light. “You feel… so good around me. So fucking perfect.”

You cried out, voice breaking as he angled his hips just right, hitting that spot deep inside you that made your vision blur.

Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, your body clinging to him as if you could pull him even deeper, never wanting to let him go.

He grunted through gritted teeth, his control unraveling.

“Don’t hold back, cutie,” he whispered, his voice ragged. “Let me hear you. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you did.

Your nails dug into his back, your head thrown back with a loud moan as your orgasm crashed over you, blinding and all-consuming.

You pulsed around him, muscles spasming, hips jerking as waves of heat tore through you, leaving you gasping his name like a plea.

He cursed under his breath, his rhythm faltering again as you clenched around him.

“Shit, you’re gonna make me—”

His mouth fell open with a low, guttural groan as he thrust deep, grinding into you once, twice more before he came.

You felt it—the sharp, delicious jerk of his body as he spilled into you, heat flooding your core as he buried himself to the hilt, trembling through his release.

You moaned at the feeling of each rope, filling you up.

“God… Y/N,” he gasped against your neck, lips pressing against your sweat-slicked skin, “I love you. I love you.”

He kept whispering it, even as his body slowly stilled, even as he collapsed gently onto you, careful not to crush you beneath his weight.

The only sounds left were your shared, heavy breaths, your heart pounding against his chest, and the soft hush of his voice murmuring your name like a vow.

The world had gone quiet again.

Not silent—but still.

The kind of stillness that settles after a storm, where everything feels washed clean, softened by the weight of what had just been shared.

Rafayel lay above you, his forehead resting gently against yours, eyes still closed as he caught his breath.

Your bodies remained tangled, skin damp with sweat, his warmth wrapped around you like a blanket. Neither of you moved to speak at first. There was no need.

It was all there, in the quiet.

The trust.

The vulnerability.

The love.

After a while, he pulled back just enough to look at you, brushing your hair gently from your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

His thumb ghosted over your cheekbone, and he leaned in to press the softest kiss to your temple.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice hushed and a little hoarse.

You nodded, too full to speak for a moment.

Then, “Yeah… I’m okay.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. He looked at you like you were something fragile, sacred, something he could never take for granted.

“I didn’t hurt you?”

“No,” you whispered. “You were… perfect.”

You saw the relief in his face, the way his shoulders finally relaxed.

And then he tucked you against his chest, his arms sliding around you, holding you close like he never wanted to let go.

Your head rested against the curve of his collarbone, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“I’ve never felt anything like that before,” you murmured. “Like… I could break apart and still be safe in your hands.”

He tightened his hold around you. “You are safe with me. Always.”

You lay there together, your fingers trailing gently over his chest, his hand drawing lazy circles along your back. The room was filled only with the sound of your breathing, the occasional quiet kiss he’d press to your hair, your forehead, your shoulder.

“Was it okay?” you asked, almost shyly.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes again. “Okay?” He gave a breathless laugh. “It was everything.”

Your lips met again—this time slow, sweet, lingering.

No hunger now. Just gratitude.

Intimate. Love.

And as he pulled the blanket up around you, as you curled tighter into his chest and let your eyes flutter closed, you realised.

You hadn’t just given yourself to him.

You had found yourself with him.

And he had held every part of you like it mattered.

Like you mattered.

masterlist

#lads #lads x reader #love and deepspace #lnds x reader #love and deepspace x reader #lnds rafayel #rafayel x y/n #rafayel x you #love and deep space rafayel #rafayel fluff #lads rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #about rafayel #rafayel smut

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lydiasfalling · 5 months ago

Text

SWEET CREATURE !

percy jackson x aphrodite! reader

➸✧˖*°࿐ taglist : open!

˗ˋˏ warnings : use of y/n, nothing else really ˎˊ-

‧₊˚✧ lydia’s yap fest ! ✧˚₊‧

happy valentine’s day everyone! hope you guys enjoy this. could possibly make this a series if it’s liked enough. love ya!!!

walking around camp half blood at this time of year seemed to mock you. the fellow aphrodite’s kids seemed to be focused on finding a valentine. now, dot get it twisted. you wanted a valentine. bad. the only problem with this was, well, your intense and completely obvious crush on percy jackson. something about his confidence and charismatic aura drew you in and ruined you for anyone and everyone else.

there was another problem with this. percy jackson happened to be your best friend. you had tried everything to get these feelings to go away. dating other camp members, having different flings, setting percy up with other people, and tartarus, you even had people give you love potions. nothing worked. it was getting unbearable for everyone surrounding the two of you. in particular, annabeth and grover seemed the most annoyed.

the pair had also tried to help you guys understand how perfect you two would be together. however, you and him both refused any sort of insinuation of romance. it’s not that you didn’t want to be with him. quite the opposite, actually. you just didn’t see the point of wasting your friendship by risking him not feeling the same way. keeping him close as a friend was better than loosing him.

infact, you had encouraged him to ask another camp member out. this led you to your current predicament, watching him as he walked with kailey ( a girl from cabin five ). this had been his choice—he insisted she was ‘interesting enough’. you could see by the look on his face that he didn’t truly enjoy her company all that much.

“ya know, this could all be avoided if you just told him how you feel.” annabeth said from next to you, throwing a pointed look in your direction. you chose to ignore the sarcastic tone of her voice as she spoke.

“how i feel? i feel like he’s my best friend and i can’t jeopardize that. they look to be having fun.” the second sentence came out as if you were trying to convince yourself as well.

as if the universe wanted to mock you more, percy and kailey made their way over to you. annabeth looked at you, praying that you noticed the bored look on percy’s face. you gave her a look as to say ‘stop it’ before turning to shoot a smile in the direction of the approaching pair. kailey seemed to have a permanent scowl on her face while percy’s expression shifted upon seeing you. his uninterested features changed to those of contentment when your smile entered his vision.

“hey, y/n!” percy’s pace increased the closer he got to you, leaving kailey slightly behind him.

“hey, perce. kailey.” you nodded in her direction, warranting an eye-roll from the girl. “what’re you guys up to?”

“just, ya know. walking around. sat at the dock for a little bit.” percy responded. him and kailey stood an unusual distance away from eachother.

“percy, im gonna go. come fine me when you’re done with. . . this.” kailey rolled her eyes for what seemed like tenth time in the short period that she stood there. she brushed his arm slightly before turning and walking away.

“well isn’t she just a ray of sunshine.” annabeth snorted, laughing slightly.

percy agreed quickly, “she’s. . . something. that’s for sure.” he rubbed the back of his neck.

“not feeling it?” you asked. he shook his head no, moving to sit next to you. his arm quickly fell over your shoulders.

this made annabeth abruptly stand up. “well, as much as i would love so stay and chat, i have shit to do. see you two later?”

“mhm. later!” percy said.

“bye, annie!” you added. as the girl walked away, you turned in percy’s direction. “is she really that terrible?” you asked.

“she’s . . . okay, i guess. not really my type.” his arm fell from your shoulders, hand moving to hold your own instead. this was something percy had developed on the numerous quests you two had gone on together. his need for physical closeness was something that many found annoying, but you found endearing.

“oh yeah? and what might your type be classified as?” you laughed.

“oh, ya know. i like a girl who’s smart, kind, funny, caring. all the usual things. i also like a girl who sets me up on dates with other people because she doesn’t realize i’m hopelessly in love with her. that’s my ideal woman.” he shrugged as if it were nothing.

your jaw had officially found the floor. “i—i’m sorry. . . what?” you were sure you had heard him wrong.

“you know what i said, y/n.” percy’s face turned serious as he turned his entire boy towards you.

“do i? because it sounds a lot like a confession.” you tried to lighten the situation, laughing slightly before halting.

“y/n, you’re making this extremely hard for me.” percy’s face had begun to turn a shade of crimson.

“how so?” you kept a serious face, struggling not to crack a smile.

“y/n. . . i’m completely and utterly in love with you. the way you laugh, the way you smile, the way you laugh again because, dam, i love that sound, the way you twirl the strand of hair by your ear when you’re nervous, the way you stick your tongue out slightly when you’re focused. i love the way that you talk about your niche interests and the way that you always put up with my bullshit. i love how deeply you care about everyone, even the people who don’t deserve it. i love the contentment in your eyes when we’re sitting at the beach. i love you because you’re you, and that’s the best person you can be.” percy didn’t once break eye contact through his speech.

it was official. this was the first time in your like that you had been rendered completely speechless. your palms became sweaty and your heart was racing. being a child of aphrodite normally meant you reacted better to love situations. this didn’t help you much now, though. instead, the only thing you could think of doing in that moment was leaning forward to connect your lips.

it wasn’t beautiful or a ‘sparks fly’ moment. it was quick and chaste, you moving away as quickly as you moved forward. once you pulled away, you looked percy in the eyes. his expression had shifted from one of fear to hunger. his hand came up, finding the back of your neck and pulling you into him again. his lips were warm and soft against yours. he tasted of sea salt and blue pancakes, a combination that only percy jackson could pull off. his free hand found it way to your waist, pulling you closer to him.

once the two of you could no longer breathe, you both pulled away at a slow pace. he kept his forehead against yours.

“gods, i have been waiting a millennia to do that.” percy laughed, kissing your cheek. his head moved from yours to the crook of your neck.

“me too, perseus.” your hand reached up, lacing itself into his hair.

“fucking finally! gods, i was starting to loose hope!” grover said, seemingly appearing out of nowhere.

“me too, honestly.” percy spoke, lifting his head to look at grover.

“you too?” you asked, confused.

“y/n, you’re literally the only person who didn’t know about percy’s massive crush.” grover explained.

you averted your gaze towards percy, who shrugged in confirmation. your face heated up. safe to say that you had managed to find yourself a valentine, though kailey from cabin five wasn’t too happy.

my masterlist

taglist : @lydiascabinsix @cowboylikemac @laufeysvalentine @raysmayhem-72

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ghostlynightpanda · 1 month ago

Note

May I request another Ranpo fic hehe :3,,, May I ask pre-relationship Gn! Reader x Ranpo where they're having a sleepover at Ranpo's house, just talking about random things until late at night and they when they sleep (Ranpo has his own Futon but he kept an extra one for reader and placed next to him), what he didn't know is that reader is a cuddle bug, and unfortunately he doesn't have any body pillows for them to hug. So what did they do instead? They slept like a bear and unconsciously scooted to Ranpo's Futon and cuddled him instead, poor Ranpo, his brain stopped working and he was bright red T^T!!!! It didn't help that in the morning, you didn't know what you did as you both wake up on different sides and when you two finished dressing up, reader noticed Ranpo can NOT tie his tie correctly for the life of him, so you came to him and did it instead, leaving Ranpo froze at the proximity. Reader was do oblivious that after they left, Ranpo literally was weak on the knees and flushing red <33 -from da 🍮anonie!!!

Case of the Cuddly Culprit

synopsis: When a casual sleepover with Ranpo turns into an accidental cuddle-fest, the world’s greatest detective finds himself completely undone by your unconscious affection—and worse, realizes he might actually like it. Now hopelessly touch-starved and flustered, Ranpo’s only solution is to march to your door in the middle of the night for more… research.

content/warnings: Ranpo Edogawa x reader, fluff, -4.951 words

The soft hum of a movie played in the background, the dialogue nearly drowned out by the loud rustling of snack wrappers. Ranpo's living room was exactly what you expected: cluttered, chaotic, very Ranpo. Manga stacked unevenly on the floor, detective novels poking out from under the kotatsu, half a dozen empty candy wrappers scattered like fallen leaves. And in the middle of it all—Ranpo, sitting crisscross on the floor, happily munching on a bag of caramel popcorn like it was oxygen itself.

You sat next to him, leaned against the slightly lumpy couch, legs tucked under yourself, balancing an open bag of gummies on your knee.

"Okay," you said, pointing dramatically at the TV, "plot hole number fifteen—why would anyone go into a creepy abandoned house at night just to get a stupid necklace? Who does that?"

Ranpo didn't even glance at the screen. "Idiots," he answered through a mouthful of popcorn, crumbs on the corner of his mouth. "Besides, I would've solved the whole thing in five minutes. Tops."

"You say that like you wouldn't just nap in the corner until someone brought you snacks."

"Wrong." He stuck a finger up smugly, "I'd nap after solving the mystery. With snacks on me. Obviously."

You snorted, flopping dramatically sideways across the couch, head hanging over the edge. "Of course. How silly of me to forget your advanced detective strategy: solve crime, nap, eat sweets."

"See? You are learning."

A gummi bear bounced off his forehead before plopping into his lap.

Ranpo blinked down at it, then slowly looked at you with the flattest expression imaginable. "Assault. With sugar. How dare you."

You burst into laughter as he picked up the candy and immediately ate it with an exaggerated crunch.

It was comfortable like this—half talking nonsense, half watching the movie, mostly ignoring the plot in favor of making fun of the characters. Every so often, you'd toss a snack his way, and Ranpo, being Ranpo, caught most of them with almost offensively perfect reflexes.

Eventually, the movie became just background noise, replaced by random conversations about childhood games, favorite candies, weird dreams, and how Ranpo swore up and down that he once solved a case in his sleep. (You're still not sure if he was serious.)

By the time midnight rolled around, Ranpo finally stretched his arms over his head, letting out a dramatic sigh. "Alright. Detective genius needs his beauty sleep."

"You have beauty?" you teased, grinning at him over your shoulder.

"Excuse you, I am an icon of intellectual and physical beauty. Just ask anyone. Even Dazai's jealous."

"Dazai's not jealous—Dazai's unhinged."

"Exactly."

He stood up and disappeared for a moment into the back room, returning with two futons under his arms. He dropped them on the floor next to the couch, one right next to the other, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Got an extra. Obviously. Detective planning skills," he said with a wink.

"You knew I'd crash here?" you asked, raising a brow.

"Of course. I deduced it." He tapped the side of his head. "Genius, remember?"

"Right, right…" you grinned. "Thanks, Ranpo."

The casual thanks was enough to make his confident smirk falter just for a second, a faint pink creeping onto his cheeks, though he quickly masked it with a yawn.

"Whatever. Just don't snore."

"Don't drool."

"Never."

The playful banter dwindled as the futons were unrolled, pillows plopped into place, lights turned low. The last thing you remembered before your eyelids got too heavy was Ranpo settling down in his futon beside you, munching on one last piece of chocolate.

"G'night, Y/N," he mumbled softly, voice drifting lazily into the quiet.

"Night, Ranpo…"

Neither of you knew yet that Ranpo's night of peaceful sleep was about to be completely obliterated.

The apartment was quiet now, save for the occasional crinkle of a snack wrapper shifting when the night breeze from the open window drifted by.

Ranpo was already dozing, one arm lazily flopped across his pillow, his breathing soft and steady. For once, his sharp mind wasn't racing to solve mysteries or clever schemes—it was just still. Peaceful.

Or at least, it was peaceful.

At first, it was subtle. The faint rustle of fabric. A soft sigh. Barely noticeable.

Then—shuffle. A soft weight brushing against his side.

Ranpo blinked awake groggily, brain still fogged with sleep. Huh? He glanced sideways.

You were closer now. Still completely out, your breathing even, face relaxed in the soft glow of the streetlamp in front of the window. Your futon had become…more of a suggestion than a boundary. Somehow, without even noticing, you had gradually migrated toward him in your sleep like a heat-seeking missile. Your hand was now brushing against his arm.

He froze.

"…………….."

Another soft shift, another rustle of blankets—and then it happened. Your arms wrapped around his torso, face pressing gently against his shoulder like he was the world's warmest, softest pillow.

Like a koala latching onto a tree.

Ranpo didn't move. Couldn't move.

Brain: error.

His eyes were wide open now, pupils dilated like someone had just whispered the answer to a world-class riddle in his ear.

Wha—what—? Why?? Are they—?? What's happening???

His genius-level deduction skills? Gone. Vanished. Useless.

Mystery: unsolvable.

His thoughts were racing, but his brain was simultaneously short-circuiting: okay okay okay THINK, Ranpo. What's the protocol for this?? What chapter of the detective handbook covers accidental midnight cuddling? Wait. WHY don't I have a handbook for this???

Your breath was warm against the fabric of his shirt. He could feel the steady, gentle rise and fall of your chest against his side. You mumbled something incoherent in your sleep, brow twitching slightly, nose brushing against the crook of his neck like you were getting comfortable.

That was it.

Critical hit.

Ranpo.exe has stopped responding.

His face flushed such a violent shade of red that it was honestly impressive. Bright scarlet, ears burning, lips slightly parted in stunned silence.

And he stayed like that. Stiff as a statue. Arms hovering awkwardly midair, unsure if he should move, return the hug, or just ascend to another plane of existence entirely.

Normally, he'd be smug. Teasing. He'd call you clingy or make some ridiculous flirty comment.

But now?

Ranpo, self-proclaimed greatest detective, reduced to one malfunctioning idiot by unconscious cuddling.

Seconds ticked by.

Minutes.

Your grip only seemed to tighten slightly, a small, happy sigh leaving your lips like this was exactly where you belonged.

And Ranpo?

He remained frozen, staring at the ceiling, red-faced, suffering in silence, wondering if he would ever recover from this. Probably not.

"…I'm gonna die here," he whispered, too quietly for you to hear.

And maybe…maybe that wasn't the worst way to go.

The first soft glow of dawn was beginning to creep in through the half-closed curtains, painting Ranpo's cluttered living room in muted hues of pale orange and soft gray. Dust motes floated lazily in the early morning light, dancing above stacks of books and unopened snack bags.

Ranpo stirred, his eyelashes fluttering slightly before his eyes cracked open.

For a moment, he didn't remember why his back felt weirdly tense or why his heart felt like it had been running a marathon in his chest all night. Then the events of a few hours ago crashed back into him like a stack of unopened case files.

The cuddling.

Right.

His breath caught.

But when he glanced to the side—

You were gone. Well, not gone—just back on your own futon, on the opposite end like a respectable, polite, definitely-not-cuddling person. You lay curled up under your blanket, your face soft with sleep, completely unaware of the war Ranpo had been waging inside his head for hours.

And him?

Flat on his back, hair messy, pillow half off the futon, one sock missing (when did that happen?), and a blanket half kicked off.

A normal person would have been relieved.

Ranpo let out a quiet breath, closing his eyes again for a second. Good. Great. Perfect. This is what I wanted. That was unbearable anyway, all that heat. No sane person could sleep like that, glued to someone else. Right?

Right?

Then why…

Why was his chest feeling kind of…empty now?

Why did the cool air around him feel wrong?

And why—WHY—did he miss the press of your body against his, the steady warmth, that absent-minded way you'd sighed into his shoulder like you were safe with him?

Ranpo furrowed his brows, annoyed—not at you, but at himself. What the hell's wrong with me? he thought bitterly. Since when do I care about things like—

He stopped.

Had he ever…cuddled someone before? Like that? Properly? Warm, tangled limbs, soft breathing, innocent closeness—not just casual shoulder-bumps on the couch or lazy sprawls at the Agency?

…No. No, he hadn't.

He'd always teased people, always been the one poking fun, leaning over desks with that smug, catlike grin. But real closeness? Comfort? That wasn't something Ranpo Edogawa knew how to handle. And now, one accidental cuddle, and suddenly his brain was flipping through imaginary manuals trying to find a chapter on what-the-hell-to-do-when-you-want-to-be-cuddled-again.

Pathetic.

A faint flush crept over his cheeks again, and he buried his face halfway in his blanket to try and hide it from no one in particular.

And then—

"Mm… morning…"

Your sleepy voice broke the silence, soft and thick with drowsiness as you sat up, stretching your arms above your head with a little groan. Hair messy, eyes squinted, you looked over at him and gave a lazy smile. "Did you sleep okay?"

Ranpo flinched slightly, snapping his gaze away and shoving his face harder into his blanket like a turtle retreating into its shell.

"Y-yeah. Fine. Obviously. Why wouldn't I?"

"Okay," you said with a yawn, completely buying it, completely missing the way his ears were bright pink. "Cool. Do you have tea or something? I think I'm crashing from all the sugar."

"Yeah—kitchen. Whatever."

You dragged yourself up with another groan, trudging toward the kitchen like a zombie, leaving Ranpo still curled up in emotional confusion on his futon.

His heart was still racing.

This is stupid. I'm stupid. They're stupid. Why do they smell so good in the morning—NOPE, abort, brain, shut up—

He peeked over the edge of his blanket again, watching you shuffle around his messy kitchen in his oversized slippers, completely unaware of the storm you'd accidentally unleashed in the mind of the greatest detective in Yokohama.

And for the first time in a very, very long time… Ranpo didn't want to solve this mystery.

He just wanted to feel it again.

By the time both of you had finished with tea, the apartment looked slightly less like a snack crime scene. Slightly. You had pulled your spare clothes from your overnight bag—a clean, crisp outfit.

You were standing near his full-length mirror now, adjusting the knot of your own tie with practiced ease, focused, sharp, the picture of casual confidence.

Meanwhile…

Ranpo sat on the floor behind you, legs crossed, fumbling awkwardly with his own tie, brow furrowed, mouth pulled into a tense line.

Normally, tying it was annoying but manageable. But today?

Nope. No good. Total garbage. His fingers weren't cooperating. The tie twisted the wrong way, then slipped through the knot completely wrong, ending in a sad, floppy mess against his shirt. Again.

It definitely had nothing to do with the fact that his brain was still doing barrel rolls from earlier. Definitely.

You glanced over your shoulder just in time to catch him glaring at the offending piece of fabric like it had personally committed treason.

A grin tugged at your lips. "What's wrong, Detective? Crashed from the sugar high already?"

His eye twitched. "No."

You snickered. "Sure. Looks like your hands are shaking."

"They're not shaking," Ranpo muttered defensively, tugging at the tie again, somehow only making it worse. "It's defective. I'm being sabotaged."

You let out a soft laugh, stepping away from the mirror and brushing imaginary dust off your shirt. "I knew it. The Great Edogawa Ranpo, brought down by breakfast pastries."

His retort was halfway out of his mouth when you did something he wasn't prepared for at all—

You knelt down right in front of him. Close. Closer than before. Practically between his knees. The warmth of your body hit him first, then the faint scent of your shampoo, then the light brush of your fingers against his shirt collar as you lifted the tie gently from his hands.

"I got it. Hold still."

Ranpo stopped breathing.

He physically stopped. His entire body stiffened like you'd hit him with a tranquilizer dart. The heat of you kneeling there, hands moving smoothly to fix his ridiculous tie mess like it was nothing—it was too much.

His brain short-circuited all over again.

They're close—they're REALLY close—why are they this close?? Hands. Touching me. I should be making some dumb joke right now. Why can't I think?? ERROR. ERROR. ERROR—

Meanwhile, you were utterly oblivious to his meltdown, focused entirely on making the knot symmetrical, neat, sharp.

"There," you murmured softly, brushing the fabric flat against his chest. "Perfect."

Perfect.

Great. Wonderful. Now Ranpo was ninety percent tie, ten percent sentient embarrassment.

You looked up, finally meeting his eyes—those bright green eyes now wide, almost glassy, with an unreadable expression on his face. His mouth was slightly parted like he wanted to say something but forgot how speaking worked.

"…What?" you asked with a laugh. "It's just a tie."

Just a tie.

Right.

"R-right," he croaked, voice cracking like a teenager. "Tie. Sure."

You stood, patting him on the shoulder lightly as you moved back toward your bag to finish getting ready. "You're acting weird. Must be the sugar crash."

Ranpo sat there, still kneeling, staring blankly at your retreating form, utterly betrayed by his own nervous system.

He tugged absently at the knot you'd just tied. Perfect. Of course it was.

And the worst part?

He could still feel the ghost of your fingers on his collar, soft and careful and way too nice.

He was doomed.

The Agency was unusually lively that morning. Yosano humming softly while sharpening scalpels she definitely didn't need right now. Kunikida furiously scribbling in his notebook about order and structure, none of which anyone was following. Atsushi avoiding eye contact with helpless Junichiro, who was currently being latched onto by his sister, her arms around him in a dramatic display of (weird) sibling affection that left everyone—including the orange-haired man himself—deeply uncomfortable.

And Dazai?

Dazai was watching.

More specifically—Dazai was watching Ranpo.

To the untrained eye, Ranpo looked as he always did: slouched in his chair, lollipop tucked lazily between his lips, wearing that usual cocky half-lidded expression like he owned the place.

But to Dazai's eyes? Oh, this was gold. There was a subtle stiffness in Ranpo's posture, the rare flush still barely present on his cheeks that had nothing to do with heat or embarrassment over snacks. His tie, for once, was actually tied properly, but Ranpo kept fidgeting with it, tugging at the fabric like it had personally offended him.

And then there was you—sitting at your desk, rolling a pen between your fingers, utterly unaware of the way Ranpo's eyes kept accidentally sliding your way before snapping back like he'd been caught stealing candy.

Dazai's lips curved into a slow, wicked grin.

Oh yeah. Something happened.

And, being the absolute menace he was, Dazai wasn't about to let that go unchecked.

He leaned back in his chair with a dramatic sigh, tearing a scrap piece of paper from the corner of Kunikida's notebook ("Dazai, don't you dare—" rip), scrunched it into a tight little ball, and took aim like a sniper.

Fwip—thunk.

Direct hit. Right on Ranpo's hat.

"Oi—!" Ranpo shook his head, twisting around. His expression was more irritated than confused, but Dazai just gave him an innocent smile.

"Must've been the wind," he mused, resting his chin on his palm.

Ranpo narrowed his eyes, about two seconds away from launching an office supply at him when—

"Hey, hold still a sec."

You were already moving, standing and stepping over toward Ranpo, brushing crumbs from your lap as you approached.

And then—

You leaned down.

The scrap of paper stuck gently in Ranpo's brown hat, tangled with a few loose threads. Your hand came up, brushing over it softly to retrieve it. Absentminded. Casual. No big deal.

Except it was a big deal. To Ranpo, it was catastrophic.

Critical hit. Weakness: affection.

His whole body locked up as your fingertips ghosted along his hat before plucking the paper away. Your face was right there, close enough that he could smell your shampoo again, see the faint warmth in your eyes.

You were completely, blissfully unaware of how close you were.

Ranpo, on the other hand, was experiencing internal combustion.

His ears burned scarlet. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair like his life depended on it. His brain screamed in three different languages, none of them coherent.

Steam. Actual steam, if the laws of anime physics applied here, might've been curling out of his ears by now.

"Got it," you said cheerfully, holding up the offending paper ball, totally oblivious. "Looks like someone's making a mess again."

Ranpo could barely make a noise beyond a strangled "Mm—" sound in response.

Dazai watched the whole thing like a spectator at a fireworks show, chin in hand, delight practically radiating off him. He twirled another piece of paper between his fingers, wondering just how much further he could push this.

Oh wait, he didn't have to wonder. He would push it.

And then he moved.

Before you could walk back to your desk, Dazai appeared beside you, draping himself over your shoulder like a bored cat, his chin resting dramatically near your neck, breath exaggeratedly close.

"I'm so bored," he drawled, eyes half-lidded with faux sadness. "Won't you entertain me, Y/N? Surely you won't let me die of boredom here, will you?"

Your eye twitched. "Dazai…"

You knew this game.

Ranpo knew this game too.

The glare Ranpo shot Dazai could have ignited pure flame. It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It was murderous. If looks could kill, Dazai would've been ashes on the carpet by now.

But of course, Dazai only smiled more sweetly.

Interesting.

Now this was getting fun.

And poor Ranpo? Sitting there, fists clenched in his lap, trying desperately not to combust in the middle of the office. He wanted to shout, Get off! That's MY personal space they're supposed to be invading!

But no words came. Just a dark, dangerous glint in his green eyes.

Dazai winked at Ranpo behind your back.

Evening came, bringing with it the soft orange glow of sunset spilling through the office windows. One by one, the Agency members filtered out, stretching tired limbs, gathering coats and bags, ready to call it a day.

You were one of the first to leave, waving cheerfully at everyone as you slung your bag over your shoulder. "See you tomorrow!"

Ranpo didn't even look at you as you left. Not because he didn't want to—but because if he did, he was sure the heat in his cheeks would've given him away immediately. Instead, he stayed slouched dramatically in his chair, spinning idly in slow, sulking rotations.

And of course, because the universe hates him, Dazai stayed behind too.

It didn't take long before they were the only two left.

Silence.

Ranpo sat with his arms crossed, still fiddling with the tie you had fixed for him earlier, scowling like a kicked cat.

Dazai, leaning back lazily on one of the desks, finally broke the silence. "Soooooo…"

Ranpo glared at him suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. "What?"

Dazai's grin was slow, shark-like. "Something you wanna tell me about Y/N?"

Ranpo's jaw clenched. "Tch."

"Oho~ That's a yes, isn't it?" Dazai chuckled. "Come on, Ranpo—what's this all about? You've been acting strange ever since you two walked in this morning. Blushing. Fidgeting. Practically malfunctioning when they leaned in close."

Ranpo kicked at the floor with the heel of his shoe, spinning his chair half a rotation away, arms crossed even tighter now. "Wasn't even a thing."

Dazai's brow rose. "Really? Because it looked like a thing."

Ranpo grumbled something under his breath. Too soft to hear.

"What was that?"

"—Only cuddling…" Ranpo finally muttered, cheeks burning pink again, scowl deepening. "That's all. They were just cuddling me."

Dazai blinked. "…Cuddling?"

"In their sleep, okay?! They didn't even know. It's not like—I didn't ask for it—they were just—" He gave up on explaining with a helpless gesture, slumping lower into his chair like gravity itself was bullying him. "Forget it."

Dazai blinked again, then smiled slowly. "Awww. So that's why you've been pouting all day."

"I'm not pouting."

"You're absolutely pouting."

Ranpo shot him a sharp glare, the flush creeping back into his ears. His next words came out in a stubborn whine:

"They're only allowed to cuddle me."

That silenced Dazai for a beat.

Ranpo wasn't even sure why he said it. It just came out—like a petulant child hoarding their favorite toy, except the "toy" was you and the possessiveness was a little too raw, a little too real.

"They're mine. Not yours."

Dazai blinked, then leaned back with a soft, surprised laugh—not mocking, not teasing this time, but genuinely amused.

"Well, well… interesting."

Ranpo didn't respond. He just sat there, sulking, sulking harder, cheeks hot, ears red, glaring furiously at his knees like they'd betrayed him too.

Possessive. Touch-starved. Completely lost and hating how vulnerable he felt.

But one thing was clear: the idea of you being close to someone else? Especially someone like Dazai?

Unacceptable.

Only him.

Ranpo should have been asleep by now.

Normally, he was the type to pass out the moment his head hit the pillow—or futon, in this case—with a stomach full of sweets and a mind smugly satisfied from solving unsolvable cases.

But not tonight.

He was awake. Wide awake.

Laying flat on his back, arms sprawled out, eyes boring holes into the ceiling. His cape was thrown haphazardly across the room, his beloved hat tossed nearby. He was practically kicking his legs like a restless cat, sheets rumpled in frustration.

And the worst part?

It wasn't because he wasn't tired. He was. He wanted to sleep.

But something was missing.

Something infuriatingly warm and soft that clung to him like a damn koala.

You.

Ranpo rolled onto his side, huffing loudly, cheeks flushed in frustration—not embarrassment, no, definitely not embarrassment.

"This is stupid," he muttered into his pillow. "I don't need that. I don't need them here."

And yet—he shifted again, curling around nothing, arms awkwardly hugging a pillow that was too flat and too cold and smelled wrong.

His scowl deepened.

He'd always liked sleeping alone. Space. Freedom. Comfort.

But now? After one night of you unconsciously pressing up against him like it was your life source?

Now he felt cold.

"This is your fault," he grumbled under his breath, voice tight and petulant, cheeks growing warmer. "All your fault…"

How dare you, waltzing into his life with your random kindness and warmth and stupid sleepy clinging. What gave you the right to just rewire his entire sleep pattern with one unconscious cuddle?

He sat up sharply.

No. Nope. Not happening. This was unacceptable.

Five more minutes of glaring at the wall, and then—

The cape was thrown over his shoulders with a dramatic flourish. The hat was jammed onto his messy hair.

He stomped toward the door, socks thumping against the floor.

What was he going to do when he got to your place? He didn't know.

Was he going to yell at you for breaking him? Maybe.

Was he going to make you fix it? Definitely.

Thudding through the dim streets, his mood only worsened by every step. The cool night air did nothing to soothe his simmering frustration.

Before he could fully think it through, Ranpo was already standing in front of your door, fist raised, banging against it with unreasonable force for someone showing up uninvited past midnight.

"Y/N!" he hissed sharply through clenched teeth, cheeks flushed with a dangerous combination of anger and mortification. "Wake up!"

Another few loud knocks. He didn't care if he looked crazy. You had done this to him, and now you were going to deal with it.

"Open up! I can't sleep without—!"

He cut himself off, lips snapping shut, teeth clenched. No way was he going to say it.

But the damage was done. His heart was racing, his cheeks practically glowing, and he was glaring at your door like it personally owed him an apology.

What was he supposed to do now?

A beat later, the door creaked open, and there you were—hair a mess, blanket slipping off one shoulder, eyes sleepy and confused, like a cat someone woke up from a nap too soon.

Ranpo froze for a second. You looked… soft like that. Warm. Sleepy. Way too inviting for his sanity.

"…Ranpo?" you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. "Am I dreaming…?"

"Tch." His scowl deepened immediately, defensive. "No. You're awake. I'm awake. All because of you."

You stared at him, eyes bleary, expression not matching the chaos in his chest at all.

"…What?"

"This is your fault," he snapped, as if you had dragged him here against his will. "I can't sleep."

You blinked slowly. "…Okay?"

Ranpo huffed, eyes darting to the side in frustration, refusing to meet your gaze. "I can't sleep. Because of your stupid cuddling. You're a menace. You ruined everything. You did something to me. My whole system's broken now. I hope you're happy."

Saying it out loud made his ears burn. He hated it. Hated that he sounded like some whiny kid complaining about their toy being taken. Hated that the moment you stopped pressing against him, his whole body felt wrong in a way he didn't know how to describe.

You just… yawned. Like you'd heard this complaint a thousand times before. "So… you can't sleep because I cuddled you…?"

"Obviously!" he barked, frustrated, cheeks pink. Why weren't you taking this seriously?

Another shrug. Another yawn. "Then come to bed."

Ranpo blinked. "What?"

"Come to bed. Cuddle me if you want."

And just like that, you turned around—like it was nothing—and wandered back to your bed, crawling under the blanket, leaving the door wide open behind you.

Ranpo stood there in the doorway, utterly, completely fried.

His brain—brilliant detective that it was—did not know what to do with this. He had cracked murders. Solved crimes no one else could even begin to understand. But this?

Your sleepy voice, your messy hair, the soft sound of blankets rustling as you burrowed back into warmth… offering him a place there too—

No. Nope. Unfair. Illegal, even.

"This is all your fault," he muttered one last time, voice quieter now, almost sulky, as if repeating it would somehow fix whatever catastrophic emotional failure was happening in his chest.

And yet—

His feet betrayed him.

He stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind him, and padded after you like a grumpy, overgrown cat.

What had you done to him?

He stood next to your bed like a criminal caught red-handed, cape still around his shoulders, hat slightly askew. You were already curled up on one side, blanket pulled messily over yourself, clearly waiting for him like it was the most normal thing in the world to invite someone over for emergency cuddling.

Ranpo clenched his jaw, fighting the burning in his ears. Fine. Whatever. He was here now.

With all the grace of a man facing execution, he lowered himself onto the bed beside you. Stiff. Straight as a board. Not touching you. Not breathing. Muscles locked, like a plank of human frustration.

This was fine. He could do this. Totally normal. This was normal.

Then you sighed.

"…You're so tense it's making me stressed," you muttered, half into your pillow, voice raspy with sleep. "C'mere."

Before he could argue, you moved—scooting closer like a sleepy, determined animal on a mission, reaching out—

And latched onto him.

Just like last night.

One arm flopped lazily over his chest. A leg hooked lightly around his. Your face pressed warm into the crook of his neck, the tickle of your breath making his pulse spike like he'd just been pushed off a building.

His entire body locked up, eyes wide, mouth dry, thoughts scattering like marbles across a tile floor.

You sighed again. But this time it was soft, content. Like being pressed up against him was exactly where you wanted to be.

Ranpo wanted to die.

He also wanted to never move again.

His hands twitched, unsure of what to do with themselves. He should probably move. Probably make some smug comment. Probably breathe—

And yet… warmth started creeping up through his limbs, fatigue creeping in behind it, dragging him down like slow-moving syrup.

Maybe he could sleep like this. Maybe this wasn't completely terrible. Actually, his eyes were already drooping—

It was fine.

Everything was fine.

Just before he drifted off, your sleepy voice murmured, amused, barely audible against his throat:

"…Did you really just walk all this way in your socks just to demand cuddles?"

Ranpo's eye twitched.

"Shut up."

Masterlist

#bungo stray dogs #bsd #ranpo edogawa #bsd ranpo #ranpo x reader #ranpo edogawa x reader #ranpo edogawa fluff #ranpo fluff

155 notes · View notes

caelivir · 1 year ago

Text

surrender | rayne ames

synopsis. rayne ames can’t stop staring at you tonight, which is strange, considering the fact that he loathes your guts.

pairing. rayne ames x fem!reader, | wc. 4.1k | genres. haters to lovers, tension, jealousy, rayne's hot and obsessed and reader's in denial | warnings. reader wears lipstick but it's mentioned once at the end, they make out what's new (it's good for my the soul), a bit suggestive

notes. tbh this wasn't supposed to be as long as it is. what a yap fest. blame my hormones and the weeknd. this is ugly and i hate it but it will have to do while i continue working on other fics.

you can’t comprehend why he’s here. the rest of the student body can’t either because the moment he walked through those doors all eyes were on him.

you’re positive that rayne ames had to have some devil whispering in his ear. how else would he be convinced to attend a grand event such as this one? dancing? socializing? it’s not his style, especially when he knows that every guy and girl within a ten foot radius would be jumping at the chance to have his attention.

you’re point is proven right in the next three seconds. you can already spot girls batting their eyelashes at him. you can see them trying to coerce him into a dance. on any other day you’d scoff at their fawning over an asshole like rayne.

however, you can’t seem to bring yourself to say that tonight. rayne’s half blonde, half jet black hair is styled in a wet curtain cut with long loose strands falling in front of his forehead. he wears a black two piece suit with the coat sporting various decorations.

there are two sets of silver chains that are pinned just below each one of his shoulders. each set is comprised of five chains. one directly connects a line between two metallic circles. two chains of varying lengths begin at one button before swooping a short distance down the front of rayne’s coat before linking back to the second circle that hangs lower than its counterpart. the remaining three chains follow the same pattern except they droop down the side of his arm, nearing the peak of the dip at the middle of his upper arm and rising back up to the coat’s shoulder pads that have sleek silver suns on top of them.

under the jacket, the visionary dons a white dress shirt that is tucked into his pants. however, the piece is damn near transparent, and the top buttons remain undone, exposing some of the skin of his torso. to finish the look off, rayne wears one singular necklace with a sword pendant.

you hate it, and you hate whoever styled him because tonight he's a dangerously gorgeous devil that's making your heart pound at an embarrassingly alarming rate. your eyes are glued to him no matter how badly your mind screams at you to look away. yet just as you can't tear your gaze away from him, rayne is equally unable to focus on anyone else that isn't you.

he inhales a deep breath of air before carving a path to your position at the food table. the alarms in your head go off in panic. you can't exactly play off the fact that you were so blatantly ogling him so instead you own up to it, masking your flustered expression with a glare in his direction.

"well if it isn't the devil himself." you taunt when he nears, soaking in the half blonde's formal look one more time. "what made you decide to crawl out of hell tonight?"

"i could ask you the same thing." rayne answers bluntly, and you scowl because he knows that you hate when he turns your snarky comments back on you.

"why'd i even bother?" you roll your eyes with a scoff, directing your attention to bite-size appetizers in front of you.

"let me know when you find the answer to that." the visionary responds, causing a muscle in your cheek to twitch in irritation.

rayne doesn’t move from his spot. in fact, he’s standing so close to you that your arm brushes against the black fabric of his coat and the cold silver chains on the side of his arm.

"can you move?" you snap, annoyed because now your senses are being filled with his scent—an intoxicating mix of cinnamon and cardamom that makes your mind go fuzzy.

"i can't have food?" rayne cockily raises an eyebrow at you before randomly picking up a tomato basil puff off the plate. he chews it thoughtfully, and through the micro expressions of his face, you come to understand that he is pleased with its taste.

you bundle your fists tightly to release some of your nerves. a breath of air enters your lungs to steady yourself. you remind yourself to not get swept up in his games. rayne ames will not ruin your night. all of these affirmations lead you to the decision to leave him by the food table.

however before you can do that, the music slows to an end, and people take it as a sign to scramble for a partner before the next piece starts up again. as for you, you're immediately confronted by a tall blonde boy in your grade. he kindly extends a hand out to you that’s shaking very discreetly. "may i have this dance?"

you mentally grimace because you're still on edge due to rayne, but you don't have the heart to turn the guy down when he so obviously worked up the courage to come up to you. reluctantly, you accept his offer with a meager nod, and as he takes you by the hand, you involuntarily glance back at rayne, who has been staring the entire interaction down like a hawk.

the boy leads you to an open spot on the dance floor and doesn't hesitate to take the lead once a graceful waltz composition begins. you try to pay attention to the guy's little ramblings about duelo as you glide across the floor, but your mind wanders back to rayne.

what would it be like to have his hand on your back or your hand interlocked with his? would it light a blaze upon your skin? why do you even want to find out?

your eyes drift across the expanse of the enormous ballroom, scanning for that half blonde pain in your ass. after several moments of searching, you find rayne standing off to the side, back leaned against one of the pillars. he switched his food out for apple cider in a champagne glass. he stands with max land and other faces you aren't familiar with. whatever conversation they're having, rayne isn't following; his sole focus is on you and only you.

there's something dark lurking beneath his eyes. the intensity of his gaze generates shivers down the line of your spine. you think that the glass in his hands might shatter in his grip.

"are you alright?" your partner questions, and it brings your concentration back onto him. "are you cold?"

you present him a tight grin. "i'm good. you don't have to worry about me."

the boy in front of you accepts your answer without any suspicion and continues leading the dance until the song finally comes to an finishes. yet even when the waltz ends, and you thank your partner for the dance, he sticks by you. that's fine. he’s a nice guy who means no harm, but because you're severely distracted right now, he is the last thing on your mind.

he gently guides you through the room, keeping a hand on the small of your back protectively as you squeeze between the crowd. you force yourself to engage in conversation with the friends he introduces you to. you laugh at the appropriate times and give your two cents into a topic should it be deemed necessary, all in attempt to ignore the burning sensation of eyes drilling into the back of your neck. each time you catch him, rayne doesn't dare to avert his gaze. he’s shameless in that matter. he'll maintain this eye contact with you until you're the first one to tear away with your face a burning mess.

as the night progresses, you're losing the patience to withstand it. the guy in front of you. rayne. thoughts of rayne. your head is swirling in confusion, and you need new air and silence in order to calm yourself.

when you're sure rayne isn't watching, you dismiss yourself from your partner with a pathetic excuse that you need to quickly use the washroom that he buys instantaneously. and when the crowd hides you completely, you sneak off in the total opposite direction of the restroom.

you navigate your way through the venue until you find the exit that leads to gardens in the back. you pay no mind to party raging behind you, only straying yourself further and further from the noise until you're met with silence. it's only then that you're able to feel your heart slowing down it's pace.

you continue wandering until you find a gazebo hidden deep within the gardens. the structure is surrounded by flowers of varying colors and species. its posts are wrapped in vibrantly green vines. there are no seats built into it, but it will have to suffice as a place to rest and cool your head.

you lean back into one of the wooden posts, shutting your eyes as you inhale the scent of cold, wet, grassy air. when the brewing storm in your mind finally calms, all that remains is a certain divine visionary.

never in all of your years of knowing rayne ames would you have ever thought your emotions involving him would end up conflicting like this. you loathe him; you have since the day you met. so you can't seem to fathom what changed tonight. can it really be all because of a mere suit and new styling of his hair? how pathetic.

and his eyes… those damn yellow eyes that follow your every move. how can they ignite a fury of butterflies in your stomach?

and you don't even have the time to figure it out before your ears pick up on the sound of frantic footsteps and rattling chains that encroach closer and closer to you. your eyes fling wide open, and your body instantly freezes at the sight before you.

rayne ames stands in front of the garden gazebo, chest quickly rising and falling as he pants out breaths that turn visible in the cold winter air. his styled hair isn't as kept as it was before. it's lost its volume and his loose strands of hair cling to his skin, most likely due to the thin coat of sweat that you can barely see under the dim moonlight. yet, he still looks so incredibly breathtaking. the half blonde's eyebrows are brought together in a mix of relief and worry, and you don't know what to make of it.

you don't get it anymore. what is he doing? what is his goddamn game? why, just why, is he standing before you?

the reason behind rayne’s appearance at the winter ball is so incredibly petty that he’s ashamed to even admit it out loud. he had overheard a blonde on the duelo team claim that he was going to dance with you that night.

the irritation that arose in the pits of his stomach during that moment could not be described. did that fool really think he stood a chance with you? you were completely out of his league.

the thought of you dancing with another man haunted rayne for days. each time it crossed his mind, he’d get so annoyed that he’d snap the quill he was writing with into two pieces.

it was stupidly impulsive to come to this ridiculous school ball. rayne knew that, but a part of him was desperate to find out what would happen. could the blond fool pull it off, and what were you going to do if he did? he's well-aware that you aren't his lover or his friend, and yet that didn't seem to stop him from being concerned about matters involving you.

it’s truly a puzzle because rayne is so positive of the fact that he hates you, but the moment he walked through the entrance, all certainty of that fact became debatable again.

he stands before you, separated by the crowd of students who are just as shocked as you are. he can tell that you hadn’t expected for this. and with your eyes locked onto each other, you both enter a new dimension—one where everyone else fades away.

in a sea of blurred, barely present faces, you are the only one that was clear, a face so beyond the words of beautiful. rayne feels like he had the air knocked out of his lungs. is his heart speeding up, or is it stopping? he can’t tell anymore. he’s losing his senses. to combat that, he takes a deep breath of air.

rayne doesn’t even see the girls tugging at his arms or the guys trying to start up a conversation. it’s only you, and like an iron attracted to a magnet, his feet pull him to where you are before he has the chance to realize it.

you’re quick with your snarky comments that attempt to drag him, but even then, you're beautiful. it's baffling how hopeless of a fool he is for you. it’s a miracle that rayne has half the mind to retort your jabs, and he is definitely glad that the food table acted as a cover up.

however, the visionary’s mood sours when that damn blond duelo player comes up to you, asking for a dance a whole lot earlier than he anticipated. rayne can’t make out your expression, but he does notice the nod of your head and the way you extend your hand to slide onto his, but not without giving the half blond a glance back.

rayne's gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles go white. as you leave, another girl walks up to rayne, and he flat out ignores her, picking off a champagne glass from a server that happens to walk by him.

trying to cool his head, rayne ames finds max land in a matter of seconds, and he opts to stick by him. he doesn’t engage in any form of conversation with max, despite the multiple times his best friend has been trying to get his attention.

he'll apologize for it later, but every drop of focus that rayne possesses is on you as you move along the floor. the blond is talking your ear off, and the visionary is aware that you aren't fully listening because your eyes keep drifting back to him.

the fact that rayne doesn’t ever tear his eyes off you has you looking away in nervousness. it’s so unlike you. you’re always so confident in your confrontations against him, but it appears to be different tonight. it seems like everything is.

the longer he stares the more rayne hates the hand that is gently wrapped around yours. he hates the smiles that the blond duelo pulls from you simple because he is simply not worthy of them. he hates that even after the stupid waltz is over you're dragged to meet his friends.

the visionary has no right to be feeling like this, especially after all the verbal arguments and harsh words. but each time you look at him tonight with those star-filled eyes, rayne swears that he'll make it up to you for the rest of your lives.

"rayne, the suit is amazing. where'd you get it from? i haven't seen anything like it." one of max's friends asks, which finally drags the half blond's attention away from you.

"ryoh grantz." he replies dryly.

"you got this from the light cane?!"

"that's what i said, didn't i?" the visionary glares, visibly annoyed.

"oh. y-yeah." the guy chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the nape of his neck. it's then when he realizes that any attempt of conversation with rayne ames is futile so he switches the topic.

when the half blond drags his eyes back to you, he nearly loses grip on the champagne glass that he's been holding for a while. "she's gone." rayne mutters to himself, yet somehow over all the noise, max hears him.

max land peers over the crowd, finding the spot where you last stood. the blondie you were with is huddled with his friends, but you are no longer in sight. the brown haired boy hums. "i think your staring scared her off."

rayne narrows his eyes at his friend who only raises his hands in defense. the divine visionary scans the entire room, expecting you to be gathered with a different group of people, but you're not. you're not in here at all. "damn it." he curses with a hiss, ditching max to search for you.

if his best friend protests or calls for rayne, he doesn't hear it. max is the least of his concerns right now.

he leaves the empty glass onto the nearest table and begins a distraught search. he does a lap around the entire room, thinking that it'll make you appear again, but his efforts bear no fruit. he wanders up and down the halls, giving everyone he passes a quick glance, only to find that they're not you.

rayne finds an entrance that leads to the back gardens, and he's praying that you're somewhere there. he doesn't know how long he spends running around. his dress shirt is sticking to his skin, and his hair is falling out of place. the venue for the ball is so far behind him to the point that he can't even hear the music or noisy chatter anymore.

despite the burn in his calves, he pushes deeper into the gardens, jogging until a gazebo catches his eye. it's hard to see in the moonlight, but rayne swears that he sees the shadow of a figure. it's his last hope; he's praying that it's you.

the half blond jogs up to the steps. the chains of his suit rattle as he does so. he realizes then that it is you. relief, worry, and anger hit him all at once, but in your eyes, he can't say the same. there is no malice, only confliction, and rayne decides right then and there.

he's going to open his heart to you.

"what are you doing here, rayne?" you ask, practically defeated.

"what about you?" he snaps back harsher than he ever has before. he takes angry steps up the stairs. "it's fucking freezing, and you decide to come out here alone. do you even realize how far the venue is right now? do you know how much i was-" rayne stops himself mid-sentence, curling his fists by his side.

"no, tell me." you demand, walking closer to him. "what is it? you are always so blunt. what's stopping you now, huh? spit it out."

"i was worried about you." he answers quietly.

your heart swells when you hear it, but you choose to suppress it instead because that can't possibly be right. "worried?! why on earth would you ever be worried about me? you hate me, rayne ames, and i hate you. all we ever do is torment each other. it's exactly why you kept staring at me tonight. i couldn't focus on anything but you. that's what you wanted, right? you wanted me off my guard? well, congratulations asshole. you won. now leave me alone."

"no." the boy in front of you sternly denies.

"no? god, you have some fucking nerve-" you fume.

"i'm not leaving you alone." rayne clenches his jaw, staring deep into your eyes. you force yourself to swallow. "i haven't left you alone since the day we met, and i'm not leaving you alone now."

you scoff, trying to push past rayne, but he blocks your path. "move, rayne."

he ignores you altogether. "you want to know why i'm so worried about you, hm? here's your answer." rayne's voice is low, almost dangerous as he speaks. he steps closer to you, nearly pressing your bodies together. the heat that radiates off him is electrifying.

"you've been stuck in my head for the last week, and it's all because of that blond buffoon on the duelo team." rayne scowls. "i heard him. i knew that he wanted to dance with you, and it pissed me off. i couldn't imagine his hand on your back or his hand on yours without feeling my blood boil, and i hated every second that you were with him tonight. it was torture."

"jealousy?" you breathe out, trying to belittle him as you do so, but you fail miserably when your eyes dart to rayne's lips. "you might as well be obsessed with me."

"maybe i am." rayne's hand reaches up to trail the pearls of your necklace. his hand then moves further up your neck, fingers gently tickling your skin as they pass before resting on the side of your throat. "i might've been obsessed with you the moment your pretty little mouth started talking back to me. hell, i might even be in love with you."

in that moment, you feel your breath hitch. your eyes open wider in disbelief, and that doesn't deter the divine visionary in front of you at all. you try reading him, trying to find any sort of sign that this whole thing is a joke, but deep down you know. you said it yourself moments earlier. rayne's honest and blunt to a fault. he wouldn't say something he doesn't mean.

"the sight of you is enough to bring a man to his knees. you have me wrapped around your finger, (y/n). just say the word, and i'll be yours."

you don't know when rayne's face had gotten so close, but you can feel his breath fanning along yours. you can indulge in that cardamum and cinnamon scent that brings your brain to a high.

"rayne..." you whisper, brushing the loose strands of hair away from his forehead even though they return to the same place they were once before.

and as he admires you with those eyes, eyes that look at you as if you created the world and spun it on its axis, you surrender. you close the gap between the two of you because you're tired.

you're tired of acting like the thought that you want him has never crossed your mind. you're tired of acting like he's isn't stupidly hot whenever he puts you in your place, you're tired of pretending that you've never wanted to slam your lips against his just to shut him up.

rayne said he might've been obsessed with you from the moment you started arguing with him. well, you might've been obsessed with him when you realized that he wasn't going to tolerate any of your attitude. it's probably why you constantly picked fights with him. all the tension and unspoken words and lust came as a result. it was bound to boil over eventually.

you told yourself to not get swept up in him, and yet here you are, completely drowning. you chase each other like you're both starved. the kiss so desperate and powerful that rayne backs you up into one of the gazebo posts. the contact makes you gasp, and rayne uses it as an opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. you'll have to press him about this later. for a guy who avoids women like the plague, he sure knows how to kiss you to euphoria.

your senses are so overloaded that you grip onto the open fabric of rayne's white dress shirt to keep you up. it effectively pulls him closer, making him groan. you lightly trail your nails down the exposed skin of his chest. you feel the visionary shiver before you, and you know that he's putty in your hands. you continue that path down, feeling the faint outline of his abs through his shirt.

rayne pulls away only to continue burning hot kisses down your neck and onto your collarbone. he nips and sucks on your skin, and you know that it's sure to leave marks, but in the moment, you can't help but whine his name. you let him have his fun until the feeling of missing his lips on yours is overbearing.

you force rayne up by his chin, and he almost looks disappointed. you smirk once you notice the smearing of lipstick on his face and the uneven rhythm of his breathing.

"what a mess you are." you tease, toying with rayne's bottom lip with your thumb.

"do you really have to do this right now?" rayne complains lightheartedly, all while placing kisses onto the inside of your palm, making you giggle.

"always." you wink, and your hands wander back down to his chest. "kiss me?"

rayne cups one half of your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "always." he replies, diving into the addiction that is you once more.

@kyoghurts @seneon hey...

#anime #manga #mashle #mashle magic and muscles #mashle x reader #rayne ames #rayne x reader #rayne ames x reader #mashle fluff #rayne fluff #⭑ — fics ⭑.ᐟ♡#♡ — mashle #♡ — rayne

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crowfish-brainrot · 1 month ago

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Crowfish-Brainrot Masterlist

Hello besties! Here is the masterlist of all the fics I've written so far, and what I have plans for in the future.

18+ content, MDNI! I write mostly smut here.

Obviously, my mains are Sylus and Rafayel, but I do love all of the LI's in Love & Deepspace, and I plan to write for all of them! Expect mostly Sylus & Raf, though.

Also, I'm a queer poly woman, so most of my fics will probably lean queer and poly. MMF + is very likely here, just as a heads-up.

Ensemble Fics:

House Party -- All the Love and Deepspace LI’s are close to you, and if you’re having a party, you’ve got to invite all your friends, right? (No smut. Self-indulgent All-The-Men-Are-In-The-Same-Room fic)

Mistakes Were Made -- Adrenaline can make people lusty, and that's what inspired this fic. MC ends up in bed with each of the LI's (separately) because of her need to work out her adrenaline. This is smut and angst since MC isn't looking for a relationship at that point. Xavier (p1) | Zayne (p2) | Rafayel (p3)| Sylus (p4) | Caleb (p5)

Facing the Consequences --Mistakes Were Made, and now its time for you to start Facing the Consequences. Emotions run high as your involvement with each of the men is revealed, because casual was never something that would last. This is gonna be messy, but it will end in a healthy (poly!) place! (MF & MMF+, picks up right where Mistakes Were Made ended) -- Second Part coming soon! Zayne (p1) | Sylus (p2) | Caleb & Zayne (p3) | Xavier (p4) | Rafayel (p5)|

You're In For It Now-- After Facing the Consequences, you know You're In for It Now. All five men know about one another, and now that everything is up in the air, who will come out on top? (Concept, continuing after Facing the Consequences. SO MANY 3WAYS!)

ALL 5 AT THE SAME DAMN TIME -- Concept

Headcannons:

Diabolical Love & Deepspace 3way Combinations --Exactly what it says. It’s been done before. It’ll be done again. I always love seeing people’s takes on this, so here are mine. Explicit.

LADS Men dealing with a feral, ovulating, MC -- Self-indulgent concept bc ovulating me is a nightmare beast who should probably be chained to a tree.

Love & Deepspace Men when you casually tell them you love them -- pure fluff headcannons because they're so damn sweet and I am an overly affectionate lovergirl who tells all her friends that I love them all the time.

Rafayel Fics:

That Damned Perfume -- One of the first 5* cards I got was Rafayel's Your Fragrance and that spurred this three-part smut fest. Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.

I Lost You -- Emotionally processing the trauma of his third myth trailer. Hurt/comfort, emotional smut.

Morning Waves-- Raf waking MC up with head. Concept.

Bratty!Rafayel x Bratty! Mc x Brat!Sylus -- the reason I made this fuckin' blog tbh. Concept.

My Heart, My Soul -- Raf, MC, & Sylus all recognizing their connection to one another. Concept.

Sylus Fics:

A Dangerous Game --This entire fic can be captured in one sentence: car sex with Sylus. Death & Rebirth Main Story Sylus had me panting. Inspired the "Mistakes Were Made" concept.

Grounding Force -- I feel like Sylus is the one MC goes to when she's feeling out of sorts, and this will be about that (with some good smut!) Concept.

Greedy Dragon -- Dragon smut! Concept.

BratTamer!Sylus x Brat!MC x BratTamer!Zayne -- I thirst for this in a way that is unholy, which was only made worse by Death & Rebirth. Concept.

Zayne Fics:

Aftermath -- Death & Rebirth hurt my soul and I wanna make it better. Smut and Angst. Concept.

Make Me! -- An excuse to write more BratTamer!Zayne bc I'm a brat af. Concept.

Xavier Fics:

My star never left me -- Xavier, MC and a moment of remembrance bc that myth still haunts me. Concept.

Fever -- inspired by his most recent lunar card. Concept.

Caleb Fics:

My Mirror, my Fate -- Caleb, Zayne, MC all recognizing their connection to each other. Concept.

If you want to get on my taglist, you can go here!

For my masterpost with everything about asks/requests/vibes/general info, you can go here!

Last Updated: Jul 5th, '25

#love and deepspace #l&ds #l&ds sylus #l&ds zayne #l&ds caleb #l&ds rafayel #l&ds xavier #l&ds x reader #l&ds smut #lads sylus #lads rafayel #lads zayne #lads xavier #lads x reader #lads #lads smut #masterlist

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thesoftboiledegg · 29 days ago

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"The Last Temptation of Jerry" was the biggest gross-out fest the show's had in a while. Gore, vomit, nudity, body horror, on-screen sex, toilet humor, a writhing mountain of orgy participants--honestly, it's pretty gutsy if you're into the show embracing its nasty side.

Unfortunately, I'm not. I hate body horror and shock/cringe humor in particular--and OK, I know what show I'm watching, but even Rick and Morty usually has a lighter touch than that. It reminds me of early season one episodes where the jokes were literally just "Haha, old man running around naked! Haha, Rick and Morty dressed as rappers! Haha, anal flaps!!"

This episode was fairly chaotic, too. I was getting season five vibes with the zany mashup of concepts, although at least this episode had decent pacing and a satisfying conclusion. Season five episodes are infamous for throwing scenes at you at a rapid-fire pace, then abruptly ending before you have time to breathe.

I won't say this episode was objectively bad, and I guess we need the occasional reminder that Rick and Morty isn't a quiet, understated show for people who prefer a sensible chuckle, but it's definitely not going down as a personal favorite. I'm not sure if it's the best episode for Jerry fans, either, since he spends half the episode as a sex-crazed rabbit beast. (Then again, that's probably part of the appeal for some people.)

Still, I'll credit the writers for trying to do something creative with this underrated holiday. Most shows have Christmas, Thanksgiving and Halloween episodes and skip Easter entirely. This episode has its flaws, but you can't say it's unoriginal.

When this episode wasn't trying to gross everyone out, it gave us some of the most stunning artwork that we've seen in the series. Switzerland was so detailed and vibrant, down to the individual fruits and flowers. That's Rick and Morty for you: one second, you're watching a guy puke; the next, you're blown away by the art and animation.

Rick's characterization was decent, too. I loved that he gave Summer a fun activity instead of just waltzing off with Morty and leaving her alone, which is pretty much what happened in earlier episodes. (But then the family forgot about her in their quest to ruin all holidays...whoops.) Her scene at the end showed that she's still important and not somebody you can write off altogether.

Plus, getting Rick and Morty alone for a few scenes was nice. The show loses sight of the core dynamic sometimes, but I enjoyed checking in and seeing how they're changing. At this point, they're less like an old man terrorizing his grandson and more like a couple of idiots getting in trouble together.

To start, Morty happily agrees to their mission instead of groaning while Rick grabs his arm and drags him through a portal. They bicker, but it's nothing serious. Rick rambles about old movies. Morty shrieks "Rick!" when an alien grabs him and places a gun to his head, and Rick immediately springs into action.

I'm not sure where this is headed, but I'm glad that the writers are continuing their development instead of throwing it in the trash in favor of "classic Rick and Morty adventures." Honestly, this show is more serialized than people realize.

This could've been a bad episode, but the characterization, pacing and original concepts place it in the "acquired taste" category. If you miss season one's craziness, you'll probably love it. But if not, you might spend about a third of this episode averting your eyes.

#rick and morty #rick sanchez #morty smith #jerry smith #summer smith #the last temptation of jerry #rick and morty season 8 #season eight #review

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whiskey-tango-matcha · 2 months ago

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Weird (M, cold)

Do you ever get such an insane urge to write something that you literally can't focus on anything else until it's done? Well, that was me with this fic lmao. HI here I am again, back with another Greyson cold fic bc I live to write the same thing one million times over. It's a big cold-denial drama-fest, my personal favorite lol. In it, Greyson gets sick on an important day and tries like hell to deny it. That's basically it! If ya read it, I hope you like it. It was a fun write.

CW: Male cold/snz, contagion, light mess, cold denial. I think that's it, it's pretty light for me lmao.

5K words under the cut. As always, I'd love to hear what you think! <3

Weird

Every year, Greyson looked forward to one event and one event only: Five Boroughs F&B Weekend.

Elliot’s, for being a small stand-alone, did a good number of events every year – from charity galas to full festivals, Elijah was near-obsessed with getting the restaurant in front of as many people as possible. Most of the events were, to put it lightly, complete and total nightmares; they didn’t provide you with food, or they gave you students to ‘help out’ which just slowed the entire process down. Once, at a huge New Orleans festival, Greyson had to cook 1,000 mini sliders on someone’s literal backyard grill. After that one, Elijah promised Greyson they wouldn’t do any more out-of-state events.

But the Five Boroughs weekend was always a fucking blast. Chefs all throughout the city got together to come up with their weirdest, chefiest dishes and the guests who bought tickets were the type of people who actually appreciated food. Not to mention the fact that there were three after parties – one for each night of the festival – with open bars that only closed when all the booze was completely gone. This would be Greyson’s fifth year at Five Boroughs and absolutely nothing could ruin it for him.

“Alright, alright, I get it,” Reed said, backing away from his boyfriend. Greyson didn’t lower the can of Lysol he was pointing at Reed until the other man was clear across the living room. “Far endough?” Reed near-shouted from the Greyson-mandated fifty-foot berth.

“Honestly, I don’t think it is far enough,” Greyson said, spraying the can into the surely-already-infected air. “Maybe you should sequester yourself in your office.”

From the far side of the room, Reed deadpanned his boyfriend. “Are you fuckigg serious?” he asked, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “I don’t even have a couch in mby office. Also, you already slept with me last ndight so…”

“I didn’t know you were sick last night.” Sprrtz, a spray of Lysol as Reed took a step forward. “You didn’t tell me you were sick last night.” Sprrtz.

“Could you stop with the fuckigg Lysol?” Reed asked, annoyed. “I’mb like half a mbile away from you.”

“Can’t be too careful,” Greyson shrugged. Before setting the can down, he gave one final spray in front of himself, a curtain of disinfectant mist that settled on the tile in a sticky puddle. Reed pulled his hand down his face, leaned into the wall, and sighed.

“This isn’t very ndice, you kndow,” he said. “I’mb always ndice to you when you’re siihh – hhITSZCHH-ue!” Reed snapped forward into his palm, then grimaced at the mess he’d apparently made. Giving his boyfriend a watery glare, he sulked to the bathroom in search of tissues. Begrudgingly, Greyson followed behind, grabbing the Lysol bottle on the way.

“I never claimed to be nice,” Greyson said, making eye contact in the bathroom mirror with Reed. From behind the tissue, Reed rolled his eyes.

“You are ndice,” he said, throwing the tissue into the tiny garbage can. “I mbean, ndot today. But usually.”

Greyson huffed out a laugh, let his boyfriend out of the bathroom. “Babe, I’m sorry,” he said, following Reed to their bedroom. “I’ll make you tea, I’ll bring you meds, whatever you need just… I cannot get sick for this event.” Reed, who Greyson knew understood where he was coming from, despite the pouting, gave a curt nod. He shivered then, an involuntary shake that gave him the appearance of a child left out in the cold. Poor Reed, Greyson found himself thinking; very little was more miserable than a cold at the height of summer, a time when his boyfriend should’ve been drinking spritzes on a patio while writing his latest review. He’d been running himself ragged at a new job with the New Yorker as their resident food writer, and it was a great gig but the man definitely wasn’t getting enough sleep, or enough sun, or – ironically – enough food lately, so of course he’d picked up some nasty bug. The timing certainly couldn’t be worse; with three days until Five Boroughs, Greyson was not only obsessed with not getting sick, he was also wildly busy prepping for the event. Reed had probably been coming down with something for days, and only now had Greyson noticed. Fuck.

Greyson set his teeth, lips pressed together, caught between the worst rock and the shittiest hard place he could imagine. Sighing, he set down the Lysol bottle and turned towards the closet that held the winter blankets they’d put away months ago.

“What are you doigg?” Reed asked. Greyson gestured to the bed that Reed was perched on the side of with one hand, the other cradling a fleece down comforter.

“Get in bed,” he said. “I’m only exposing myself to you for the next two minutes, so you’d better make it count.” Reed smiled a little; coughing into his shoulder, he burrowed beneath their thin summer quilt. Greyson unfolded the comforter and spread it across the bed. Against all his instincts, the chef cupped Reed’s face in one hand and kissed his forehead. “Tea?” he asked. “Your majesty?”

***

Something was off about Greyson.

It was day one of the Five Boroughs event – what was essentially his Superbowl – and he just seemed… weird. Quiet. Un-Greyson-like. Elijah had been with the chef for this event every year, and every year he was bouncing off the walls, unable to stop talking, and packed into the van two hours before they even had to leave. This year? Not so much.

“Chef, are you almost ready?” Elijah called from the front office. Greyson was in back with Matt, still, at twelve-oh-five, prepping the scallop sashimi they were presenting at that evening’s walk around event despite the fact that Elijah told him multiple times they had to leave right at noon. When no answer came from the back, Elijah groaned and stood. He’d throw on an apron if he had to, get everything sorted and packed for Greyson, whatever it took to get them out the door. C’mon, Grey, how long does it take to put some fish in a 100 pan?

“Grey, are you ready? We have to go,” Elijah called as he walked towards the back kitchen. Again – no answer. “Are you even back here, where the fuck-”

“I’m here, I’m ready,” Greyson called as Elijah rounded the corner. The chef put a lid on a final pan and pulled his hair to the top of his head, securing it with a Sharpie as he regarded his boss. “Sorry, just… running behind today,” he said, stacking the pans. “Matt, help me get these into the van. Please.”

The sous chef nodded and grabbed a stack of pans, while Elijah gave Greyson a confused look. “What?” Greyson asked as he moved past Elijah to get to the back dock.

“Nothing,” Elijah said, following behind them. “I just – are you okay?” he asked, prompting Greyson to glance backwards before placing the pans into the van’s trunk.

“Yes?” Greyson said, raising a confused eyebrow. “Why?”

“You’re acting weird,” Elijah said, crossing his arms. “And not like… normal you weird. Are you not excited for the event? This is usually like Christmas morning to you.”

Greyson pressed a hand into one of his eyes and rubbed for a moment before deciding how to answer Elijah. “I’m good,” he said, finally. “Just a little tired, I guess. I’m excited, I just need an energy drink or something.”

Elijah nodded. Let it go, he said to himself, though he was having the hardest time doing it. Something was weird, he could feel it, and Elijah knew to trust his feelings. “We can stop at a gas station or something on the way there,” he said, prompting a nod from Greyson. “Do you have everything you need?”

“Let me just grab a fresh coat, give me five,” Greyson said, pushing through the back door of the restaurant before Elijah could protest.

“...okay,” Elijah said as the door closed in his face. He turned to Matt, who was also strangely quiet today. “Did something, like, happen with you guys?” he asked. Matt looked up at Elijah and shook his head.

“No, boss,” Matt said. “All good.”

Elijah nodded, unconvinced. “Alright,” he said. “Thanks, Matt. Will we see you at the after party tonight?”

Matt smiled a little. “Maybe,” he said. “Depends what time I get out of here.”

Just as Elijah was about to answer, Greyson burst back through the door, buttoning up a new chef’s coat. “Okay, let’s roll. Fuck, it’s hot out here, why the fuck do they have this thing on the hottest day of the fuckin’ year?” He grumbled, slamming himself into the front seat next to Elijah. The GM said nothing, just nodded to Matt and closed his door. Turning the engine over and glancing briefly over at a sweating Greyson, he backed out of the alleyway. Something is off, he thought again as they drove away. What the fuck is his problem?

***

From the moment his feet touched the ground that morning, Greyson knew he’d caught Reed’s stupid fucking cold.

His head ached, his throat burned, and the buzzing deep in his sinuses, he already knew, was going to be an issue. Before Greyson could sneak out of their bedroom, he snapped in half with a volley of forceful, painfully-stifled sneezes. “NGTZCH! Hh-ITZCH! NTSH!”

Behind him, Reed tutted his sympathy. When Greyson opened his eyes, the tissue box that had adorned Reed’s side of the bed the last three days was at his side. Just shoot me, he thought, sniffling.

“Bless, babe,” Reed said, placing a hand on Greyson’s shoulder. “Can I get you anything?”

At the care, the concern, the immediate knowledge his boyfriend had of his illness, Greyson felt himself bristle. Pulling away from Reed’s touch, Greyson pushed himself to his feet. He turned to regard the other man, hoping he didn’t look as miserable as he felt.

“I’m fine,” Greyson said, tossing the tissue box back to Reed’s side of the bed. “Keep them. I’m not sick.”

Reed cocked his head a little to the left, confused. “Okay,” he said, coughing into his hand and pressing himself to a seat. “Sorry? I mean, good that you’re not sick, obviously. Sorry for assuming.”

Greyson grunted, annoyed, and headed for the bathroom without another word. Immediately, he turned on the shower to the hottest setting he could handle and submerged himself. Fuck you, body, he thought, scrubbing his hair. We are not getting fucking sick today. He leaned into the water as it hit his back, then turned to press his face into it, hoping it might loosen the congestion he could feel building behind his eyes.

Tonight was night one of the Five Boroughs festival, and of course it was the night that Greyson had signed up to cook, to make a thousand portions of a dish and smile at guests all evening. To work all day and then drink all night, as was tradition – the first night was always the best one, the one that the celebrities and Michelin-starred chefs from around the country showed up to, and only the chefs who’d done the festival multiple times before were asked to cook for it. It was the first year Greyson had been asked to cook for night one of the festival; it wasn’t going to be the last.

When the hot water finally ran out, Greyson begrudgingly turned off the shower and stepped onto the cold bathroom tile. He regarded himself in the mirror; at the moment, he looked fine. The worst part about the start of a cold was how shitty, how run-down and exhausted he felt – the best part was that unless he said something, he was fairly sure no one could tell he was sick. The chef combed his hair, brushed his teeth, and patted cologne on. If he wasn’t going to feel well, he was at least going to look good. He scoured the medicine cabinet as well, swallowing as much Dayquil as his body could handle without gagging. That’ll have to do, he thought, quietly replacing the medicine.

Dressed and secretly medicated, Greyson left the bathroom in search of coffee and a clean chef coat, ready to get out the door before Reed could fully assess him. He opened the cabinet where they kept the coffee beans, and when he closed it, Reed’s face appeared.

“Jesus Christ,” Greyson said, jumping at the sudden appearance of his boyfriend. “What’re you, sneaking around the house now?”

“No, I’m not sneaking around the house, weirdo, I wanted some coffee too,” Reed said. Greyson noticed that – annoyingly – Reed sounded markedly better than he had the past couple of days. Apparently, the old wive’s tale about passing along a cold making someone better held true – at least in this house.

“Oh,” Greyson said, pouring the beans into the grinder. “Yeah that makes sense.” He sniffled a little then, an involuntary action that made Reed raise his eyebrows. Greyson said nothing; just filled the coffee pot with grounds and started the machine.

“Are you excited for tonight?” Reed asked, thankfully avoiding the subject that had already set Greyson off once this morning. The chef shrugged.

“I’ll be excited when it starts,” he said, rubbing the back of his own neck. “Still a lot of work to do this morning.”

Reed nodded slowly, clearly thinking. “Is it still okay if I come tonight?” he asked as Greyson poured coffee into a thermos. “I mean, is my name still on the list and everything?”

“Mmhmm,” Greyson hummed. “Yeah. It starts at seven.”

“I remember.”

Greyson grunted again, closing the top to his mug and grabbing the pressed chef’s coat Reed had left for him on the back of one of their bar stools. “I gotta get going, babe,” he said, leaning down to kiss Reed’s cheek. “I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

“Greyson,” Reed stopped his boyfriend just as the chef was about to head out the door. “You’d tell me if you weren’t feeling well, right?”

The thunk of Greyson’s heart into his stomach was so intense, he was surprised Reed couldn’t hear it across the room. Normally I would, Greyson thought, though he wasn’t sure if that was true – he thought back to his time with Collin, all the times he was ill or upset, all of the times he reached out just to be tossed aside in return, then pushed the thought away. Reed wasn’t Collin; Reed actually gave a fuck about him. But he couldn’t miss this event, this day that he waited for all year long. Whether he would or he wouldn’t under normal circumstances, for now, Greyson gritted his teeth and lied to his boyfriend.

“Of course I would, babe,” he said, forcing a smile. “I’ll see you later.”

***

“If this is how you’re going to act all night, I’m going to kill you by the end of this thing.”

Looking up from the plates he was arranging, Greyson gave Elijah a furrowed-brow look. “What are you talking about?” he asked, annoyed. The GM closed his eyes and took a deep breath before continuing.

“You’re being fucking weird, Greyson,” he said, punctuating both fucking and weird by slapping a hand onto the setup station between the two of them. “You’ve barely said a single word to me all afternoon, and everything you have said has been you being annoyed with me. The fuck did I do to you? I feel like I’m in a fight with a fucking wall.”

The chef pressed his lips together, his face betraying nothing. Elijah took a deep breath in through his nose; this was supposed to be a fun day, and though he knew he was being petulant – childish, even – in demanding Greyson enjoy it, he couldn’t help himself. They so rarely got out of that fucking restaurant; they really ought to be enjoying themselves.

“Do you want a beer or something?” Elijah asked before Greyson could say anything. “Help you loosen up? Are you nervous about the whole being-here-night-one thing?”

Greyson swallowed compulsively, gave a little wince. What was that? Elijah thought, but before he could mention it, Greyson spoke up.

“Yeah,” he said, turning back to his plates. “A beer would be great. Thangks, Lij.”

As he went to walk away, Elijah’s ears perked up. Was he…?

“Are… are you sick?” the GM asked, turning back to face the chef again. Greyson’s face flushed.

“Ndo,” he said, congestion lacing the word. Greyson cleared his throat quietly – though loud enough for Elijah to hear – and shooed his boss off with a hand. “I was promised a beer,” he said, attempting a smile. Elijah chewed his bottom lip, but nodded and walked towards the bar. An illness really would explain everything – the annoyance, the quiet, the lack of enthusiasm – but since when did Greyson hide being sick from Elijah? Maybe when they first started working together, back before they knew one another – but now? Now Greyson would walk into the office and cough directly into Elijah’s face just so he wouldn’t be alone in being sick.

Maybe he wasn’t, then; maybe he was just in a bad mood. Greyson hadn’t mentioned anything going on at home with Reed, but Elijah knew his friend’s boyfriend was working a lot lately, and Greyson certainly didn’t do well when someone he loved didn’t have time for him.

As he arrived at the bar, Elijah smiled at the kid standing there, who handed him two shitty light beers from a cooler behind him. Handing the kid a twenty, Elijah turned on his heels and headed back towards their booth, silently wishing that Reed would be able to make it to the event tonight. Maybe that would get Greyson out of his mood.

When he returned, two beers in hand, Greyson was facing away from him. “Here’s your beer, princess,” Elijah said, placing it on the serving-side of their booth. Greyson didn’t turn. “Hellooo, did you hear-”

“NGGTSH!” Greyson’s whole body shuddered, the sound he made both choked and desperate. Elijah wasn’t sure if it was a sneeze or a sob or a laugh or something else entirely. He raised an eyebrow, picked the beer back up, and walked around to the other side of the booth, where Greyson’s hand was pressed against the bottom of his face.

“Bless you…?” Elijah said, handing his friend the beer. Greyson grabbed the beer with his unoccupied hand, roughly rubbing his nose back and forth with the one he’d just sneezed into.

“Thangks,” he said, chugging half the bottle on first drink. Elijah gave Greyson a look. “What? I’mb thirsty,” the chef said.

“Uh huh,” Elijah said, sipping his own beer. Without thinking, the GM reached up to touch Greyson’s forehead – an instinct, after all their years spending nearly every day together. Greyson stepped back to avoid the touch.

“Don’t touch mbe,” he near-growled, pointing the bottle at Elijah. “I’m already hot and in a shit mbood. Don’t piss mbe off by mother-henning mbe, too.”

Ah, Elijah thought, pressing his lips together and lowering his hand. “So you are sick,” he said, taking another sip of his beer. Greyson rolled his eyes.

“I’mb ndot sick,” he said, convincing no one. “I said I’mb hot. Because it’s fucking hot in this fucking conference roomb because it’s fucking hot outside. Okay? Yes, I’mb annoyed. I’mb trying to keep a hundred pounds of scallop cold on a hundred degree day. I don’t wandt to feed Thomas Keller or fuckigg Zendaya or whoever shows up to this thing tepid sashimi. So I’mb in a mood. But I’m ndot sick, and I’m ndot acting weird so please just drop it, Lij. Okay? I’mb – NGTZCH!” Greyson directed this poorly-stifled sneeze into his elbow, sniffled wetly immediately after. Elijah sipped his beer.

“You were saying?” he asked as Greyson stood to his full height again. The chef chugged the rest of his beer, slammed the bottle on the table, and pointed at Elijah.

“Fuck off,” he said, “and go get mbe some mbore ice.”

This time, Elijah didn’t prod further. He put his beer down, raised his hands in front of him as if in surrender, and said, “Yes, Chef,” before turning to walk towards the conference center’s kitchen. As he filled a bin with ice, he could feel his teeth grinding together in frustration. So much for a fun day out.

***

Whatever it was Greyson usually found fun about this event, he couldn’t for the life of him remember.

He was in the fucking weeds; he hadn’t sliced enough scallops back at the restaurant because he was too busy dipping into the bathroom every five-fucking-minutes to blow his nose, and now he was so behind that people had started skipping their booth altogether. Elijah, for all the shit Greyson had given him earlier, was the only one pulling his weight on their two-person team; he was stood at the front of the booth laughing and chatting with guests, while behind him Greyson sliced and plated to order like it was his first time ever doing a festival.

Eventually, he pulled himself out of the muck and the wave of guests slowed to more of a river, and Greyson was actually able to look up from his food and survey the event around him. There really were a ton of recognizable faces out there – from Food Network celebrities to institutions in the industry, it was a who’s-who of food-famous people that Greyson was embarrassing himself in front of. The chef ducked under their booth, the three seconds of rest he’d given his body apparently enough to get it to rebel against him immediately.

“NTSHH! Hh-! IGTSZCH!” Greyson attempted, once again, to stifle the sneezes into submission, succeeding only in making his own head spin. God, this was getting old. From behind him, Elijah grumbled a bless you under his breath; Greyson set his teeth to keep from snapping at his friend.

“You sound awful,” Elijah murmured, not turning towards Greyson. “You’ve sneezed like ten times in the past five minutes.”

“Mbaybe if you weren’t counting the ambount of timbes I’ve sndeezed, I wouldn’t sound awful,” Greyson muttered, standing. “Ever think of that?”

“I think, maybe, if you just let yourself sneeze like a normal human,” Elijah said, glancing over his shoulder, “you wouldn’t have to sneeze so many times. Hmm?”

Greyson rolled his eyes and turned back to the food. “I don’t have timbe for this conversation,” he said, plating another portion and handing it to Elijah. “Leave mbe alone.”

They continued like that for another thirty minutes or so, speaking only when Greyson had food for Elijah – food behind – or when he had to duck under the table – bless you, Chef – until finally, Reed stepped up to their booth.

“Reed!” Elijah exclaimed, stepping out from behind the booth to hug Greyson’s boyfriend. Greyson, preoccupied by plating, didn’t turn around.

Side-stepping the hug as graciously as possible, Reed gave Elijah an apologetic smile. “Lij, it’s so good to see you. Sorry, I would hug you but I’ve had a bitch of a cold all week. Wouldn’t want to get you sick.”

At that, Greyson bristled; for a moment, he stopped in his tracks. Fuck.

“Ohhh,” Elijah said, turning towards Greyson just as the chef peered over his shoulder at the other two men. “So that’s where he got it.”

Reed’s eyebrows knit together, confused. “Where who got what?” he asked. Beside him, Elijah gave Greyson a sidelong look.

“Grey?” he asked. “Did you have something you wanted to tell us?”

As if it wasn’t humiliating enough to be slicing his scallops basically to order, wasn’t embarrassing enough to have to turn guests away because he was so damn slow today, now Elijah was going to out him as sickly to his boyfriend in front of a gaggle of famous chefs. Greyson’s head throbbed in time with the music being canned in overhead; he whipped around and got as close to Elijah as he could without touching noses.

“Do you really thingk,” he whispered, voice low and husky, “that now is the timbe for this conversation?”

Elijah was unphased. “I really do,” he said, crossing his arms. “You’ve been an ass all day. You’ve sneezed yourself hoarse, and you very clearly have a fever. I think the least you could do is fucking admit that you’re sick.”

Just as Greyson was about to snap back at Elijah, Reed walked closer to the booth and addressed his boyfriend. “Babe?” he said, worried. “Shit, did I get you sick?”

The gut punch that was the upset in Reed’s voice nearly knocked the wind out of Greyson. He looked so sad, so genuinely concerned, that the chef immediately forgot what he was going to say. “I…” he started, before having to dip back behind the booth for the millionth time. “HTSZCHH! NGTSZH-uh!”

“Well,” Elijah said from above him. “There’s your answer.”

Rubbing his nose on the back of his hand, Greyson stood and turned to face his boyfriend and best friend. “I’mb okay, honey,” he said, ignoring Elijah completely. “It’s ndothing.”

Before Reed could reply, a new wave of guests made its way over to Elijah and Greyson’s booth; immediately, the drama between the two of them was forgotten as they once again took up their front and back of house positions, making and passing out food. By the time Greyson was once again out of the metaphorical muck, Reed was nowhere to be found. While Elijah was busy schmoozing a guest, Greyson pulled out his phone to see a text from his boyfriend.

I’m sorry I got u sick :( I wish you would’ve told me, baby. I could’ve at least brought you some medicine.

Guilt and shame tore through Greyson’s body as he clicked his phone back off. I’m such an ass, he thought as he returned to plating. Such a fucking stupid ass.

***

“So, when are you planning on admitting it? Because I’m honestly starting to get annoyed.”

Elijah handed Greyson a glass filled to the top with bourbon as he got back to the booth they had snagged the moment they got to the afterparty. Grateful, Greyson snatched the glass with one hand, while the other flew to his mouth.

“NGTSZCH-uhh! Hh...HRTSCH-oo!” The rough attempt at a stifle nearly spilled his drink, and lead to a fit of sticky coughs; Elijah grabbed the glass back from his friend, held it until Greyson wiped his nose on the back of his hand and sniffled, fruitlessly. Shot the chef a knowing look. “Alright,” Greyson muttered, taking the glass back and knocking back half the bourbon. “I’mb fuckigg sick. Happy?”

“Mmm. Happy? No, not particularly,” Elijah said, sipping his own drink. “But certainly satisfied.” “Whatever,” Greyson said, rolling his eyes. “You’re an ass.”

Elijah barked out a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “An ass who’s always right.” Greyson huffed out a little laugh, too, careful not to laugh hard enough to start coughing again. “You gonna admit the other thing, too?”

Greyson raised an eyebrow. “What other thing?”

“That you were being a dick today. That you were, in fact, being weird.”

Another eye roll from the chef, this time one that ended in a wince of pain. He rubbed an aching eye with his palm, musing. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I guess I was.” Greyson sighed, before slamming the rest of his drink. “I just… this is the only evendt I really care about. Y’kndow? I wait for it all year. And tondight was supposed to be...different. Better than this.” His second palm met his other eye, rubbing until Elijah started seeing stars on his behalf.

The GM blew air through closed lips, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Grey,” he said as Greyson finally pulled his hands from his eyeballs. “I know you were really looking forward to this. I mean… shit happens.” He shrugged at Greyson, whose head was perched on his hand, elbow on the table. “It was still a great dish. No one complained. Despite your best efforts, it was technically a successful event.”

Greyson laughed in earnest, punctuated by more coughs. “Thangks, Lij,” he said, grabbing Elijah’s mostly-full drink from his hand and slamming it before his friend was able to comprehend what was happening. “Can always coundt on you to mbake mbe feel better.”

“You dick,” Elijah laughed, elbowing his friend. Suddenly, Greyson stopped laughing, turned away from Elijah.

“Huh-!” he lifted an elbow to his face and pitched forward with little warning. “HuhhETSCHHH-ue! HUHHESHH-ue! Hh-! Hh...HRRSHHH-ue!” Finally, after an entire day of trying to hide it, Greyson let out three painful-sounding, throat-scraping sneezes. “Fuck,” he said, attempting to clear his throat. “God, I feel like fuckigg shit.”

Elijah tutted his sympathy. “Well, if it makes you feel better, you also sound and look like fucking shit,” he joked. Greyson choked on a chuckle.

“Least I’mb consistent,” he mumbled. “God, I have to go hombe and apologize to Reed, too,” he groaned. Elijah furrowed his eyebrows.

“Why would you have to apologize to Reed?” he asked.

“I lied to himb,” Greyson said, pulling a hand down his face. “He asked if I was sick this mborning, and I lied to his face.”

“So you have to apologize to Reed for lying, but not to me,” Elijah said. Greyson gave him a pointed look.

“Correct,” he said. “I actually lied to you just for the pure pleasure of it. The thrill of the gambe, as it were.”

This time, it was Elijah’s turn to choke on a laugh. Just as the two men recomposed themselves, Matt – who apparently did have the time to make it to the afterparty, despite his non-answer to Elijah earlier – snuck up on them and slid into the booth. “There you guys are,” he said, placing his drink on the table in front of him. He glanced at Greyson’s sallow face and grimaced. “Did you finally have to admit it?” he asked his boss.

Once again, Elijah burst out laughing. Greyson, not nearly as amused, deadpanned his sous, grabbed the man’s drink, and for the third time that evening, chugged. “Hey-!” Matt protested.

“Mbatt, you have ndo idea the evening I’ve had,” Greyson said, slamming the glass onto the table. “Ndow go get your ailing boss andother fuckigg drink.”

Matt rolled his eyes, but scooched out of the booth and headed towards the bar nonetheless. When Elijah finally recomposed himself, he regarded Greyson with bemused concern. “Do you really think you should be drinking so much… sickie?” He asked, elbowing his friend once again.

“Hondestly, boss,” Greyson said, rubbing his nose, “I do. I really, really do. HGTSHHH-ue!”

#whiskeyswriting #snz #sickfic #snzfic #snzblr #coldfic #male cold #kinda light on snz i feel like as i read it back #oh well! he's still miserable #and that's what's important lmaooo

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