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erodasfishtacos · 26 days ago

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Threadbare - I ||FWB!H||

prompt: yn avoids because she doesn't know what else to do

word count: 3.2k

warnings: angst, cheating

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The transition in being friends to friends with benefits was surprisingly smooth for the impressively big amount of lack of communication, lack of resolution, and all over how much was swept under the rug instead of address.

It’s was a quiet tension between them that was sometimes sexual tension, sometimes angsty.

They couldn’t wait for trivia to be over so they could get their hands on each other or this other.

It was not as pleasant when someone mentioned Lauren or Ben.

How if someone brought up Lauren, YN’s eyes would automatically dart to Harry to see his reaction and she didn’t miss the ways his jaw clenched when Ben was brought up.

It wasn’t a mutual agreement of not talking about these things, acting like them coming together was conventional or that everytime they went out with their friends - they didn't tell them.

They held this secret between them, not only that they were currently hooking up but what transpired that weekend at the lake house.

Neither of them were that kind of person, who would step out on their partner, or cross boundaries they shouldn’t when they’re in a committed relationship but apparently they were that kind of people - both of them.

YN knows there is nuance.

She knows neither her nor Harry were happy in their relationship.

She knew that Lauren treated Harry like shit nearly a ninety-percent of the time.

Ben had never been all that great after the love-bombing phase was done which she had fell for the flowers and the random grand gestures.

It didn’t make it okay.

YN always had a bit of a crush on Harry.

He was a bit more attentive to her than he was to any other females in the friend group but she’d never looked into that or fed into that too much.

She brushed it off on the fact that she had a (now looking back) massive crush on him that she didn’t want to actually acknowledge because she shouldn’t have a crush on someone who’s in a relationship as she’s in a relationship with someone else.

It was fucked up.

The rest of the time of at the lake house was tense after YN had bolted from the pool, leaving Harry mid-apology but knowing better than to chase after her.

He hadn’t bothered her again - even as they both were in different rooms in the same big summer house.

She could hear him in the kitchen, starting the blender, he had to be able to hear when she turned on the shower but there was silence between them.

And it disappointed her, selfishly, she wanted there to be a knock on the bedroom door, another conversation, something from Harry.

But she was the one who ran, who made it clear that what happened wasn’t good, and YN has always struggled with avoidance, it why she hasn’t broken up with Ben.

She hated confrontation and uncomfortable situations to a fault.

Being socially anxious was in her bloodstream, and having hard conversations was like pulling teeth without being numbed first.

So the second Harry had pulled his hand back, his mouth opening to discuss what just happened - there was no other option for YN then to just avoid, flee so that she didn’t have to talk about it.

YN doesn’t come out of her bedroom for the rest of the night.

Her heart’s in her stomach because even if she doesn’t want to be with Ben, there was guilt for liking what just happened with Harry.

She couldn’t get it out of her mind when he’s cupped her breast, when the rough pad of his thumb had nudged over her nipple.

It was fucked up that her thighs were wet at the thought, at the way his eyes had honed in on her, and how fucking turned on he looked as he reached out to touch her.

She’d never felt that kind of arousal in her life and it wasn’t right, she wasn’t expecting it with Harry when she had long ago deemed him out of her league.

YN wasn’t asleep by the time that Ben stumbled in, drunk and clueless to the internal crisis of self she was having.

She kept her eyes squeezed shut when she felt him looking at her.

Determining whether she was asleep or not, and mumbled some intelligible before he was stumbling out of his clothes and crawling into bed - promptly passing out even while YN struggled to calm her mind.

YN knew she was making everything worse.

She knew that she needed to talk to Harry but avoidance was easier.

It was easier to not make eye contact with him when everyone clmabered downstairs in the morning.

It was easier to sit as far away as possible from him at the table when they all ate breakfast, and made sure not to look at him.

YN could feel his gaze burning into the side of her face.

She could tell that he was staring at her, willing her to look at him, and she wanted him to stop because he was being obvious - or at least she felt like he was drawing attention to the situation but if anyone notices, nobody say anything.

Then they’re down by the lake, YN’s laying on a lounger on the dock, soaking up the sun, and trying to warm up before getting into the water which was chiller than she usually liked.

It was peaceful until she can feel the wood of the dock start to tremble next to her until someone is sitting on the chair opposite her.

YN has sunglasses on that were big enough to hide her eyes completely, dark enough that he couldn’t see.

She blinked her eyes open to Harry looking at her with an unfamiliar look on his face, she didn’t know what he was feeling but he definitely wanted her attention.

YN sits up as Harry hands her something, his voice quiet and unsure, “You’ve got to reapply, you’re gettin’ burnt.”

“Thanks,” YN takes it from him, making sure their hands don’t touch even though she can acknowledge that it’s dramatic.

Even if she’s being short outward, internally there were butterflies tumbling around in her belly that he was even paying attention to her like this.

Apparently her standards were incredibly low because Ben would never do something like this.

He wouldn’t have noticed in the first place, nor used any amount of energy to go up to the house to get the bottle of sunscreen.

“Think I grabbed the right one, you said the one in the blue bottle irritates your skin, right?” Harry checks, he’s off, subdued.

YN didn’t like it but she couldn’t bring it up, they couldn’t talk about it where anyone could hear them.

The thoughtfulness, the fact that he listened when she made that off-handed comment the other day when Ben handed her the blue bottle.

“This is the right one,” YN agrees lamely, taking it out of his hand, they were both skating on uncertainty.

“You ignored me at breakfast,” Harry observes, suddenly on topic to what they really need to talk about.

And YN knows her eyes must have widened like a deer about to be hit by oncoming headlights because she wasn’t ready to have this conversation.

“Didn’t mean to,” YN lies, it wasn’t even a good one but she could feel this uneasiness starting to churn in her stomach because at the end of the day, she had this stupid fucking crush on Harry.

And now she’s seemingly on track to continuously make herself look like an immature little girl who can’t have a conversation.

Harry’s brow furrows at that, huffing with a shake of his head, “Okay. I guess it’s just in my head then.”

And YN didn’t want to gaslight him either.

Fuck.

“I-” YN doesn’t know what to say, swallowing harshly as toys with the sunblock bottle, “It’s not…in your head. I - don’ know.”

It wasn’t graceful or intelligent whatsoever, she felt tongue-tied suddenly at having to explain her poor behavior.

“I would like to talk to you about yesterday,” Harry replies, his tone is neutral, unreadable.

She'd rather not have a conversation about him apologizing, saying it was a mistake, that he wasn’t thinking, that it didn’t mean anything.

She was going to actively avoid the conversation at all fucking costs.

“Not…here,” YN glances around, no one was directly by them but it wasn’t the place to have it - in active eyeline of both of their significant others.

“You will talk to me about it though?” Harry persists, his fingertips are digging into his knees, she knows

it's

absurd but it looks like he’s actively resisting reaching out and touching her.

YN nods, the guilt revving back up because she knows she’s going to do whatever to avoid it, to not have all of her false hopes and dreams crushed.

He was out of her league, he had a gorgeous girlfriend, he was in a committed relationship, and she was too - it was stupid for her to even entertain the idea.

“Yeah, just not here,” YN agrees weakly, she wonders if he can tell she’s not being truthful with him, if he’ll call her out on it.

“Please just know that -” Harry starts to say, leaning in a bit closer in a way that wasn’t inappropriate but made if more difficult for anyone to overhear.

“Harry! Stop bullshitting and get me a fuckin’ drink!” Lauren interrupts obnxiously from the water.

By the slur of her words, she already had enough alcohol pumping through her veins, and the way she demanded from Harry wasn’t anything new but it never got easier to hear him being barked orders to.

The rest of their friends laugh, like it’s funny how Lauren talks to him.

But by the subtle sharp edge to her tone and the way that Harry’s eyes instantly go dark, his nose scrunching slightly in disgust before he hides it shows just how unfunny that interaction is.

Maybe because she sees too much of herself in Harry in that way.

Ben barking at her for things and she just does it to avoid conflict or arguements.

Nothing was funny about it.

YN unsurprisingly doesn’t stick to her word, Harry seeks her out two times during the day to try to talk to her.

The first time YN gets flustered, makes up an excuse about having to use the bathroom, and promptly hides in the bathroom for a good twenty minutes.

The second time, YN suddenly gets very busy helping set up the volleyball net when she notices Harry starting to make his way towards her.

And she knows by the end of the night, his patience is wearing thin - purely based off of the unamused glances he gives her.

The way he’s not anywhere near as talkative as he normally is, and his general demeanor is off - even their friends call him out a few times on it.

Now, she’s nervous to talk to him because of the fact that he’s getting annoyed with her.

She truly keeps digging the hole she’s stepped into deeper and deeper until it feels entirely impossible to pull herself up out of without ramifications.

It wasn’t until late, it was nearly eleven, and their night was in full swing.

The bonfire was blazing, everyone had alcohol flooding their systems except for YN and Harry.

YN wasn’t naturally a big drinker but tonight, she was far too uneasy to think about even sipping anything.

Whereas Harry had a beer or two but he’d been nursing them slowly, enough that he wouldn’t feel any effects of it.

YN feels like the walls were closing in around her.

The conversation was going to come, Harry seemed determined by this point, and YN has probably just made this whole situation worse by not having the conversation in the first place.

YN sneaks away to the bathroom in the house, the second floor one because it was one that no one was allowed to throw up in if they drank too much.

She did it while Harry was in the middle of a volleyball game, and she really didn’t think he’d dip out to have the conversation or pull away from the group because it would surely be suspicious if YN and Harry randomly disappeared around the same time.

But YN is wrong.

God, she’s so wrong.

Because when there’s a knock at the door, YN’s first thought is that it’s Georgia, so without thinking she opens it.

But standing there is a very very unhappy looking Harry who’s lips are in a firm line, his brows drawn inward, and his voice is rougher than usual when he says, “Time to talk.”

“What do you want?” YN has the nerve to huff, surprised by her own attitude as she steps backwards, and Harry follows her in, shutting the door, and locking it behind him.

She wants to point out that this looks so entirely shady, that they should have this conversation not in a locked room, in a house alone but she cannot find it in her to care to point that out nor does she wants to.

“I want you to stop avoiding me,” Harry replies as he crosses his arms, standing towards the door and allowing YN to put some distance between them.

There was this sick, twisted thrill shooting arousal up her spine that she was able to rile him up, get a reaction, it meant in some capacity that he cared at least a bit about her.

When Ben was mad - it turned her off completely but something about the sharp, defined cut of Harry’s clenched jaw, the puffiness of his bottom lip from his front teeth digging into it.

He looked fucking hot when he was pissed and that’s when YN realized she is in deep shit because fuck, she smitten.

“I’m not,” YN replies stubbornly, mirroring his posture by crossing her arms and popping her hip to the side, tongue poking at the inside of her cheek.

Harry looks like he wants to sink his teeth into her- she’d never seen him like this and it was fucked up but she wanted more.

Harry finally smiles but it’s not his normally, boyish grin.

It’s intimidating, sharp and dangerous, his dimples popping as he tilts his head, “I didn’t ask you if you were avoiding me. I’m telling you what you were doing. I’m done with it, we need to talk. Understood?”

And if YN could rub her thighs together without it being obnoxious she would.

It’s twisted, he’s clearly upset and she’s better than no man, thirsting over the way the vein at the side of his neck bulges, his biceps look massive as they flex, and his eyes are sparkling with fury.

“I’m sorry,” Harry takes a deep inhale, calming slightly as he becomes a tad bit more lax in his posture, “It was never my intention to make you uncomfortable and it was completely out of line for me to do. I take full accountability and I’m so fucking sorry for putting you in an uncomfortable position.”

YN takes a minute to process it because…it wasn’t the apology or the regret she was expecting to hear from him.

It wasn’t necessarily rejection.

It was genuine remorse.

“You…I’m the one who showed you them,” YN replies slowly, more confused than ever, and the arousal fizzles when she notices how distraught Harry is underneath hsis cool demeanor.

“I should have never asked. I should have never put you in a position where you felt like you had to-”

“I didn’t feel pressured or uncomfortable, Harry. I’m an adult who made decisions too,” YN points out because it was on both of them, they both participated equally in the bad behavior.

“Then why did you run away? I thought it was because I made you uncomfortable,” Harry’s shoulder slump slightly in relief, his arms uncross but he doesn’t step forward even if she wants him too, even though she shouldn’t want him to.

“I was scared,” YN admits quietly, she has to look away for a moment because his gaze was so fucking intense.

“What were you scared of, Honey?” Harry pushes, he takes a step forward, lessening the space in the small area but they still weren’t touching, and her heart was starting to fully pound like she was running a marathon.

YN finally blinks at him, teeth dug into her lip, debating whether she should tell him the blunt truth - gauging whether that will just lead to rejection but the way he’s looking at her, it makes her want to risk it, say ‘fuck it’.

“Of how much I wanted it,” YN’s voice is barely above a whisper but he could hear it in the otherwise silent house.

“Wanted what,” Harry’s voice is deeper, rougher, and it’s an almost a demand like he needs to know, that it’s not optional.

“Harry-” YN resists, barely hanging onto her morals with a fucking thread, and waiting for him to cut the string.

And he fucking does.

“Tell me, tell what you wanted so badly,” Harry pushes, his fingers are clenching like earlier, he has to restrain himself from reaching out at her.

“It scared me how badly I wanted you to touch me, wanted your hands on me, on my tits, on…yeah,” YN trails off, sheepish and her cheeks were so fucking hot in embarassment at what she’d just said, admitted.

It’s faster than YN can process, the way Harry strides forward, and handles her - twisting her roughly until she’s pinned against the wall across from the sink, it’s tight and their bodies are pressed flushed.

His lips aren’t on hers but they’re ghosting close enough that if they moved even an inch they would brush.

“Tell me I can,” Harry murmurs, there’s this sweet, desperate, needy plea in it that makes her knees weak, “ I wan’na, so bad, honey.”

YN swallows harshly, losing all sense of why this is wrong, and she finds her hands coming to his hair - gripping there and puling his mouth to hers, “Yeah, yes. You can have it.”

#harry styles writing #harry styles #harry styles fic rec #harry styles masterlist #update #harry styles x you #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles angst #author rec #au

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incognit0slut · 1 year ago

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Better for you

Spencer spends the change of year with a new resolution as he starts looking at his rival differently.

(THIS CAN BE READ AS A STANDALONE BUT IS TECHNICALLY A THIRD PART FOR LOSE CONTROL AND THE LAST LAUGH)

words: 4.6k Category: fluff (surprisingly this is not my usual NSFW work) warnings: kissing, suggestive content a/n: I’m killing two birds with one stone here. One, I caved in and did another part for this rival couple. And two, I wrote this as a participation in @imagining-in-the-margins office party writing challenge🥳 Here are the prompts: 1. The team hardly believes it when Character A agrees to dance with B. 2. “I just never saw you as a... party type of person."

WAS A PARTY SUPPOSED TO BE THIS BORING? A subtle sigh escaped her lips as she glanced around the backyard. When Rossi invited the team to gather around at his house in celebration of the new year, everybody was on board.

"Who would say no to a David Rossi party?" JJ had said, which led her to bring her family along the occasion. Even Simmons brought his wife and five little kids. And now Rossi’s place never looked so alive with this many people, it seemed that everyone was present at this joyful soirée.

Everyone but one person, that is.

She turned her attention back to the drink in her hand, leaning against the open bar Rossi had set up, her mind drifting towards a certain man. It wasn't like she was keeping tabs on him. Really, she wasn't. It just happened that his absence became surprisingly noticeable when he decided to take some time off work to visit his mom, even days before Christmas break.

How long had it been since the last time she saw him? Two weeks? Three? It seemed like a considerable amount of time had passed since she saw was forced to work with him, which happened during the case in a remote town. And despite successfully apprehending the Unsub days later, her resistance to temptation, unfortunately, wasn't as successful.

It was hard not to think of what happened during the travel when it kept playing in her mind like a broken record. It was as if the memories were engraved in her brain—his slick, sweaty body pressing against hers; his soft lips caressing her skin; his large hands roaming her curves, traveling to places that had her hot and wet—

What the hell was wrong with her?

She took a sip of her drink—or more like chugging it down—trying to test if the burning sensation could wash away her filthy mind.

"Whoa," a sudden voice broke through her haze and she looked up to find Luke standing close to her. "Easy there."

His easygoing grin met her gaze as he gestured toward her almost empty glass. She shrugged, aiming the glass toward him in a mock toast. "Just trying to enjoy the party."

"Yeah?" He chuckled, leaning against the bar.

She shot him a sideways glance. "What's it to you, Alvez?"

His grin widened. "Well, when someone's drinking like they're on a mission, it catches my attention. Everything okay?"

She hesitated for a moment before responding, her tone calm. "I'm just getting into the party spirit, you know?"

Luke raised an eyebrow, his playful demeanor unwavering. "Is that so? Or are you trying to drown out some thoughts?"

She scoffed. "Thoughts? What thoughts?"

"The kind that makes you chug down your drink."

"You're imagining things. I'm simply enjoying this..." Her eyes scanned the party, trying to find a word describing the ongoing festive. "...ambiance."

"Alone by the table full of alcohol?"

"Well, someone's got to keep an eye on these drinks from disappearing too quickly."

"Hmm," He responded. "It kind of seems like you're waiting for someone to join the party."

Her cheeks warmed slightly, and she scoffed again. "I know who you're referring to, and no, I am not waiting for anyone."

He leaned in, the mischief in his eyes unwavering. "So, you're telling me that if Reid walked in right now, you wouldn't do a happy dance?"

"Please, there would be no happy dance," she said, rolling her eyes. "Just a casual acknowledgment, maybe."

"Casual acknowledgment? You're going with that?" His grin widened, his teasing persistence unyielding. "There's nothing casual about you two."

"If you mean hating each other's gut, then sure, there is nothing casual about Reid and me."

"He doesn't hate you, you know." She gave him a deadpanned look, her skepticism evident in her arched brow. Luke laughed. "Fine, he disliked the idea of having another prodigy on the team. When he got out of prison, he felt like you were his replacement."

She frowned. "I kind of was. Emily wanted someone to fill in for his absence while he was away."

Luke raised an eyebrow, his expression turning thoughtful. "True, but I think you're starting to grow on him." She shook her head, trying to brush off the comment. "I'm serious, I think you made an impression."

Her skepticism lingered as she fully turned towards him, pointing a finger at him. "So you’re telling me every time he tried to pick a fight he was actually impressed by my intelligence?"

"Well, Reid's got this... unique way of expressing himself, but trust me, he respects you."

She raised an eyebrow. "Now you're just pushing it."

"There's got to be something more than what you're letting on. He's not exactly subtle, you know."

She leaned back slightly, trying to maintain composure. "You're reading too much into it. Reid and I have..." a complicated dynamic between coworkers who hate each other but had sex twice—well, three, including that one time in the shower. "...a professional relationship," she decided to say.

His grin widened. "Professional? I've seen the way you two spar during cases."

She huffed. "It's just our way of solving problems. It doesn't mean anything more."

Luke's expression turned thoughtful. "I've worked with him for a while, and he usually doesn't go back and forth with people in smart talk. There must be something about you that intrigues him."

"Or irritates him," she added dryly. "You're giving him too much credit."

"Maybe," he admitted with a laugh. "But I don’t know, he might surprise you one of these days."

She shot him a skeptical glance. "I highly doubt that."

"Yeah?" He suddenly looked past her, a sly grin forming. "Then maybe should find out for yourself."

Confused, she turned around to see what had caught his attention…. And time seemed to slow as her eyes widened in surprise when she spotted Spencer entering the party, a casual smile on his face as he greeted everyone. For a moment, their eyes locked, and despite her attempts to remain nonchalant, a subtle flutter danced in her chest.

She quickly looked away, her attempt to maintain composure falling apart.

"See what I mean?" Luke's voice broke through her thoughts.

She rolled her eyes, trying to deflect. "It's just a party, people look at each other. There's nothing special."

He raised an eyebrow and responded with a hint of sarcasm. “Sure."

"I'm serious. Stop reading into it."

"Alright, I won't."

That only annoyed her even more. She took a deep breath, attempting to regain control of the situation. "You're insufferable."

"What? I believe you," he replied. "I mean, nothing could've happened between two people who were locked together and then forced to share a room, right?"

She shot him a glare, but before she could say anything, she felt a presence coming up behind her. A sudden chill ran down her spine as she caught a whiff of scent she was accustomed to by now, something woody and fresh with a subtle hint of sweetness.

"Reid," Luke greeted as he gave her a side glance before moving towards Spencer, casually dropping an arm around his shoulders. "It's good to see you. How's your mom?"

Spencer's eyes met hers briefly before responding to Luke, "She's doing well, thanks."

“Good to hear.” Luke nodded his head towards her. "Y/n here was just telling me how much she missed you during the holidays."

Suppressing a groan, she shot him a warning look. Spencer, however, responded with a small smile. "You did?"

Her cheeks warmed slightly, caught off guard by his direct question. She feigned nonchalance, offering a casual shrug. "Please, I was just mourning the lack of someone to challenge my wisdom."

Luke chuckled and gave her one last pointed look before excusing himself with a pretense of Rossi calling him somewhere from the crowd. Her eyes narrowed on his back as he walked away, shaking her head in disbelief. "That man coming close to being second place on my hate list."

"I take it I'm still on your number one spot then."

She turned towards him at the sound of his voice, and now that they were alone, she finally took her time to observe him.

Her eyes scanned his clothes, taking in the details. From the carefully styled hair that hinted at the time he took to prepare, to the open dress shirt that he seemed unbothered to button all the way, exposing his long neck and the slight expanse of his chest. He looked good. He looked clean, polished, and undeniably handsome.

She blinked and cleared her throat, attempting to regain composure. "Well, you certainly took your time getting ready."

He met her gaze with a hint of amusement in his eyes, seemingly aware of her scrutinizing observation. "I believe in making a good impression," he replied, a subtle smile on his lips.

She arched an eyebrow, resisting the urge to acknowledge the effect his appearance had on her. "Trying to win over the crowd with something beyond your brain?"

"Partly," he admitted, "And partly because someone once told me that a well-dressed genius is a force to be reckoned with."

"Must have been Garcia."

He grinned. "You know her well."

She took another sip of her drink, a blend of sweet and bitter notes dancing on her tongue. Keeping her eyes on him over the rim of her glass, she observed the play of shadows on his face, accentuating the angles of his features. The ambient light from the party cast a subtle glow, and she couldn't help but notice how it highlighted the soft strands of hair that fell gracefully across his forehead.

"I'm actually surprised to see you here," she slowly remarked, her voice laced with curiosity.

"Surprised? Should I be offended?"

"I just never saw you as a... party type of person."

"I'm not," he agreed. "The only exception of social gathering I can endure is with everyone present here."

"Including me?"

“Especially you."

Her demeanor faltered for a split second, caught off guard by the unexpected turn in his tone. It wasn't the usual witty remark she anticipated. A flicker of surprise crossed her features before she could conceal it, her throat clearing as she attempted to regain control over her beating heart.

"Especially… me?" she echoed, attempting to mask the surprise in her voice.

Spencer's gaze held a warmth that felt unfamiliar, and he nodded. "It seems social events are more bearable when you're around."

She tilted her head and studied him. "You're just saying that because you have someone to pick a fight with."

"A fight?" He wondered. "Is that what we've been doing?"

"It's what we've always been doing."

"Not for the past few weeks, we haven't."

She knew what he was referring to. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of indulging in a conversation about their sexual escapades, she instead responded with, "Well, you haven't, I'm still trying to play my part here."

He chuckled softly, the sound resonating in the quiet space between them. "And what part would that be?"

"The one where I constantly question the liability of your knowledge, of course."

Spencer's smile widened, the lines of his face softening. "Maybe," he began, his voice low, "We can explore different roles that don't involve any fighting."

She raised an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting a truce, Dr. Reid?"

"More like a change of tactics, Dr. L/n," he replied, gently taking the glass from her hand and placing it by the bar.

Her frown deepened, uncertainty in her eyes. "What are you doing?"

He nodded toward the center of the backyard where most of their team members filled the space of the party. "Dance with me."

She gazed towards the dance floor, then back at him, and her brows furrowed. That did not sound like the Spencer she knew, heck, she wasn't sure she had ever seen him dance before. Her eyes narrowed further when he gave her a grin.

"Come on, it's just a dance. It won't kill you," he urged, extending a hand towards her.

She eyed his outstretched hand with mock skepticism. "Are you implying that dancing with you is some kind of survival?"

Spencer grinned. "Considering the number of times you've survived my intellect, this should be a walk in the park."

She rolled her eyes. "Intellect, yes. Dancing? I'll take my chances."

"Are you afraid you'll step on my toes?" he teased.

"More like I'm afraid you'll step on mine," she shot back.

Spencer chuckled. "Just one dance, and if you don't enjoy it, you can revert to questioning the liability of my knowledge."

Her eyes drifted between his outstretched hand and his gaze, a silent contemplation unfolding within her. She knew that if she agreed to this, there was no turning back. Was it a wise decision? Probably not. But a small, rebellious part of her was curious to see how the night would unfold.

Spencer watched her with a patient expression, his hand still extended. The music continued to play, a steady beat that seemed to echo the pulse of the night, and after a moment's hesitation, she sighed in mock exasperation.

"Fine," she said, finally placing her hand in his, "But I reserve the right to make sarcastic remarks about your dance moves later."

"Deal," he agreed, leading her onto the dance floor with a grin.

She could feel everyone's scrutiny on them as he pulled her onto the dance floor, her breath hitching when he grabbed her other hand and placed her arms around his neck before snaking his arms around her waist.

"Everyone's watching us, aren't they?" she asked as they started to move to the soft beat of the music.

Spencer's gaze held a mischievous glint as he twirled her around, navigating the dance floor with surprising grace. "Let them watch," he replied, his voice low, sending a shiver down her spine. "It's just a dance, after all."

"You don't strike me as the 'just a dance' kind of person." She arched an eyebrow, unable to shake off the sense that there was more to this move than met the eye. "You don't even strike me as someone who even knows how to dance."

He shrugged. "Dancing is easy. All you have to do is move in circles and hold on to your partner."

He proved his point by pulling her further into his arms, and she couldn't help but notice the contrast in their heights. His broad chest pressed against her, the softness of his abdomen against her stomach, while his arms securely wrapped around her body.

Her breath caught for a moment, her gaze instinctively locking with his. The initial awkwardness transformed into a surprising ease, and she reciprocated the movements with a newfound confidence. The subtle sways and turns took on a rhythm of their own, syncing perfectly with the music that enveloped them.

"See?" he whispered, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down her spine. "Easy."

They continued to move to the rhythm, and she couldn't help but notice the intensity in his gaze. The world around them seemed to blur, and for a moment, she actually enjoyed being held close to him.

But before she could fully relax in his arms, JJ appeared on the dance floor, hand in hand with her husband Will. The look of disbelief in their friend's eyes was unmistakable as the couple approached them while being tangled in their own dance.

"Are my eyes deceiving me," JJ teased, a playful smile dancing on her lips. "Or are you two getting along quite well?"

She rolled her eyes, attempting to maintain a casual facade. "It's just a dance. Don't read too much into it."

JJ's grin widened as she exchanged a knowing look with Will. "I didn't think I'd see the day when you and Reid would willingly share the dance floor."

She shot a glance at Spencer, and there was a momentary flicker of something in his eyes—was it surprise? amusement? She couldn't quite place it. Collecting herself, she responded with a mock grimace, "He forced me into it."

Spencer's expression turned playful. "I have a way of convincing people to do things they didn't know they wanted to do."

"You mean manipulate."

He chuckled. "Persuade, Y/n. It's all about perspective."

From the corner of her eyes, she saw JJ and Will exchanging another pointed look. "Either way, you both look like you're having a good time."

"And you both look good together," Will added.

"Thank you."

"We're not together."

They both looked at each other while JJ raised an eyebrow, her grin widening. "Yet here you are. Spence, you might have just discovered a hidden talent—getting Y/n to dance."

She let out a sigh. "Don't encourage him."

Spencer leaned in, his tone low. "You're just mad because you're enjoying this."

She narrowed her eyes. "Let's not get carried away."

"Come on, just admit it," The corners of his lips lifted in a playful smirk. "You're having more fun than you expected."

"Fun?" She scoffed, attempting to deflect the growing warmth in her cheeks. "I wouldn't call this fun. It's just an unfortunate consequence of being at a party."

"Yet you can't deny that you're not entirely opposed to the idea."

She shot him a glare. "You're dangerously close to overestimating your influence."

"Or maybe you're underestimating your willingness to enjoy the moment."

She shook her head, turning towards JJ. "Can you believe him—"

She stopped when she realized they had been left alone for a while, noticing JJ and Will were already at the other side of the dance floor. However as her eyes scanned around them, the scrutiny of the others didn't go unnoticed by her. She fixed her gaze back on Spencer.

"We must be such a sight to see," she remarked. "I bet they're starting some rumors about us."

He raised his eyebrows. "You think they haven't already?"

She sighed, acknowledging his words. "Fair point."

"What do you think they're saying about us?"

She considered for a moment. "That we secretly don't hate each other," she responded after contemplating her answer. "I think they might be disappointed when they realize the truth."

His arms instinctively tightened around her waist. "And what's the truth?"

She studied him, her heart suddenly beating fast. Weeks ago, she would have answered the question with certainty, stating that they were nothing more than coworkers who were both very stubborn. But as she felt his eyes watching her intently, she wasn't so sure anymore.

"The truth?" she echoed, her voice a little softer than she intended. "I don't know, Reid. What is our truth?"

He held her gaze, and for a moment, she was hypnotized by the look in his eyes. "Well, the part where we secretly don't hate each other is true, for me at least."

Her breath caught as she absorbed his words.

“…you don't hate me?"

"Hate is a very strong word." Spencer leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "Hate is often fueled by fear or misunderstanding. It's a complex emotion rooted in our perceptions and experiences. So, in a way, hate is a reflection of the mind rather than a true evaluation of a person."

She couldn't help but let out a disbelieving laugh. "Did you just use psychology to explain why you don't hate me?"

"Considering our line of work, it seemed appropriate."

She shook her head in amusement. "Only you would analyze hate in the middle of a dance."

Spencer continued, "Well, understanding emotions is crucial in our field. And I believe there's more to us than mere hostility."

She pursed her lips together, her mind suddenly going through the times they often bickered. "I still find it hard to believe you didn't hate me the first time we met."

"Dislike would be a better way to put it. But I was at my lowest point at that time. It wasn't just you, I was angry at everyone. At the circumstances. At myself." He slightly leaned back and sighed. "And I admit, it was wrong of me to take it out on you."

Then after a moment of silence, he whispered, "I'm sorry."

She felt the warmth of his embrace, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against hers. The apology hung in the air and she found herself at a loss for words. For a fleeting moment, the walls she had built seemed to crumble, leaving her standing on the precipice of something unfamiliar.

She took a deep breath, her voice barely above a whisper, "And how do you see me now?"

Spencer's gaze held a thoughtful intensity as he considered her question. "I think you're someone who challenges me. There's a depth to you beyond the harsh glare and cold shoulder." He eased, pressing a hand on her lower back. "And, if I may say, someone who looks surprisingly stunning on the dance floor."

A blush crept over her cheeks, and she narrowed her eyes, wondering if he had another motive behind the compliment. "You're using flattery now? Are you trying to get in my pants again?"

He laughed. "Is it working?"

She rolled her eyes, suppressing a smile. "Nice try, Reid. Flattery might get you far, but not that far."

His grin widened, and he guided her through the dance floor with ease. "Well, I'll have to come up with better tactics then."

His touch, gentle and deliberate, sent a shiver down her spine as his thumb traced an almost hypnotic pattern on the small of her back through the fabric of her dress. The soft caress felt both intimate and tender, catching her off guard. "I mean it though," he said, his voice a soft murmur that resonated with honesty. "You do look beautiful tonight."

There was something in his gaze that was unfamiliar, even hearing him easily compliment her was foreign in her ears. Her confusion must have been evident on her face because he smiled at her. "What?"

She shook her head, dismissing her thoughts. "Nothing. It's just... unexpected, coming from you."

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against her as they moved in sync with the music. "It's part of my New Year's resolution."

"What? To be nicer?" She guessed. "Be a better person?"

"To be a better person for you," he corrected.

Her heartbeat picked up, and she found herself drawing closer to him, the music weaving a subtle spell around them. The warmth radiating from him, the soft glow of the string lights, and the gentle melody created an intimate atmosphere that blurred the lines between the hostility she often wore.

The distance between them diminished, and she felt the subtle shift in the air. Without registering what she was doing, her fingers came up behind his neck, softly playing with the strands of his hair. They were so soft, just like the look reflected in his eyes. Then her gaze went down to his lips; they too looked incredibly soft.

"Stop looking at me like that."

Her eyes snapped to his. "Like what?"

"Like you want to close the distance between us," he whispered, his voice a low murmur that sent a shiver down her spine. "Because I'm trying to restrain myself from doing just that."

His fingers found the small of her back, pressing gently, while hers continued their silent dance in his hair. Every touch, every movement, fueled the escalating heat between them. His proximity was intoxicating, and the magnetic pull between them was undeniable. The distance diminished further until she could feel his breath, warm and inviting, grazing against her lips.

But before she could indulge herself, Garcia's voice echoed somewhere in the crowd. "It's the final countdown, people!"

Suddenly becoming aware of their surroundings, she released her arms from around his neck and shifted her gaze elsewhere. Her eyes landed on the projector screen, previously used by the kids for a movie marathon and now it displayed the vibrant scenes of people joyously ringing in the New Year celebration.

As the digital numbers on the screen ticked down, the energy in the backyard intensified. The countdown became a collective heartbeat, a shared anticipation that echoed through the crowd.

"Ten! Nine! Eight!"

In those final moments, she stole a glance at Spencer, their eyes locking silently.

"Seven! Six! Five!"

But his stare became so intense that she quickly looked away.

"Four! Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!"

The cheers erupted, and the backyard was bathed in the glow of fireworks, the sky above adorned with bursts of color. She watched the dazzling display in awe, the explosions of light reflecting in her eyes.

Amidst the celebratory chaos, she noticed her friends wrapped in the arms of their loved ones, celebrating happily. JJ and Will shared a sweet kiss, Simmons was embraced by his family, Penelope and Luke exchanged laughter, and even Rossi, with a subtle smile, clinked glasses with Emily and Tara.

And as the colorful explosions painted the night sky, she felt a lingering gaze on her. Turning, she found Spencer watching her intently. His eyes were searching hers as if he were asking for permission to close the short distance separating them.

She knew what he meant. It was beyond asking permission to kiss her. It was a gentle plea to understand the unspoken boundaries that lingered between them. Engaging in intimacy behind closed doors was one thing, but to take that step in front of their peers meant exposing a vulnerability she had carefully guarded. Did she want to cross that line?

A part of her wavered, finding herself drawn to him—his warm brown eyes, his smile, everything about him seemed to call out to a part of her that she had kept guarded. The barriers she had meticulously built started to feel like fragile walls as everything around them started to fade, leaving only the soft glow of string lights and the distant echoes of laughter.

Oh, fuck it.

Feeling the pull of an undeniable force, she took a step closer with a small, bashful smile playing on her lips. It was all the answer he needed. Closing the distance between them, he framed her face with his large hands, his warm touch sending a shiver down her spine. Surrounded by the cheers of the crowd and the vibrant display of fireworks overhead, he finally leaned down, gently brushing his lips against hers.

Warmth spread through her body as he held her, his touch gentle yet possessive. He tipped her jaw, allowing his mouth to move along with hers. His tongue easily slipped into her as he continued to taste the subtle hint of liquor she had been drinking. Spencer was never one to drink, but he didn't mind tasting it on her. If anything, he couldn't get enough.

Her arms instinctively traveled underneath his suit jacket, seeking more of his warmth as she wrapped them around his waist. The fabric of his suit was smooth under her fingertips, and the heat of his body radiated through the layers of clothing.

The kiss deepened as he continued to explore her mouth, growing more intense with each passing second, and it wasn't until they heard someone through their haze calling out, "There are kids here!" that he finally pulled away.

He laughed, a soft, genuine sound and she couldn't help but join in. He then rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the small space that separated them. The lingering taste of their kiss hung in the air, and for a moment, they simply stood there. The reality of the situation slowly sank in, and they exchanged a glance filled with a mix of surprise and amusement.

"I guess we got carried away," he mumbled.

"You think?" She chuckled, her fingers playing with the lapels of his suit jacket. "We should keep it PG-13 for now."

His fingers gently traced the curve of her cheek. "Does that mean we can go R-rated later?"

She let out a laugh, throwing her head back in mirth. "You're relentless."

He smiled, savoring the moment of ease between them, and he found himself captivated by the genuine joy she radiated. His gaze traveled around the backyard and noticed everyone watching them with amused grins. He leaned down and pulled her flush against him. "Everyone's watching us."

She groaned and hid her face in the crook of his neck. "I can already imagine their teasing."

There was a moment of silence before he responded, "I think it's worth it."

"What is?" she mumbled into his neck.

He pulled away and looked down at her. In a tender gesture, he brushed a strand of hair away from her face, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. "I can handle the constant teasing if it means I get to hold you like this."

The corners of her lips curled into a soft smile. "You're willing to endure their teasing just to hold me?"

His gaze met hers, unwavering. "More than willing."

Her gaze softened as she looked at him. She couldn't believe how this night had turned out, yet, here they were—wrapped up in a dance of their own. It was a position she would've never imagined herself in. And despite her best efforts to resist, the walls she had meticulously built were crumbling.

"Can I kiss you again?" He whispered. "I promise I'll make it family-friendly."

The corners of her lips curled as she laughed. The unexpected turn of events had brought them to a place she never anticipated, but surprisingly, it felt oddly right.

"I suppose one more won't hurt."

His smile widened, and with a hint of mischief in his eyes, he leaned in, capturing her lips in a tender kiss. "Happy New Year," he whispered against her lips.

She found herself smiling, realizing that perhaps, unexpected as it was, this change of year wasn't so bad. She closed her eyes, savoring the moment, and wondered where her life would take her this year. The path ahead seemed unclear, but one thing was certain—Spencer Reid had managed to find his way into her heart.

a/n: if you’ve followed the story since lose control, this is the ending for this short series. As much as I wanted to write smut again for the last part, the fluff was calling out to me :3

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charles-smith-pillow-princess · 4 months ago

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Part 1 of @noshirdalal's answer to the following prompt (requested by me [@rockscanfly] for @kaphzzz's birthday). I’m posting on her behalf because tumblr has had her account wrongfully suspended for about two weeks now. Part 2 found here.

In response to the question: You’ve mentioned that there are things that Charles left unsaid to Arthur. On behalf of Kaph and in celebration of her birthday, what are some things Charles might have said to Arthur on their last ride together?

Transcript Below:

I missed your birthday? Aw man! Happy belated Birthday, Kaph, and I’m so grateful to Rocks for letting me know! January 25th (editor’s note: not actually Kaph’s birthday. I was very dehydrated/tired from 10 days working outside in the desert and got the date wrong. Whoops! Sorry Kaph!)? Clearly an auspicious day [laughter]. If you had been in camp, you would have woken up and there would have been a blueberry scone and hot coffee waiting for you outside your tent. Charles would not have let you know it was him or left a note or anything he just would have set it outside for you to find. Charles also wishes you a very happy belated birthday.

[Nala, Noshir’s dog, is huffing at the camera, asking for her papa’s attention] God dang, literally as soon as I start talking!

So, for your birthday Rocks made a request [laughs]. In a previous post I talked about Charles probably having misgivings about things he didn’t say when he had the chance while he was on that ride with Arthur. And so Rocks asked, ‘well what would he have said?’. Oh, man [laughs]. Rocks you’re always asking me the cool but involved questions.

So, here’s the deal Kaph [sighs]. I know that you’re a big fan of Charthur. And I think that any romance option is completely, completely wonderful and I support them all. So I’m gonna do this from a Charthur perspective. I know someone out there is gonna take this and run with it as like, you know, ‘Noshir says, you know, that Charles and Arthur are gay!’. And if they are? Great! And if they’re not? Great! But for you I will try to tell this [as] if Charles does have feelings for Arthur.

I think Charles would probably take some time—depends on how long this horse ride is [giggles]—to share some of the regrets he’s had along the way. Moments when he could have come to some sort of resolution or sort of peace and didn’t know that he had limited time. I think there would have been plenty of those moments in his life. I think if Charles found the courage and in some way past relationships came up—Charles would probably share that he’d been in love when he was young.

And, you know, like, was all in. A ‘fool for love’. And that when the chips were down and he desperately needed the person that he loved to be there, that he bailed. Be it out of fear or what, self interest, but I think that was really crushing for him. I don’t think that Charles talks about it a lot [Noshir pauses to toss a ball for Nala]. I don’t think Charles talks about it a lot but I think thats one of the reasons that he keeps so many people at arm’s length.

I think Charles feels things very deeply and loves very hard and for that reasons tries not to put himself into situations where that could become a risk. I think that a lot of times people that he cares about he actually makes more distance than with people that he doesn’t. And I think he might confess that to Arthur.

‘Cause I think if there’s anyone in this world that he’d want to make sure didn’t misunderstand him, it’d be Arthur. And I think oftentimes with people that you’re close with, they know. But knowing how little time Arthur may have left there are some things that Charles would not leave to chance.

And I don’t think Charles, even in this moment, could bring himself to come out and say, you know, ‘Arthur I love you.’ It's just not, not in his way. But he might in a very kind of—[talking to Nala] nope, out! Good girl—but I think he might in a very kind of awkward way…maybe tentative is a better way to put it. You know, just let Arthur know, like, ‘You know, you never have to ask if I’ll ride with you. Just tell me where we’re goin’’.

I think that may be as close to a confession of love that Charles would ever make.

#charthur #charles smith #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #words of the prophet #kaphzzz #noshir dalal

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killerpancakeburger · 1 year ago

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PULL ME CLOSER

SUMMARY: After a mission gone wrong, Soap narrowly cheats death. When visiting him in his hospital bed, overwhelming relief emboldens you, making you do something you regret. So you flee, resolved to avoid Sergeant MacTavish until the end of your days.

But Johnny is done letting you slip through his fingers.

Part 1. Part 2.

PAIRING: Soap x f!Reader (reader has boobs, that's it)

TAGS: A pinch of angst, then tooth rotting fluff, Civilian!Reader, Anxious!Reader, Depressed!Reader, inexperienced!Reader, Desperate!Soap, Soft!Soap, mutual pining, first kiss, confessions, dirty talk, making out. Bit of a chase, but it's fluffy. Protective!Ghost bordering on controlling but he works on it. Swears, blood mention, injuries, miilitary inaccuracies, suggestive content.

WORDS COUNT: 5.6k

A/N: aaaAAAH F I N A L L Y! ITS KISSING TIME BABEYYY 💋 For @glitterypirateduck COD Vacation Mode challenge, prompts 32 with Ghost and 58 with Soap.

"Hey author, this is Soap x Reader, why is Ghost there...?" Because he just! Won't! Leave! 🙃 *you can now picture me trying to push him out of the room with all my meager strength but he doesn't budge an inch*

As you pace around the office for the umpteenth time, you can tell from the glint in Ghost's eyes that he's seconds away from telling you to take a seat and stop writhing uselessly.

When did you become so accustomed to the taciturn Lieutenant's expressions - or more accurately, lack of -, that you could figure out what was going on behind the mask? You couldn’t remember.

He's been keeping his gaze on you since you've sat down after learning the harrowing news; or, more exactly, since he's sat down and you've been fidgeting relentlessly.

You're feeling like a shark - to stop moving won't kill you, but it will cause the whole world to come crashing down. It will allow reality to become clearer, sharper, inescapable.

The arrival of Price in the room captures his lieutenant's attention before he can scold you. Gaz follows close behind. He offers you a reassuring smile before his captain addresses you.

“He's going to make it.”

Relief overwhelms you with just those five words; a colossal wave close to sending you tumbling down. Ghost's mask fails to hide his own calming.

Price sets his hands on his hips. His voice is gruffed but composed.

“All he needs now is rest… and some blood.”

“I'll do it,” you blurt out resolutely, taking a step towards your boss.

“No,” snarls Ghost, tone adamant.

You snap around to stare at him in shock and disbelief. He never raised his voice at you before. And, most importantly, he never tried to dictate your behavior.

“Who do you think you are?! I'm not one of your fucking recruits-”

Price loudly coughs in his fist.

“Easy there.”

He raises both hands in appeasement. “We don’t even know if you're compatible.”

“I'm a universal donor,” you counter immediately, determination unaltered.

“Course ya are,” scoffs Ghost derisively.

You glare at him with open animosity. What the fuck is wrong with him!?

“What is that even supposed to mean!?”

You throw your arms up in irritation.

“Enough! Both of you.”

John's tone extinguishes your shout with redoubtable efficiency. He's already not someone you would dare cross on casual days, but hearing him raise his voice makes you sheepish.

Nonetheless, you turn towards him, outraged and betrayed. "Both"!? Why both!? I'm not the one being an asshole for no reason!

“You've done this before?” the captain asks, looking at you.

You nod vigorously.

He indicates the door with his chin.

“Fine, then. Go see the nurses to set you up.”

You bolt out of the room without further ado, determined to not let Ghost get another word in. But you can still hear one last sentence as you hasten.

“As for you, Simon…It is none of your business.”

Giving blood has never been a walk in the park. Every time, you have to actively handle your nerves; resort to trusty relaxation methods, such as focusing on your breathing, or counting the tiles on the ceiling.

The stab of the needle is unpleasant, to say the least, but the wait between the jab and the removal is almost as challenging.

Nonetheless, you've done this before, you succeeded, and for Johnny, you'd be willing to do it for hours.

Power of will doesn't compensate blood loss however, and when you get up from the bed, you feel dizzy, your bandaged arm sore and stiff. The idea of meeting with Soap shortly helps you power through, and soon enough you’re sitting at a table in the canteen, empty at this hour of the day, stuffing your face with whatever snacks and drinks have been put aside to aid your recovery.

With nothing but concern for Johnny busying your mind, you end up eavesdropping on a couple of nearby cafeteria employees.

“You think that's really him?”

“Ain't that many guys going around with a skull mask.”

“I heard he killed a man with only a pen…”

Your eyes widen at the mention of a mask, and you groan in annoyance before turning around to see where the staff is looking.

Near the entrance, casually leaning against the wall, arms crossed, Ghost is watching over you like an overzealous bodyguard. He finally swapped his mission outfit for his trademark black hoodie and grey sweatpants.

Exasperation flashes through you and you proceed to fling at him a cake wrapped in plastic. Your aim's never been anything to be proud of, but he's large enough that you manage to brush his shoulder.

“Get away from me, you creep!” you yell loud enough to be heard by him.

He gives you an inscrutable gaze before leaving the room, probably settling right on the other side of the door, not one to admit defeat so easily.

Minutes later, you leave the room to visit Soap, and observe with spiteful satisfaction that you were right - Ghost adopted the same position as before, against the corridor's wall. You glower at him as you pass by, and of course he remains unfazed.

You scoff with irritation before deciding to ignore him and focus on Johnny, accelerating the pace.

“Wait.”

You halt with a vexed sigh.

“If you intend to berate me again, I'm not gonna stand there and take it.”

“I know what you’re doing.”

You pivot to face him, exasperated by his sibylline remarks. He moved away from the wall and approached you while you had your back on him.

“Once again, what is that even supposed to mean?”

His cryptic attitude makes your blood boil with anger, one that could almost mask the feelings of hurt and betrayal he begets inside you. At some point, you've genuinely started to believe that you two became some kind of friends. Turns out that you've been naively imagining things this whole time.

“The whole self-sacrificing bullshit.”

You stare in incomprehension, searching his concealed features vainly for a clue, wishing you could rip that stupid mask off his face.

“I'm not sacrificing myself. It's just a bit of blood.”

He crosses his arms.

“We have stocks for that. And it's not just that. When he got into trouble with Price for making you skip work, you tried to take all the blame.”

“He did it to cheer me up-”

He keeps talking like you didn’t intervene.

“And when he pummeled that officer, you pretended it was all your fault.”

“I-”

“Luckily for you, Price's no sucker.”

You wince with distress.

“I just wanted to help. I hate being… feeling useless.”

“That's my problem. I swear it feels like you’d slash your own wrists if you thought it would ‘help’.”

You grimace but do not contradict him. It's actually kind of scary how much he figured you out.

“Let him take responsibility for his actions. He may look impulsive most of the time, but he knows what he's doing.”

Arms folded, you gaze fixedly at the floor in silence, not knowing what to add.

“I’m sorry.”

He talked loud enough to be understood, but the content of his sentence makes you doubt what he said as much as if he whispered. You stare at him with wide eyes, speechless. It's not that you categorically believe Ghost incapable of self-reflection, but at the same time, he's always striked you more as the type to never admit any weakness - except maybe in front of a trusted superior and longtime friend like Price.

“Shouldn't have tried to boss you around. Only made things worse. What happened with Johnny… made me…”

He acts like articulating an apology out loud has on him the effect of enthusiastically biting into a lemon - an irresistible temptation to annoy him emerges inside you. No harm in a little well-deserved payback.

“On edge? Touchy? Cranky? Irrita-”

“That'll do. Go, now.”

You turn away with an amused smile on your lips.

Witnessing the wounded sergeant in a hospital's bed is like a punch to the stomach. Maybe an actual punch would be more merciful.

Inside you, gratitude for his miraculous survival battles against sorrow caused by his pitiful state. An impressive bandage is wrapped around his head, one arm secured in a cast, the other bearing a couple of compresses. His face is littered with scratches and contusions.

When he notices you, frozen on the threshold, he beams.

“How's my little firecracker doing?”

That nickname. That damn nickname. He started using it after he caught you red-handed giving the middle finger to a rude officer who was leaving your office just as Soap was entering it. You tolerated it until you realized it was a reference to his love of explosions and all things blow-able, which made you ridiculously pleased, yet self-conscious all at once.

Your legs were already unsteady, so the complimentary alias almost finished you off.

“That's my line, you Scottish bastard.” you retort, voice devoid of hostility despite the insult.

Closing the gap between you two with a few strides, you stop at what you consider a respectable distance.

“Why, I'm alive and kicking. No need fer ye to look so dejected.”

You scoff, both annoyed and moved by the attempt to console you. It's unbearable to see him so shattered and yet so upbeat, while you don't have a scratch but came so close to breaking down.

“I hate you,” you mumble.

“Ye love me.”

If you only knew… you wouldn’t dare to joke like that.

You smile ruefully, despite yourself.

“I'm serious. For a moment I…I really thought you… you weren't going to… shit.”

You furiously blink to get rid of the rising tears stinging your eyes, looking away shamefully.

“Hey, hey, hey, c'mere.”

He pats one side of the bed with his free hand invitingly. You obey, positioning yourself near the mattress close enough to touch. He grabs one of your hands and gently squeezes it.

“M sorry.”

His tone is gruff, maybe a bit abashed. A pang of culpability pierces your heart.

“What could you be sorry for? You were doing your job. I need to get over it.”

You’re not mine to lose.

“Fer makin’ ye cry. I hate it.”

Why does he have to be so kind?

You persist in trying to prove that you’re the one in the wrong here, not him.

“I shouldn't be crying. You’re the one who went through hell.”

He snorts.

“What's so funny?”

“Not funny, just… Ye didn’t even shed a tear when that bastard jumped ye the other day. Yet here ye are, crying over my sorry arse. Yer somethin’ else.”

The compliment takes you aback, and as his eyes sparkle with nothing but honesty, you fiddle with the bandage you received from the blood donation in a desperate effort to collect yourself.

“What’s that? Ye hurt?”

The concern in his voice warms your heart, even if it is unnecessary.

Soap rises from his pillow to some extent, pain obvious in his restricted movements. You react immediately, clicking your tongue in disapproval. Before you can think twice about it, you set your hand between his pecs and push him back, careful to not harm him, but firm.

“I didn't give you my blood just so you could spill it right away!”

He shouldn't be so easy to put back into his place, even with his wounds. Yet he goes down smoothly, docile under your imperious touch as if he was the unassuming civilian and you the imposing soldier.

His eyes linger on your hand before setting on you, the intensity and the heat of his gaze taking your breath away. His expression is one of surprise, but not of annoyance or revulsion, or at least that's what you hope from what you can read on his face.

Sinking into the lagoons of his eyes, you stare back in a daze. You can feel the rhythmic motions of his well-defined chest under your palm, rising and lowering as he breathes. Suddenly the contact becomes intolerable as your cheeks catch fire. You begin to withdraw but he grabs you just in time.

“Ye gave me yer blood?”

The urgency in his tone takes you by surprise, and so does his expression, one that's contemplating you like you've just announced that you've run in front of a truck for him.

“Price said you needed it-”

“Yer. Blood. We have a stock fer that!”

“I know, I just- I was there and I wanted to do something.”

“And they just let ye?”

“I asked real nicely.”

“Would have liked to see that.”

There's a challenging spark in his eye that you choose to ignore.

“It's just blood,” you mumble, shying away from his gaze, embarrassed by his reaction. You didn’t do this in the hopes that he would express eternal gratitude, nor that he'd be admiring of you.

“It will reconstitute on its own.”

He scoffs, unconvinced. Yet he doesn't sound too mad. There's a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and he's looking at you like you hung the moon.

“Let's talk less about me, and more about you, ok? How are you feeling?”

“Parched,” he retorts while reaching for the water bottle on the nearby tray table.

Of course he's not expanding further. Johnny's the kind to dramatically whine over a paper cut for fun but somehow when it comes to serious, life-threatening injuries, he becomes stoically reserved, almost stingy with words.

You almost throw yourself at the bottle when you notice the slight wince of pain in the line of his mouth - despite his efforts to conceal it - and hand it over to him.

“Just ask me if you need something.”

“Oh bonnie, ye dunnae know what yer getting yerself into with promises like that.”

You openly roll your eyes. If he can make that sort of comment, surely he's not in that much pain after all.

“Let me guess: you’re gonna ask me to kiss your boo boos better.”

You regret your jibe the second you finish talking. You were supposed to only think those words, not pronounce them. He's the gorgeous individual who can take the liberty of flirting with anyone, but you… you’re not.

His only reaction is a chuckle.

“Hmm, what if ah did? Ask fer a kiss?”

His tone is provocative, his pout sultry and his eyes pleading.

You stare at him in thoughtful silence, cogitating your answer.

He misinterprets your lack of response, and backpedals, stuttering while doing so. He starts to apologize, plainly, apparently convinced he went too far, ashamed by his own conduct.

You let him stew in his embarrassment a bit, not out of sadism but curiosity, rarely being granted the opportunity to see him so insecure.

This could be the chance to put an end to his flirting for good. The chance you've been waiting for. It's what you should do.

But there's a part of you that is fed up. Fed up of this pretty man and his pretty words, of this blue-eyed casanova that must see you as another conquest and nothing more. You’re sick of passively enduring his quips, his seduction, his winks, his smirks. So yes, you could ask him to stop.

Or you could give him a test of his own medicine.

Lifting his hand towards your face, you lock eyes with him to be certain he's watching, then tenderly press your lips to each of his scarred knuckles.

The ensuing quiet is deafening.

He half-opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. You never saw him so flustered. Is he… is he blushing?

Somehow, seeing his flush sets your own face on fire. The reality of what you’ve just done hits you like a freight train.

Panic surging inside you, you deal with the situation the way you know best when no other solution comes to mind - you flee. Pretending you don't hear Soap calling after you, you scramble out of the bedroom like the devil's on your heels. Ghost, settled on a chair in the hallway, throws you the closest thing he must have to a bewildered gaze in his repertoire as you storm off by him, gaze that you ignore vehemently.

The following weeks are spent visiting Soap only when he's asleep. Kyle is nice enough to let you know when that's the case. You can tell by the interrogative way he looks at you that a bunch of questions rush on the tip of his tongue: what happened, why are you not simply seeing his teammate when he's awake with the rest of them. But he's either kind or polite enough to not formulate his concerns out loud. Or maybe he thinks it's a private matter between the two of you.

Either way, you’re grateful, and you repay the favor any time you can, filling the break room with his favorite snacks, making him tea or ensuring his gear gets maintained first.

At some point Ghost half complains to you, half reprimands you - since Soap is one part of his current problem and you another.

“Fuckin’ hell, never been easy keepin’ Johnny in medical, but since ya visited him he's worse than ever. Care to explain?”

“I fucked up,” you confess, without adding anything else.

“Fucked up how?”

“I can’t tell you.”

He curses loudly, dragging a gloved hand over his face, appalled by your demeanor.

“Why the fuck not?”

“I'm taking my secret to the grave. All I can tell is that I made an absolute fool of myself, and therefore I can never appear in front of Johnny again.”

He half sighs, half groans, and rolls his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You dramatic little…”

Soap eventually gets released from medical.

You spend a couple of weeks avoiding him to the best of your abilities, even though you can tell that Ghost is frankly sick of your antics, Price is five minutes away from berating you, and even Gaz starts to look at you with something that resembles disappointment.

You actively despise yourself for ruining a perfectly good friendship. Especially because of a five seconds long action decided on a whim and carried out out of spite. You find yourself on the edge of tears a couple of times, yet unable to cry. Familiar rooms and corridors feel empty and awkwardly silent with his absence.

There are a bunch of close calls, and the base, or at least the part of it that you’re accustomed to, suddenly feels cramped.

But you hold on.

Until you don't.

You're caught completely unaware, entering the break room as usual to get some coffee.

Only to freeze on the doorstep. Johnny's right there. Barely two meters away. It's the first time you lay eyes on him in what feels like forever. You can’t help but drink in the view.

He's sitting at a table, elbow leaning on it, cheek resting on his closed fist. Your eyes linger over the blue cobalt shirt he's wearing, your favorite of his, and his black fingerless gloves, which you've always had a weakness for. The corner of his lips are down, his eyebrows lightly frowned. Staring into space, he seems sullen.

Your heart tightens at the sight.

However you barely get the opportunity to indulge into your guilt, because next thing you know, your gazes meet. He perks up, eyes widening in surprise. You tense like a deer in the headlights, holding your breath. Dread swells inside you. You’re no braver than last time.

You turn around and decamp.

It's fine, you can come back later. You just need to unearth a hiding spot for now. The object of your affliction - on top of your affection - will probably be vexed enough by your reaction that he won't seek to confront you.

Yes, everything is just fine, you assure yourself - for no more than a handful of seconds.

Without warning, brawny, familiar arms close around your shoulders from behind, pinning your back against a muscular torso.

“Gotcha.”

The word is barely above a whisper, more a growl than anything else, enunciated right into your ear, sending shivers all over your body. You don’t find anything to do but clutch with both hands one of the tanned forearms pressed beneath your collarbone.

Fighting him off doesn't even cross your mind. It's not that you think you'd fail - you trust him to let you go at the first stern summon. You just don't want to forgo his embrace. He hasn’t hugged you since that time you've been mugged and one moment was enough to make you realize how much you’ve missed it.

“Dunnae whether to be upset ye ran away again, or to find it cute that ye thought ye could actually outrun me.”

You gulp, heart pounding and cheeks heating up.

“Johnny…”

A host of pitiful excuses accumulates behind your lips, but somehow none manage to make its way out.

He briefly tightens his hold, but the gesture feels more like a hug than a restraint. Did he… did he just squish you? Like some kind of… cuddle toy?

“Got nothin’ to tell me?”

The question is a taunt as much as a hint at reconciliation.

You try to pace yourself, and think logically about this predicament of your own making. You need to devise a strategy to come out - more or less - unscathed of this.

Soap sounds more smug than mad, but still, passably angry. Maybe there's a way to fix this. Be friends again like nothing happened. Maybe he can forgive you.

First, do not worsen things.

Two, apologize. Properly.

Three, keep your fingers crossed …?

“I'm… sorry?”

He chuckles darkly.

“Gonnae take more than that.”

You try to resist the effects this sentence, his husky voice, his proximity, his laugh have on you, the way they make your stomach twist in apprehension and… indisputable arousal. Resist the temptation to close your eyes so you could focus on his voice alone, on the warm breath brushing your skin, on the lips so close to your ear; to let go in his arms, lean with your whole weight on his body.

Focus, damn it, you admonish and beg yourself all at once. On something else. Anything else.

You’re about to argue that he cannot possibly expect you to succeed in making amends when you’re in this compromising position, but you don't get the time.

Johnny hauls you away inside the nearest room. In a split second, he flicked the lightswitch on and nearly slammed the door behind you.

Cleaning products and exiguity surround you, illuminated by a cheap light bulb.

A closet, helpfully supplies your mind.

You barely have time to digest this information that Soap cages you against the wall, resting his forearms over your head. He contemplates you with a mix of melancholy and longing that renders your knees weak and sends a pang in your chest.

“Been going bloody mad with thoughts of ye.”

His voice is smooth like silk, tone sweet like honey, caressing your ears, warmth dripping inside your chest, making your head spin; or maybe it's a result of his closeness; or a consequence of his cerulean eyes boring into you.

“Ye got any idea how it felt to see ye leave without being able to do a bloody thing ‘bout it? Wanted nothing more than to rip off the tubes, get up, grab ye and lay back in bed with ye in my arms.”

He's intoxicating. He has to be, with how high, euphoric you're feeling, all your problems swept away, insignificant.

“Tell me to fuck off.”

You blink in incomprehension. Drunk on him, you may have lost track a little.

“I'll back off fer good.”

Bliss makes way to horror.

“Look me in the eye and tell me ye hate me. Tell me I disgust ye. Tell me ye wish ye never met m-”

“No!”

Your shout has the merit to make him stop, even if you didn’t mean to yell. Your scream disconcerts him for a second before an exultant grin stretches his lips. His smugness is back with a vengeance.

“So ye do like me.”

“How could I not,” you mutter, capitulating, but avoiding his gaze.

He refuses to let you, and cups one side of your face to make you look at him. As you meet his eyes again, his thumb tenderly strokes your cheekbone. You feel your insides melt at the gesture.

“I like ye. A lot.”

He licks his lips, as if to grant himself some time to mull over his next words, and you automatically follow the motion.

“And I want to kiss ye. A lot.”

His hand slides from your cheek to your chin, slightly tilting your head back.

“Can I?”

It takes a moment for you to regain your voice. When you woke up this morning, you most definitely didn’t expect to receive a confession from John Mactavish. Your brain goes into overdrive.

Is this real? Am I dreaming?

“Johnny, listen…”

The gaze he's aiming at you glows with hope.

“You don’t want to be with me. I'm…”

What? A shell of a human being? Broken?

“…a mess.”

Expectation is replaced by resolve in his turquoise pupils.

“I know exactly what I want. And it's ye. Wouldn't be here otherwise.”

His patience seems to unravel with each passing second, as he stares at you with something akin to desperation written on his face.

“Want me to beg? S’that it?”

“What? No-”

“Cause I can. Beg real pretty. Bet ye'd like that. Saw how ye looked at me the other day when I got on my knees for ye-”

He keeps babbling sweet and filthy nothings that set your face ablaze. He saw how you looked at him? Mortification briefly flares up inside you before you notice the amusement in the corner of his lips, the playful glimmer in his glance, tangled with the neediness - he's joking around. You adopt a stern expression to chasten him but quickly realize he's way too busy staring at your lips to get the message. So you grab both sides of his face to get his attention - two can play this game.

The sheepish, sad puppy face he gives you in return barely makes a notch in your firmness. You take a deep breath to steady yourself, right before diving into the unknown.

“Yes,” you profess - and before he can tease you for clarification - “You can kiss me.”

But as he leans forward to obey, an incriminating detail surfaces in your mind.

“Wait, wait…”

You cover his mouth with one hand. Then immediately regret it, with how his eyes devour you the way his mouth can’t, not helping your flustered state at all.

He gently grabs your wrist and removes your hand, before pressing a kiss into your palm, your wrist.

“Now, better say something, or I'm gonna kiss my way up.”

He hums pensively.

“Scratch that, I'm gonna kiss ye everywhere.”

Pleasant tingles travel your whole body at that. He looks up from your hand to stare at you, and there's a devious glint in his eyes that tells you he caught sight of it.

“I have never.. done this… before.”

This confession means a lot to you. It's a well-kept secret, as long as people don't already deduce it from your lack of social skills. You’d rather it stays this way, but you don't see how you can start a relationship while withholding this truth.

All you can hope now is that Soap will react in a manner you consider appropriate. If he judges you, if that fact makes you go down in his estimation, or if he starts seeing you as some sort of innocent, naive individual that he could get off on corrupting, you’re not sure you'll be able to recover from it.

All playfulness deserts his face. He observes you with a mix of solemnity and compassion.

“Oh, bonnie… I don't give a shite ‘bout that. We'll go as slow or as fast as ye want, aye?”

Stirred beyond words, you nod your assent.

Not wasting any more time, he presses his lips to yours. They're soft and warm. You expected a surge of unbridled desire, but he takes his sweet time with you, to become acquainted with your mouth.

It only lasts a moment though; as he seems to gain in confidence and deepens the kiss, his motions fill with fervor, turn frantic. Hunger rivals devotion.

They say the greatest pleasure possible a human being can experience isn’t, well, pleasure; it's the end of pain - and he's kissing you like he's been aching for it, for so long, and he's finally getting relief. He's clinging onto you like the separation of those past weeks put him in severe withdrawal.

You probably would have let him continue if you weren't compelled by the imperative need to breathe. You turn away, panting.

Not interrupted in the slightest, he simply latches onto your neck instead.

Floating in a daze, you absently close one hand on the back of his shirt, and fondle his mohawk with the other.

“Hold on to me.”

The instruction takes a ridiculously long time to reach you. Thankfully, Soap picks up on that and grasps your hands to place them on the back of his neck. You only understand his goal when his fingers slide behind your thighs and he lifts you up effortlessly, wedging you between the wall and himself.

Once he gets his fill of your throat, he sneaks one forearm under your rear and lets go of one of your thigh, somehow managing to keep you in the air one-armed, to tug at the opening of your top.

Seeing him struggle to open your blouse one-handed, you reach down to assist; but just as you do that, he grabs one side of the clothing between his teeth, and pulling the other with his free hand, he rips off the first three snap fasteners in one go. Your eyes go wide, your mind torn between finding the gesture arousing or risible.

You settle for a fond scoff.

“You animal.”

The name feels all the more appropriate because when he looks up at you, releasing the cloth, the hunger in his eyes is striking, and the wolfish grin he grants you is the one of a ravenous predator.

“You could have just asked-”

“S'faster,” he shrugs, at least as much as possible in his current position.

You barely notice the staple of your bra opening; he hauls you slightly higher, bringing your chest to mouth level, and dives between your breasts like a man starved. The contact makes you tilt your head back against the wall, sighing in pleasure. The sensation of his lips and tongue against your sensitive skin makes you coil: your fingers grasp the back of his shirt and his hair, pressing his head impossibly closer, your thighs clench around his torso, your toes curl.

“Fuck, Johnny.”

He moans your name in response, albeit a bit muffled. He sounds as afflicted as you are, if not more. The idea turns you on terribly.

You look down to see him, and the vision of his face feverishly pressed to your skin is almost unbearable.

Suddenly he recoils, eyes meeting yours, and opens his mouth to stick his tongue out, right in front of your nipple, holding still in silent question. Your crotch throbs with arousal and you bitterly regret your earlier assessment - this view is much harder to endure, by far. The deep, honest eagerness in his gaze, coupled with the absolute submission to your will he demonstrates…

That doesn't stop you from frenetically nodding your head in agreement. His lips close around your nipple and the flick of his tongue against it draws a whine out of you. His free hand softly squeeze your other breast.

If he wasn’t holding you, your legs probably would have given out.

A faraway ringtone painfully pierces through the torpor you’re deliciously lost in. Your ringtone.

Johnny swears under his breath and blindly gropes your ass to silence your phone lodged in your back pocket.

Your eyes snap open in horror as you abruptly emerge into reality.

“Shit, shit, SHIT! Put me down!”

You repeatly hit Soap's shoulders to get his attention and convey urgency, without putting real force behind it. He complies immediately.

Your soles barely reached the ground that you’re already whiping out the device from your pants. Your coworker's name is displayed on the screen. Turning your back on Johnny, you pick up the call in a panic.

“Hey… yes. Yes, I'll be there in a minute. …They're not here yet? Thank fuck.”

As you sheepishly reassure your colleague that you’ll be there soon for the meeting that should have already started, you feel fingers fiddling with your blouse. Your first instinct is to bat Johnny's hands away, before grasping that he's actually putting your snaps back in place.

“Hm? Oh no, nothing bad. … I, uh… I just got held back. Anyway, see you soon.”

You hang up with shaky hands and a weary but relieved sigh.

The Scotsman's arms wrap around your waist from behind and he lovingly nuzzles his face against yours. His stubble prickles your skin, but the gesture is too endearing for you to spurn him.

“No more running away, aye?”

He exudes peacefulness, every muscle in his body content and relaxed. Where did Ghost's vicious attack dog go and who's this teddy bear?

“No more running,” you acquiesce.

“Good lass,” he purrs.

Normally, you would have gotten back at him for that patronizing comment, but you still feel bad for the way you treated him, so you just grunt.

“We'll pick up where we left off, hmm?”

Your cheeks burn furiously as you realize what he's referring to - his kisses wandering lower, to fulfill the “everywhere” part of the pledge he made earlier.

What the hell did you get yourself into?

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literaryvein-reblogs · 10 months ago

Text

Some Law-Related Vocabulary

for your poem/story (pt. 1/4)

Acquiescence - acceptance, compliance, or submitting tacitly or passively

Act of God - an extraordinary natural event (as a flood or earthquake) that cannot be reasonably foreseen or prevented

Amicus curiae - friend of the court

Bad faith - intentional deception, dishonesty, or failure to meet an obligation or duty

Bill of pains and penalties - a legislative act formerly permitted that imposed a punishment less severe than death without benefit of a judicial trial

Blackacre - a fictitious piece of real property

Causa mortis - made or done in contemplation of one's impending death

Cool state of blood - an emotional condition in which a person's anger or passion is not great enough to overcome his or her faculties or ability to reason—often used in statutory definitions of murder

Depraved-heart murder - a murder that is the result of an act which is dangerous to others and shows that the perpetrator has a depraved mind and no regard for human life

Dereliction - an intentional abandonment

Executrix - a woman who is an executor

Expunge - to cancel out or destroy completely

Extraordinary remedy - a procedure for obtaining judicial relief allowed when no other method is available, appropriate, or useful

Ferae naturae - wild by nature; not usually tamed

Fighting words - words which by their very utterance are likely to inflict harm on or provoke a breach of the peace by the average person to whom they are directed

Fifth degree - the grade sometimes given to the least serious form of a crime

Fruit of the poisonous tree - evidence that is inadmissible under an evidentiary exclusionary rule because it was derived from or gathered during an illegal action

Gift causa mortis - a gift of especially personal property made in contemplation of impending death that is delivered with the intent that the gift take effect only in the event of the donor's death and that it be revoked in the event of survival

Hot blood - heat of passion; an agitated state of mind (as anger or terror) prompted by provocation sufficient to overcome the ability of a reasonable person to reflect on and control his or her actions

Inveigle - to lure by false representations or other deceit

Lucri causa - intent to obtain a gain

Mystic will - in the civil law of Louisiana; a will signed, sealed, witnessed, and notarized according to statutory procedure; called also mystic testament, secret testament

Naked promise - gratuitous promise

Obligor - one who is bound by an obligation to another

Penumbra - an area within which distinction or resolution is difficult or uncertain

Quaere - question—usually used to introduce a question

Recusant - refusing to submit to authority

Solatium - compensation for grief or wounded feelings (as from the wrongful death of a relative)

Third degree - the grade given to the third most serious forms of crimes

Uberrimae fidei - of the utmost or perfect good faith

Vitiate - to make ineffective

Word of art - a word having a particular meaning in a field; also called "term of art"

X - a mark used in place of a signature when the maker is incapable of signing his or her name (as because of illiteracy or a physical ailment)

Year-and-a-day rule - a common-law rule that relieves a defendant of responsibility for homicide if the victim lives for more than one year and one day after being injured (Note: This rule dates from at least 1278, and is frequently criticized as anachronistic since modern medicine makes pinpointing cause of death easier than it was formerly. However, the rule still exists or is reflected in the law of some jurisdictions.)

Zone of danger - the area within which one is in actual physical peril from the negligent conduct of another person

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, please tag me, or leave a link in the replies. I would love to read them!

More: Law-Related Words ⚜ Word Lists

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theaawalker · 28 days ago

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Steps to Write 1K Words a Day (with a tight schedule)

follow for more tips 💋 || request writing tips 💌

1. Establish the Foundation

Know Your Why: Clarify your reason for writing daily by finishing a novel, building discipline, therapeutic expression, etc. Purpose keeps you going when time is tight.

Pick a Project & Stick With It: Avoid hopping between too many ideas. Commit to one main project to prevent decision fatigue.

Set a Realistic Timeframe: Determine how much daily time you actually have. Even 30 minutes can be enough with focus.

2. Shape the Writing Routine

Set a Daily Writing Slot: Choose the same 20-60-minute window each day, e.g., early morning, lunch break, and right before bed. Consistency beats chaos.

Break It into Sprints: Divide writing time into 2-3 focused sprints (10–20 minutes each) with mini-goals (e.g., 300 words per sprint).

Use Micro-Moments Wisely: Jot down scenes, lines, or dialogue in short bursts during downtime, e.g., commutes and between classes.

3. Build a Writing Habit

Create a Ritual: Start with a cue (tea, playlist, app launch), write, and end with a reward. Conditioning helps it stick.

Track Your Progress: Use a word count tracker, habit app, or physical calendar to visualize your momentum.

Aim for “Done,” Not “Perfect”: Don’t revise mid-draft. Keep the focus on finishing today’s 1,000 words, not editing yesterday’s.

4. Define Your Writing Environment

Eliminate Distractions: Silence notifications, close tabs, and let others know you’re “off the grid” during your writing window.

Use Tools That Work for You: Whether it's Google Docs, Scrivener, Word, or a distraction-free app (like FocusWriter), pick what helps you stay in flow.

Keep Materials Nearby: Outlines, scene notes, character sheets. Have them within reach to avoid losing time to memory gaps.

5. Develop Content Efficiently

Outline Briefly Before Writing: Know the scene’s goal, characters involved, and 1–2 key beats. This cuts down time spent thinking mid-writing.

Use Prompts or Templates: If stuck, use writing prompts or scene formulas (e.g., conflict ↣ tension ↣ resolution) to keep moving forward.

Lower the Stakes for First Drafts: Treat your draft as clay, not marble. Write fast, revise later.

6. Reward Yourself Consistently

Use Immediate Micro-Rewards: After each sprint, give yourself a small treat: a stretch, snack, meme scroll, or a favorite song.

Build End-of-Day Rituals: After hitting 1K, reward yourself with a guilt-free indulgence:

- A hot drink

- 30 minutes of gaming

- A mini-episode of your comfort show

- Reading time

Track for Bigger Rewards: Hit a streak (5 days? 2 weeks?) and treat yourself to something bigger: new notebook, movie night, favorite meal.

Celebrate Wins, Big or Small: Even if you only wrote 300 words, that’s progress. Celebrate effort, not just perfection.

7. Develop a Sustainable Arc

Adjust as Needed: If 1,000 words becomes overwhelming, drop to 500 and scale up again. It's better to be consistent than burned out.

Build in Break Days: Choose 1-2 buffer days per week for rest or catch-up. Remember, your brain needs recharge time.

Reflect Monthly: Look back on what worked, what didn’t, and what to change. Writing daily is a living habit, not a static rule.

Tools That Can Help

Timers: Pomodoro apps (e.g., Focus Keeper, Forest)

Trackers: Pacemaker Planner, WriteTrack

Writing Tools: 4theWords (gamified), Google Docs offline, Scrivener

Voice-to-Text Options: Google Voice Typing, Otter.ai

Examples of People with Tight Schedules Who Write Daily

Octavia Butler: Wrote early each morning before work. Do what she said, “Persist.”

Brandon Sanderson: Wrote in sprints between teaching and family time.

Toni Morrison: Wrote after her children went to sleep, hence treating every moment as sacred.

You (Eventually): With the right systems, even the busiest writer can find their rhythm.

Follow || Like || Comment || Repost || My Novel ⇚⇚⇚

thank you, i am farkle :)

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angelilacs · 6 months ago

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january prompts ˎˊ˗

1 ⭑ doing each other’s hair

2 ⭑ date night gone wrong

3 ⭑ strip club

4 ⭑ misheard runaways

5 ⭑ running into each other outside a coffee shop

6 ⭑ having trouble communicating

7 ⭑ strawberry kisses

8 ⭑ smooth whiskey

9 ⭑ photograph session

10 ⭑ acing a class

11 ⭑ star constellations

12 ⭑ childhood friends turned enemies

13 ⭑ hiding from your partner

14 ⭑ lights turned off

15 ⭑ maroon sweater

16 ⭑ vinyl record

17 ⭑ rainy day at the beach

18 ⭑ first time

19 ⭑ soaked clothes

20 ⭑ secret liquor store next to a college campus

21 ⭑ new year’s resolution

22 ⭑ counting their freckles

23 ⭑ lemon and garlic salmon

24 ⭑ missing all the signs

25 ⭑ a miniskirt and red sport bra

26 ⭑ late trains

27 ⭑ romantic novels

28 ⭑ ponytail with a white bow on top

29 ⭑ a real girl’s girl

30 ⭑ entering the wrong lecture room

31 ⭑ best friend’s fridge

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moons-and-mobility-aids · 8 months ago

Text

Beyond The Screen: Chapter 1 - masterlist

Chapter Word Count: 1.9k words.

Chapter Summary: A quiet day on OnlyFans shifts when a new subscriber catches your eye—ProngsPlayground_free. Intrigued by his throuple's dynamic and respectful messages, you begin an unexpected exchange that leaves you feeling more connected than usual. Between aching muscles and cautious curiosity, you make space for something new.

Tags: Adult content, online sex work dynamics, respectful discussion of content sharing, chronic pain, fem reader with cerebral palsy, mentions of disability-related fatigue and wheelchair use.

The screen flickers as you refresh your subscriber feed, the blue light casting an ethereal glow on your face. The usual ache in your shoulders is more pronounced today, a reminder of the hours spent hunched over your laptop. It's been a slow day for interactions, and with each passing minute, your energy wanes.

You've become accustomed to the steady hum of pain that accompanies your cerebral palsy, a constant companion through the years. But some days, like today, it sings a sharper tune. A grimace crosses your face as a jolt shoots through your lower back, making you wince. Still, you adjust yourself in your wheelchair, pushing past the discomfort. You are resolute, persistent—qualities that have carried you far despite the odds.

Your gaze flits across the screen, taking in the aliases of your OnlyFans subscribers. Most are nondescript, a blend of numbers and letters that reveal nothing about the person behind the screen. But one notification stands out: a new subscriber—"ProngsPlayground_free." The uniqueness of the name catches your attention; it's different, that’s for sure.

Your fingers hover over the screen, curiosity piqued, and then you tap on the profile. The avatar is of a single man, but the banner image shows three figures intertwined, their faces obscured by shadows and strategic angles. You begin to scroll, the soft hum of your laptop the only sound that fills the room. OnlyFans has an auto-subscribe feature for creators who follow each other, and it's clear that this "Prongs" belongs to a throuple.

Your brows furrow slightly, interest piqued. It's not common to come across a polyamorous relationship on this platform, let alone one that shares content so openly. But then again, what is common in a world mediated by screens and pseudonyms?

You've noticed how many creators on here have a story behind them, something that fuels their content and connects them with their audience. Not that you'll ever know the full truth—they keep their personal lives as hidden as you do yours, tucked away behind usernames and carefully composed photos. Just as you keep your chronic illness behind a shield, they too have their own secrets. It's safer that way.

Each post from Prongs is a window, however small, into the life they share. The photos are playful, intimate—a hand reaching out to touch, fingers tracing the curve of a muscle, the rumpled sheets of a bed bathed in the warm glow of a setting sun. Faces are always obscured, identities hidden behind screen names and tantalising hints of bodies that suggest closeness without ever fully revealing. It's like a jigsaw puzzle with ever-changing pieces, a mystery enticing followers back for more.

The cover images on each video promise another piece of the story: Prongs’s hips pressed against Padfoot’s backside, their bodies moving together in rhythm, or maybe Moony's hand tangled in Prongs' hair, speaking volumes without words. Captions tease just as much as the images they're attached to: "Can't help being all tangled up," one reads, while another suggests, "Moony and Padfoot never give me a break 😏." Almost every post ends with a familiar prompt—“see the unedited version on @packofpleasure.”

The names Moony and Padfoot are everywhere, tagged in Prongs' bio with links to their own free accounts, @moonysden_free and @padfootsplaypen_free. And then there's the shared world they offer on their paid account, where followers can pay to peek behind the curtain and see what happens when the camera keeps rolling.

Your hand hovers over the trackpad, careful not to click on anything that might alert anyone to your presence. The videos tempt you with their colourful thumbnails and engaging titles, but you resist. You know how these platforms work. It would be all too easy to accidentally hit the like button and leave a digital footprint where you have no intention of treading.

A notification pings, pulling you away from the infinity scroll. Your heart pounds in your chest as you see a new message waiting for you.

It’s from Prongs.

ProngsPlayground_free: Hi! My name is Prongs, and I wanted to take a moment to introduce myself properly. My boyfriends and I have been fans of your content across various platforms for some time now, and we've always admired the passion and authenticity you bring to your work — it’s what we try to bring to our own content, to say the least.

As you finish reading, another message arrives, this one tinged with a different tone—more hesitant, but still earnest.

ProngsPlayground_free: We have discussed subscribing to your OnlyFans on more than one occasion, and today I finally took the plunge and made it official. I hope you don't mind, but I wanted to ask a somewhat delicate question: Would it be acceptable for me to share your content with my boyfriends? I understand that sharing outside of the platform goes against the rules—and for good reason—but given the nature of our relationship, not sharing feels... odd, to say the least. I didn't want to make any assumptions, so I thought it best to reach out and ask directly 😅

Your brow furrows as you read the message again, a spark of surprise igniting in your chest. It's unusual to see such respect when it comes to sharing your content—most people just do it without a second thought, and you're left hoping they haven't undermined your livelihood by giving away what you charge for. But the fact that he asked... it's endearing in a way that makes the corners of your lips twitch upward.

You pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard. You don't want to seem too eager, but there's an undeniable intrigue that tugs at you. Prongs and his boyfriends have shown genuine interest in your work, and perhaps there's a part of you that wants to know more about them, too. With a soft exhale, you begin typing your response.

You: Hey, Prongs! Thanks for reaching out. I appreciate you being direct about it. Honestly, I don't mind as long as it's just between the three of you—since you're all in a relationship, I can make an exception. 😉

You send the message and lean back, stretching your arms a bit, though your back still hurts too much to move much. It's not the first time someone has asked about sharing your porn with a partner, but this feels different. Maybe it's because they're a throuple, or maybe it's just the respectful way he asked. Either way, you're okay with it.

A few moments later, another message notification pops up. But this time, the message has a noticeably different tone.

ProngsPlayground_free: Thanks for being so chill about it! I know Prongs can get a bit stuffy with the rules sometimes, but we really appreciate you letting us use your place. We’re happy to give you a nice tip for being so accommodating. 😉 How does $100 sound? - Pads

You stare at your screen, a half-laugh caught in your throat. You hadn't anticipated an offer of a tip, let alone one as generous as $100, and you certainly wouldn't have asked for it. But when opportunity knocks...

You: I wasn’t going to ask for a tip, but since you offered… $100 sounds just fine. 😏

A spark of excitement flickers in your chest as you send the message. It's always a pleasant surprise when subscribers offer tips for additional content or special circumstances, and it helps more than they might realize. Sometimes, between managing your health and the unpredictability of your condition, working on OnlyFans can be more challenging than it seems. It's not just a playful side hustle—it's a lifeline on days when your energy is too low to do much else, and it feels good when subscribers acknowledge the work behind each post.

Almost immediately, a message appears from Prongs’s account: I sent you a $100.00 tip with the attached message of 'We appreciate you!'

You smile to yourself, pausing as you consider how to respond. It would be easy enough to leave it at that, a simple exchange of money for content, but something in you wants to offer them more. A gesture of gratitude for their generosity, a token of appreciation beyond the expected. You remember a video you recorded a while back—it was one of your favourites, originally sent out as pay-per-view content about a month ago. Perhaps they'd enjoy that?

You attach the video, your finger hovering over the file icon for a fraction of a second before you press it. The thumbnail shows a blurred image of your body, a tantalizing promise of what's inside. You push play just to make sure everything is as it should be. The clip begins with the camera set on a tripod, capturing the scene in your bedroom bathed in soft, ambient light. The sheets are rumpled, the air ripe with anticipation. It’s a sensual tableau, and at its center, you.

Your movements are slow and deliberate, each one designed to tease, to draw out the moments until they stretch thin with wanting. Your clothes peel away like layers of an intimate confession, revealing more of yourself with every passing second. A sigh escapes your lips, not acted but drawn from deep within by your own touch, your own desire. The final crescendo comes as no surprise; even through the lens, the raw intensity of your climax is palpable.

The video plays to its end, leaving behind a silence that hums in your ears. You wait for a moment, your fingers hovering over the keyboard, before typing your message.

You: Thanks for being so generous! Here's a little something extra. This was a PPV from last month—hope you all like it. 😘

With that, you lean back in your chair, the tension in your shoulders easing as you let out a long, slow breath. The screen of your laptop throws off a soft glow, casting shadows that dance across the walls of your room. For a moment, everything seems to be right with the world.

Your wheelchair creaks slightly as you shift your weight, the ache in your lower back a constant reminder of your limitations. But as you close the lid of your laptop, there's a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

A soft buzz draws your attention, and you glance down to see a notification lighting up the screen of your phone. It's from Prongs. Intrigued, you unlock the device and tap on the message, your eyes quickly scanning the lines of text, and you find your lips curving into a small smile as you read.

ProngsPlayground_free: Oh, wow. Thanks for that! We didn’t expect anything in return, but we’ll definitely enjoy it 😉 Moony says you’re very generous, and Padfoot is already deep into your feed. Can’t wait to see what you do next!

You can't help but laugh, setting your phone down and leaning back in your chair. This is new, this back-and-forth communication with subscribers. Most keep their identities hidden, their messages short and concise. But there's something different about this group—something inviting. Perhaps it's the respectful undertones or the playful banter they engage in. Either way, it makes you feel... connected, more so than usual.

The day wanes, shadows slanting long against the walls. Your body throbs with the dull ache of fatigue, and you know it's time to rest. With effort, you transfer from your wheelchair to the bed, each movement careful and measured. As you settle into the sheets, your thoughts drift back to Prongs, Moony, and Padfoot.

Who knew that today would turn into this?

#Poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders x you #Sirius black x reader #Sirius black x you #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x you #james potter x you #james potter x reader #marauders era #marauders au #marauders fanfic #beyond the screen #chantelle writes fic

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solarmorrigan · 2 years ago

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omg I'm obsessed with your latest "don't fucking touch me" prompt. Would you continue it?

Hello! I know this is actually from earlier in the week than the one I answered a couple of days ago, but I was saving it because, while I don't exactly have a continuation, I do have a little stobin interlude I wanted to share

I'm still working on the "fix it" part of this idea, but at least in the meantime Steve gets a hug?

[Part 1]

It isn’t unusual for Steve to show up at Robin’s house well after any reasonable guest would come knocking. It isn’t unusual for him to do it by climbing the side of the house and knocking on her window (she hasn’t told him that her parents don’t really care anymore if he’s there in the middle of the night; she figures the physical activity counts as some kind of jock enrichment). Unfortunately, it isn’t even unusual for him to appear out of the dark because he’s upset.

What’s more unusual is the way he sits silently on her bed after she’s let him in, the way he’s almost folded in on himself, the way he won’t quite meet her eyes – as if there’s anything he can or even needs to hide from her.

What’s fucking unheard of is the way he starts crying when she pulls him into a hug, his face pressed to her shoulder and his arms wrapped around her waist like she might disappear if he doesn’t hold on.

Robin doesn’t even understand what’s happening at first; she can feel Steve shaking against her as she rubs a hand up and down his back, but when his shoulders start to heave like he’s having trouble drawing in breath, a cold bolt of uncertainty lances through her gut. She tries to pull him back to look at him, to see what’s wrong, but she only gets him far enough away to hear one very quiet sob before he’s hiding his face again and she realizes–

“Oh. Oh, shit– okay, this is happening. Okay.” Robin resolutely does not panic as Steve sobs into her shoulder, even though crying isn’t something Steve does (not that Robin’s ever seen, and she’s seen Steve through a lot); instead, she goes back to rubbing a hand up and down his back, bringing her other up to pet his hair, and tries her best to project literally any kind of comfort. “Okay, you’re okay – well, you’re obviously not okay, but I’ve got you. You can just let all this out and when you feel up to it you can tell me what’s wrong because you’re kind of freaking me out, but not until you’re ready, okay? I’ve got you.”

She feels maybe her success is mixed, but Steve doesn’t complain and he doesn’t seem to be made more upset, so she can’t be doing too badly.

All told, Steve’s breakdown is unsettlingly quiet. Robin tries not to think about why he can cry so silently, and instead focuses on finding the transition from actively sobbing to sniffling and trying to catch his breath. The next time she tries to pull him back, he lets her, still not quite meeting her eyes and automatically bringing a hand up to wipe at the tear tracks on his face.

Robin has seen Steve all manner of beaten and bloodied and bruised, but somehow, sitting here in her room, still half-curled into her space with his face blotchy and wet from crying, she thinks this might be the most upset she’s ever seen him. She can only imagine what’s happened to cause it – at least until she can get him to tell her.

“Get it all out?” Robin asks, as gently as she’s able (she’s never been great at gentle, but Steve’s used to her by now, she thinks he’ll get it).

Steve shrugs, but then gives a little nod.

“Okay, so here’s what we’re going to do: I’m going to give you some tissues so you can clean yourself up, because I love you, but I’m not going to wipe your nose.” This gets a congested laugh from Steve, and Robin allows herself an answering smile. “Then I’m going to go downstairs and get you something to drink, and then you’re going to tell me what’s wrong, because I am this close to being seriously alarmed.”

“Sorry,” Steve says gruffly, ducking his head, moving to pull away.

“Nope, we don’t do sorry here, nothing to be sorry for,” Robin insists, grabbing Steve by the shoulders and keeping him close. “I just want to know what’s wrong, okay? I want to help. So here.” She shoves the box of tissues from her bedside table into Steve’s lap and gets up with one last squeeze to his shoulders. “I’ll be right back.”

Robin slips out of her room and sneaks down to the kitchen (her parents don’t really care about Steve’s late night visits, but they will be grumpy if she wakes them up), poking around quietly for some kind of suitable post-breakdown sustenance. She ends up with a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge and a half-eaten package of Oreos from the pantry – the late night snack of champions, she decides.

Back up in her room, Steve has shucked his sneakers (no shoes on Robin’s bed, it’s a cardinal rule) and settled himself up against the pillows; his face is dry and his eyes aren’t as red, but the tiny smile he gives her when she passes over her spoils still makes him look just as sad as before. Still, Robin valiantly lets him get through half the bottle of Gatorade before she elbows him gently in the side, demanding answers.

“Right.” Steve caps the bottle and rolls it nervously between his hands, watching the highlighter fluid yellow slosh around inside. “So, uh. You know how I’ve been seeing Eddie?”

Robin’s heart sinks. “Oh, shit, did you two break up?”

“Actually, it turns out…” Steve clears his throat. “It turns out that there wasn’t anything to break up. Apparently, we’ve been friends with benefits this entire time and I’m just a delusional idiot who made up an entire relationship in my head. So there’s that.”

There is nothing Robin can think to say to that. There’s entirely too much to unpack, and none of it makes sense.

“What,” she finally manages, a little flat.

“Yeah, he said that, uh. I’m not the type of guy you have a relationship with, and that I’m hot, but I’m just a good friend, and we’re just having fun.” If Steve’s voice cracks on the last word, Robin doesn’t mention it.

In fact, she’s too busy being consumed by rage to really notice. “He said that to your face?” she demands.

Steve clears his throat. He won’t meet her eyes. “Not– not exactly.”

“Steve.”

“The guys were over, and I went out to get some air, and that’s… what I heard Eddie saying to them when I came back in,” Steve says. “So now they know how pathetic I am, too, which is. Great. That’s fucking great.”

The world goes still. Suddenly, everything makes perfect sense. Robin reaches out and squeezes Steve’s wrist. “I’m going to have to leave for a few hours, okay?” she says. “I have to bike down to the trailer park and fucking kill Eddie.”

In a flash, Steve twists in Robin’s grip and grabs her by the wrist in turn. “Don’t leave,” he says quickly.

“No, he doesn’t– he doesn’t get away with this,” Robin hisses. “He doesn’t get to do this to you and not face consequences!”

“He wasn’t trying to– I mean– I was the one who–”

“Are you defending him right now?”

“No, I just– fuck.” Steve lets go of Robin and shoves both hands up into his hair, grabbing and pulling. “I already feel enough like some fucking – loser reject, okay? I don’t want to be alone right now. Please just… stay.”

The rage doesn’t abate (if anything, there’s probably more of it), but Robin’s priorities do rearrange, and she settles back on the bed next to Steve. “Fine,” she huffs. “Munson gets a stay of execution.”

She pushes the package of Oreos into Steve’s lap and orders him to finish the Gatorade. She doubts if he’s going to escape tonight without a migraine, but dehydration on top of stress will only make it worse.

They sit quietly for a while, munching on cookies, shoulder to shoulder on Robin’s bed, before Robin breaks into the silence.

“You’re not a loser, Steve. You’re my best friend, and you deserve to be loved, okay?” she says softly, reaching over to wrap her hand around his wrist again. “And one day it’s going to happen. I’m choosing to believe in love, too.”

For a long moment, Steve says nothing. When he finally does speak, his voice has gone a bit rough. “If you make me cry again, I’m dumping what’s left of the Gatorade over your head.”

Robin snorts, squeezing Steve’s wrist. “There’s that mean girl I know and love.”

Steve laughs, too, small but sincere, and Robin takes it as a win.

Part 3

#platonic stobin #steve harrington #robin buckley #stranger things #solar wrote #answers from solar #anonymous #I hope this is okay!#as I said earlier this week; I would definitely like to continue that idea I'm just still kinda working out how...

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mywritingonlyfans · 10 months ago

Text

One For The Road. // Mentor!Alex Turner X FreshSinger!Reader (Smut) Part 1

Prompt: (Age Gap Fic;Fem!Reader) Alex is on an extended hiatus from the band and finds himself wanting to start a studio to recruit new talent. One day, he hears a voice on the radio that captivates him, so he jots down the name and, with that voice stuck in his head, searches for it on Google. When he finds you, you both decide to work together for your growth, setting off a journey filled with new melodies, issues with paparazzi and online exposure, and Alex being completely smitten with his latest discovery and love.

Words: 9,5K

A/N: The fic was planned in three chapters: before the recognition (fame), during the recognition (fame), and after the recognition (fame).

Alex felt fulfilled, both physically and emotionally; he didn’t need any additional elements to complete his sense of satisfaction. During the band's extended break, due to various factors like other members' children and James admitting that a break would be beneficial, Alex found himself contemplating new possibilities. Unable to step away from music entirely, he set up a studio and handled other bureaucratic aspects for future artists. This was his way of giving back to an industry that had been so rewarding for him.

He didn’t know much about the artist he was suddenly into, only that sabe was a young girl with a captivating presence. Alex had heard your voice in the car before visiting Miles. It had a numbing effect on him, in a good way, leaving him sitting in the parked car after arriving, gazing out the window and absorbing every word you sang as if they were drops of water in the desert. It was strange, but it was exactly what he needed.

Your voice was raw with potential but still unrefined—you were not bad, just clearly new. The lyrics were sweet and nostalgic, evoking feelings that seemed foreign yet familiar. Alex found your work mature in a way he hadn’t been when he first started making music. He couldn’t picture your face, hair, or preferred style, but your voice lingered in his mind; the breaths, pauses, sometimes resembling soft and failed sighs, were compelling.

After the song ended, he stared at the radio display, waiting for your name to be announced. He quickly grabbed a notebook to jot down before he could forget.

Alex briefly mentioned you during dinner with Miles, running his fingers through his hair absentmindedly. His friend could tell that you had affected him in some way. "Just a girl, huh? How many times have you listened to her songs, Al?" Alex was usually romantic in his descriptions, this time he swore he had been succinct—though he felt he had failed. As the visit was coming to an end, all he could think about was your voice; he had to share you with someone else.

"Not many," he admitted honestly, though it wasn’t very convincing. Miles laughed, indicating he would listen later. His friend's recommendations were always reliable.

…

Finding you on the internet wasn’t easy. Alex had written down the wrong surname, which delayed his search longer than anticipated. You had no professional recordings, and later Alex discovered that the radio segment he had heard was an exclusive broadcast for new artists. All he found were amateur videos on YouTube of you singing in some pubs, with poor audio quality that didn’t do you justice. He listened to them repeatedly over the next few days.

The videos with better resolution were watched more often, and although Alex feared it might be due to your angelic face, he tried to avoid focusing on the fact that you were younger than him–perhaps more than he could point out. Nevertheless, as he closed his eyes before sleeping, he often imagined you from the video of your channel, wearing that summer wine dress with the straps slightly falling off. He imagined gently adjusting them with his finger, smoothing your hair while your calm eyes followed him. Your head falling affectionately into the caress of his palm and a brief wet kiss to your temple as your eyelashes flutter; not that he thought he would have such an effect on you.

It was indescribable how your voice occupied his mind more than anything else. He found himself humming snippets of your lyrics in the shower, while cooking, every end of the day. When he called Miles the next weeknd, his friend knew exactly what to expect.

…

You were delicate, and the words flowed from your lips effortlessly. Indeed, the cameras, the analog look, and the audio from the YouTube recordings didn’t do justice to what it was like to experience you live. There were few people, mostly around your age, though some appeared older with their doubtful expressions. It was a pleasant environment.

He watched you from a distance, neither too far nor too close. Wearing a white collared shirt, jeans, and a brown jacket, he kept his sunglasses on even at night to avoid being easily recognized. Occasionally, he slid the glasses down his nose to get a clearer view of you without the lenses.

You held the microphone gently, as if it weighed nothing, intertwining the cord between your fingers and taking small steps across the makeshift, tiny stage. Most people were distracted, but many took a moment to watch and listen to your music. Sometimes your voice faltered, and he noticed your disappointment, but you were so endearing.

You wore white tights and a black dress with a Peter Pan collar; Alex thought it suited you perfectly. He adjusted the edges of his shirt peeking out from under his jacket, a reflex of how your fingers nervously fidgeted with the fabric of your dress on stage. He smiled sweetly, as if hoping you could see and feel encouraged by it. You were doing well.

At the end, which was marked by silence following your thanks, he began clapping, soon joined by everyone else. You tried not to look around too much, not expecting the applause, and Alex was pleased to see you so happy.

You held a glass in your hand, chatting with the guitarist. Alex could easily see himself playing guitar alongside you in that dimly lit place filled with long, whispered conversations that created an intimate atmosphere. The guitarist nudged you, indicating Alex standing in front of you. When you turned, Alex felt his palms sweating and had to hide them in his pockets. You were even more beautiful up close; your posture wasn’t perfectly straight, but he noticed your charming walk and had to avoid smiling.

Alex felt more awkward than a teenager talking to girls, and he wasn’t proud of it. You greeted him with a warm smile, and before he could say anything, he knew you were as warm as you looked. “I enjoyed your performance up there. You sing really well, and the original lyrics are great. You’re very talented.” The compliment came out smoothly because he had practiced it many times. He felt his face flush, knowing he was fully red.

You bit your lips, offering a shy smile and resting your fingers right around the edges of your dress. Alex found this to be an adorable habit of yours. If he could, he would have held your hand and provided some distraction from whatever you were thinking. You thanked him, unsure of what to do or say but sincere nonetheless. When Alex offered a drink, he noticed your hesitation, but there wasn’t anything better for you to do than share a drink with someone who, for reasons you couldn’t quite place, seemed familiar. He was being nice.

“I don’t think anyone has ever come to see me sing so well-dressed,” you said, your eyes sparkling. Alex felt that in a few hours, you’d be more comfortable around him.

Noticing your assessment of his outfit, you could tell it wasn’t cheap; the fabric of his button-up shirt was well-tailored, the collar had a unique design, and the jacket was definitely leather. Not that you knew much about such things, but you didn’t see many like that.

Alex saw you enveloping your hands and didn’t think twice before taking off his jacket and draping it over you. Fingers touched your icy skin and he wished he had noticed sooner. You didn’t resist, your expression showed that you needed it; you merely nodded in thanks. “Don’t you think you deserve it?” Alex hadn’t intended it to sound flirtatious, but he realized it as soon as the words left his mouth. You shook your head, giving a half-hearted laugh.

He considered apologizing, but you continued, “I think it’s nice to think that someone would dress up to see me here, you know? To know that you’d come to see me sing and then anticipate it throughout the day, even considering what outfit would be most suitable or comfortable. It’s kind.” You were much more eloquent than he was, your words flowed naturally.

You sighed in relief, snuggling into the leather and tucking your hands into the long sleeves. Alex felt his chest warm up. You gestured animatedly while speaking, clearly excited, and probably didn’t even notice when your knees brushed together and stayed there in a pleasant touch that made him not want to move. “Well, if it helps, I heard you on the radio the other day and wanted to see you in person.” He breathed between his words, his voice deepening with the pauses.

You nodded, brushing off the compliment, not because you disliked it but because you didn’t want to deal with it. “I like your accent; it makes you sound older than you are.” Your shoulders brushed together, casually but comfortably, a result of your restlessness. There was a brief silence as you both listened to each other’s calm breathing amidst the background noise of drinks.

Maybe the contact was what mattered; Alex hadn’t planned this poorly. Despite his struggle with succinct communication, he explained the record label project, detailing the steps and what could be done if you wanted to pursue something more professional. At some point, you stopped listening to him, your eyes wandering over his dark hair cascading in beautiful waves, the furrow between the eyebrows, his perfectly shaped mouth, and the stubble that was starting to grow. He gestured less than you did, but his large yet delicate hands made him seem like a Christmas ornament, like men in '80s movies or even a younger Al Pacino.

“I’m listening, but I wouldn’t have the money for it; I can’t even afford a guitar. I play in pubs because I can use their instruments; they don’t pay well, and sometimes it’s just beer and food.” You spoke honestly, without bitterness about how it limited your dreams. You had the purity of someone who believed it was for you. Someone bumped into your chair, causing Alex to steady it, which brought your bodies closer together. He could now distinguish the exact color of your eyes and the scent of your hair. His mouth went dry. “That’s my point; you get paid so I can help you get heard and recognized for your work.”

…

"Did you set up the record label for the girl?" Miles carried a hint of truth, though he knew it was initially Alex’s idea, and you were the final touch that made it happen.

"It’s not like that, she’s really good. You’ll meet her." Alex’s voice carried warmth and anticipation; in a few months, you’d be fully immersed in this with him.

"And does she know what’s going on in your head? Like, the reason for your soft tone and silly grin when you mention her name? I might be wrong, but it doesn’t seem like you’re just thinking of her as a musician, Alex."

He shook his head, as if Miles could see him. "It’s nothing. I just want to help her with this. Besides, I’m not at that stage; we don’t fit in the same place." The idea of putting all that into words hurt a little.

The conversation continued, as if that settled the matter, both on the call and in real life. But Miles’s final words were, "Alex, I’m sure this will hurt her more than it will hurt you; you don't deal well with reason, your feelings will get in the way.”

And though it stung, it might be true—something to consider with concern. But would it really be so bad to spend all that time with you?

…

You learned who he was and thought it might be a scam, but a simple Google search left you stunned. You clearly knew the band, just not his exact current appearance; it certainly wasn’t like in the “Cornerstone” video, but the more recent ones fit the style of a dad with a six-year-old daughter, which was pleasant. Your friends were happy for you, even if they were as incredulous as you.

“It’s quite big; will more people be coming here?” Your voice echoed through the studio, your fingertips freezing. You’d arrived a few weeks ago and had some singing lessons Alex had arranged with another professional, but from then on, you feared he would be your sole tutor.

“For now, yes, but later there’ll be more people.” You nodded, hands in the pockets of your dress. LA was hot, he was killing you with that air conditioning. He had shown you every corner, you felt quite comfortable; the place had guitars on the wall, basses, and a drum set from that inaccessible brand. You stood in front of him, looking like a lost child, genuinely waiting for what to do next. It took him a moment, but he understood.

“Okay, I didn’t plan this out too well,” he laughed softly. He mentioned having read the songs you sent, even though he had heard them before, now he knew the exact lyrics. “Is it okay if I use the equipment?” Your question was followed by the tips of your fingers touching one of the microphones and holding the headphones, waiting for his response.

“Feel free to use whatever you want, little one.” Your cheeks were warm, making you bite the bottom of them. You looked confused at the buttons; they were just buttons with no informative labels. Alex had forgotten that this was familiar only to him. “Sure, it’s a good idea to get you familiar with everything first, then we can see what to do.” It sounded like a good idea.

The time passed quickly; what took hours, with Alex, seemed like minutes. Sometimes silence would fall over you both, but it was so comfortable. He had a pleasant voice, explaining things as if they weren’t intuitive, and you could visualize them. You liked it. His hair was longer than the last time you saw him, falling into a cute fringe over his eyes, which shone brightly as he spoke and gestured. He wore a suit and a button-up shirt, making no sense given the amount of fabric he was wearing in the LA sun.

“It’s pretty heavy, Turner,” he had given you a red guitar with white detailing, the side bearing his last name. It had clearly been through some battles but was beautiful. Alex found your pronunciation of the “r” endearing, rolled on your tongue and lingering. No one called him that around; it could be your thing. The guitars you had played were lighter, less durable.

“You can play if you want. You can also make it your own; it’s a good idea to get used to a specific one for now.” You listened, wondering why you wanted him to call you “little one” again. You held the strap, looking at the floor. “I don’t know how to play,” your voice was weak, your fingers pressing the strings without making any sound. He nodded, understanding you.

“What don’t you know, little one?” His face was calm, as if it didn’t cross his mind that you might be a fraud. His body was positioned behind yours, and you felt your heart racing; you were sure he could hear it. He placed his hand on the neck of the guitar, adjusting some strings.

What happened was: you would hum melodies, your friends would map out the notes, next you had them with you.

“I only remember my songs, which are few. I memorized them with the help of some friends at the pub.” You didn’t like how that sounded. You stepped back without thinking, bumping into Alex’s firm chest. He held your waist, noticing your nervousness. You still smelled the same as before.

“There’s nothing wrong with that; no one is born knowing. I learned a lot from the first album ‘til now; we can work on that if you want.” You heard the guttural sound he made when speaking slowly in your ear, dangerously close. “Do you want to try something?” he asked, a little before plucking a small segment of one of your songs. Alex had heard it so much that he had memorized the chords. You found it strange but ignored it; controlling your breathing was more complicated.

“I don’t know, Turner,” he laughed, the pleasant nasal sound close, with his blazer rubbing against your bare arms. He took your hands in his, guiding your fingers as he wanted, explaining each string press and brief sound. It took some time, and due to your anxiety, it seemed to take longer than usual.

“It doesn’t seem to sound very good,” you impulsively turned your face to look at him. His eyes, which had been on your hands, moved to your face, and it was closer than you had experienced before. “But it will, you know?” He smiled, his slightly crooked lower teeth noticeable to you, as well as the light beard scars and age lines around his eyes. God, he was so beautiful.

“You’re doing well, lil’ one; you just need to relax and be more patient.” You felt your fingers ache, pulling your hands slightly away from Alex’s. “You trust me a lot.” He noticed the superficial cut, the tips of your fingers bruised a bit, pretty normal, and you seemed quite calm about it. “Shouldn’t you? Trust yourself? I haven’t seen anything in you so far that doesn’t show how good you are at what you do...” The sentence was lost, somewhat unformed, but you wished he would talk about you like that more often. He took your finger, drying it with the edge of his shirt, which had become slightly reddened, and pressed until it stopped. It was hard not to just look at him. Your cold hands made Alex make a mental note that you weren’t a big fan of the air conditioning or that maybe your clothes were too short and thin.

…

On the same night, before heading back to the hotel, Alex suggested you two could go out to eat together as a way to spend more time talking. Since you’d spent hours at the studio and he hadn’t thought to offer you food or water, he chose a more relaxed place, reminiscent of the pubs where he knew you performed—live music and cozy lighting.

Upon arrival, you felt the chill against your arms. Alex laughed. You hadn’t seen him take off his blazer, but you noticed his attentive gaze as he draped it over your shoulders. It was a comforting relief. “I can control the studio’s temperature, but most places ‘ere are air-conditioned; you’ll end up feeling cold,” he said. You didn’t respond, only pondering whether Alex would always have a jacket or blazer for you if you never wore one. You liked his scent on you and the respectful way he looked at you, you hated that your thoughts were not as innocent.

As you sat across from him, there was little distraction, and you knew it would be a challenging time—more accurately, a journey to be honest, regardless of what happened next. He had loosened more buttons due to the heat. The collar was pressed against his rosy skin, neck chain attached to his sweat, and his eyes were on you, making your stomach flutter. Your foot brushed against his calf under the table, you couldn’t look at him. He smiled pleasantly as usual, the distinctive nasal sound of his laugh remaining soothing, despite the feelings he stirred in you. Your foot found comfort there, resting against him; neither of you moved.

“It smells nice; what is it?” he asked before you put away your pink tube of moisturizer.

“It’s peach,” you replied, sounding a bit excited. You wanted to talk but felt that besides your music, you might not be interesting to him, even though you felt there was something desirable in that; even if you didn't see yourself that way.

“The scent is great; it makes me less tense, Turner,” you said. You took his hand in yours. They were larger and calloused—something your fingers should be. You applied a drop of cream, massaging his hand with focus on each callus and prominent vein.

The sensation was light for him (even for you); your nails brushed against his wrist with a pleasant tickle. Taking your time, you smoothed out the creases in his poorly folded shirt, rebuttoned it, and adjusted the fold to what Alex would consider the perfect height. Your touch was gentle, and there you were, right in front of him, with your shoulders covered by his blazer. He noticed the strap of your dress was a little crooked, but you were nestled in something warm. Alex cherished everything about that realistic snapshot.

When you finished, you noticed his attention was on your face. You smiled slightly, as did he. You were in complete silence, yet every minute counted.

The food arrived shortly, and you didn’t need to question it. He simply whispered a “thank you, little one” to you as you curled into his blazer a bit more. He was hoping it would carry your scent by the end of the night.

The atmosphere remained the same—you both enjoyed each other's company, evident in the unspoken comfort between you. The air felt light in your lungs, yet breathing was easy and relaxed. Alex wasn't particularly hungry, but seeing your bright eyes and inevitable smile with every bite you took, he couldn't help savoring his food as well. You made him feel good; he realized just how true that was.

He gently brushed the corner of your mouth with his clean thumb, wiping away a small smudge. You followed his movement intently, reflexively cleaning the spot afterward. For a brief moment, Alex considered bringing his thumb to his lips out of instinct, but quickly caught himself, realizing the weight of the gesture, and instead wiped it off with a napkin. He thought about apologizing, but feared it would make things awkward.

However, you continued to look at him, your face full of color, the atmosphere just as comfortable and inviting as before. It wasn't a mistake for you; you liked the tingling sensation his touch left on your skin.

…

The weeks passed effortlessly; neither of you avoided the other. Occasionally, you both made your way down from your rooms together for dinner at the hotel restaurant or to have a drink. Conversations came easily. At first, Alex felt uneasy about how you didn’t smoke during routine activities, which made him uncomfortable for not being able to cut back on the habit himself. However, over time, he grew used to it and eventually stopped smoking around you, finding that he missed it less.

Sometimes, nights at the studio would deliberately stretch late, with Alex fine-tuning guitars that didn’t really need it or you attempting to replicate familiar songs on the drums, under the guise of practice. The truth was, even though you both knew you didn’t truly need each other, you still made an effort to be close to one another, whether in quiet moments or during busier times.

"Y’know, oldie. We moved it all online…” You mentioned it when you opened your eyes and noticed Alex annoyed by the droplets from his hair dripping onto his newspaper.

You couldn't pinpoint where the idea came from, but you understood his priority in not overwhelming you—imagining how a poor work dynamic could fall into the hands of bad journalists. In the end, that led you both to the beach, enjoying the refreshing breeze that made the sun less intense.

Your comment drove him to give up on the newspaper and just look at you. He couldn't look at you casually or quickly, he was getting used to that. Behind his sunglasses and cap, he felt like he was taking advantage by noticing the thin strap of your bikini and the ties and lace that drove him to think of other pieces. He took a deep breath, sinking into the lounge chair, like in romantic comedies that end well. You brushed your knee against his, drawing his attention back to you (yes, you were sharing the only remaining chair meant for couples—neither of you even knew such a thing existed).

Alex quickly realized he was blushing, feeling the heat in his cheeks when he got you had noticed him staring at you. "Do you need sunscreen? I didn't see you apply any yet," you asked, getting ready for your second layer, while Alex hadn’t put on any. "How disgraceful, Turner. You hardly seem like an older man." He rolled his eyes at your amusement.

His hair was tousled by the wind. His face had a radiant glow at you. You put some of it in his hand, and he began to apply it to his sun-kissed cheeks and nose, a bit of it smudging into his hair. You couldn’t help but laugh at the scene, his clumsy hands more likely to smear than spread the lotion properly. "Alright, Tur, let me handle this." You moved closer, your cool fingertips touching his skin and discarding the sunglasses. He caught the scent of peach as it drifted on the breeze, smiling softly as you smiled at him. Your gentle touch grazed his cheeks, finding comfort in the rough texture of his beard, which made you scrunch your nose in a playful smile that turned into a quiet laugh. Letting himself relax, Alex closed his eyes as you smoothed the excess lotion onto his neck. He wished he didn’t enjoy that closeness, but he did, and he had no intention of denying it.

You cleaned the stray strands of hair and lightly traced your thumb up the bridge of his nose, pausing briefly between his eyebrows. Alex sighed in contentment, his lips parting slightly, you felt even more at ease. Before he could open his eyes, you stepped back, slathering more sunscreen into your hands, then pressed your palms against his soft shoulders and just above his chest. He gave you a funny look, but before anything else could happen, you pulled away. "Rub it in," you instructed, noting his slight confusion. "And turn around. I'm going to apply it on your back." Touching his warm, velvety skin felt therapeutic. He shared that same sentiment. Was this how cats felt when they kneaded with their paws? It was just as comforting.

Alex felt the same when his fingers touched your back in return. The silence weighed on him, with only the pulsing of his veins echoing in his ears. Yet, you smiled peacefully, eyes closed and lower lip caught between your teeth as you lay on your stomach. He massaged your skin with sunscreen, convinced that this was a laborious task. Your muscles relaxed under his touch, and he noticed a foolish smile creeping onto his lips.

He gently moved the delicate strap of your bikini aside, making sure to cover every inch, no matter how thin the material was. His palm brushed your hair away from the nape of your neck, and for a long moment, he imagined kissing your sensitive skin, hearing your sighs at a playful bite, letting out the repetitive thoughts that were always about you stuck in his mind. He had memorized your scent, longed to immerse himself in you until your peaches became his, something only he could experience–no one else, not even the stupid boys your age (especially them). He followed the same ritual on your neck, sighing to himself as he acknowledged how addictive your skin was there; you were highly addicted.

"Wait a minute," you murmured, your words drawn out and languid, almost like failed moans that would fade into silence. Your delicate fingers fumbled with his as you pulled the bikini string down, revealing more of your skin, though not in an obscene way. Even though his gaze was heavy in a way that it wasn't entirely clear. Soon, the piece was no longer there, but the view was limited by the way you were lying.

Understanding his place, he lightly rubbed sunscreen over the exposed area, subtly moving down your waist and barely grazing your hips. He felt as if he were touching porcelain, afraid that any poorly thought-out movement might shatter you. He gave your flesh a final gentle squeeze, and your abdomen contracted at the loss, accompanied by a soft murmur. Returning to his position, Alex chuckled to himself as he noticed how you kept your head closer to the towel you used as a pillow, your body not moving a single millimeter. It was then that he realized the process had taken longer than expected, you had fallen asleep.

He pulled his cap down over his face, a bit embarrassed, even though you couldn't see him. Adjusting his sunglasses back in place, he quietly watched you, taking in your calm breathing and relaxed posture. He took his own shirt, wrapping it over you, deciding that you had been in the sun long enough. He didn't touch you, knowing you were still asleep, but couldn't resist briefly brushing his fingertips against his lips and gently moving the strands of hair that covered your face. His gaze sharpened instinctively, and while he knew how to handle it if he were alone, you didn't deserve that side of his life.

It was quick—just a fleeting moment, a feeling of being watched, though he didn't hear any cameras or whispers. He didn't want to risk dismissing the thought, even if he couldn't see anyone nearby. Slowly, yet without hesitation, he gently called your name, softly stroking your arm. You responded by murmuring his name, manipulating a warm and soft sound, making him wonder if you were conscious of his presence or merely dreaming—of him. It took a while, but Alex remained patient until your eyes opened, startled. He then placed the cap on your head, carefully cradling you in his arms, being cautious not to disorient you further as he buttoned his shirt on you, doing so with as little awkwardness as possible. Despite touching your skin, he never once looked anywhere but your face, waiting for your arms to slip into the sleeves until you looked somewhat presentable.

"We're going to walk to the car, alright? It'll be quick," he said, his voice concerned, firm, and reassuring. He knew what he was doing, hoping to minimize the damage. You simply nodded, resting your tired cheek on his shoulder, and he chuckled softly. "Can you put on my sunglasses, please, little one?" You gave a sweet smile, making him internally berate himself for putting you in this situation. He placed the sunglasses on you, guiding your hands with his own, and kept you close. "Shall we? It'll be quick, promise and you can sleep on the way to the hotel, huh?" You appreciated his calm demeanor, respecting your groggy mood after just waking up.

He grabbed your bag, abandoning any attempt to save the newspaper, and drove his hand on the small of your back. Leaning into him for comfort, you felt him hold you tighter. Instinctively, you nuzzled your face into his chest, only to hear him say, "Okay, just don't get too close to her, alright?" His heart pounded against your ear, and you heard the sound of camera clicks. You didn't want to, nor could you, open your eyes. You couldn't make sense of the noise; the person continued taking photos, asking questions, and you couldn't tell if there was more than one of them.

Alex opened the car door, firmly guiding you until you were seated inside. He gently stroked your hair, noticing how visibly shaken you were. He quickly kissed your forehead. It was a brief, hurried gesture, one you wished you had more time to savor. You held onto his arm, unable to speak. "I'll close the door and come around; I'll be right beside you, and we'll head to the hotel, okay?" He was frustrated, angry, but it wasn't directed at you; he didn't want you to see these feelings of his. He should have been more careful, knowing that this was possible even with the band being on a break, but he had been careless.

Once inside the car, with the windows tinted completely black, ensuring no one could see in, he reached for your hand as he started the engine, holding it tightly as you looked at him, dazed, avoiding looking outside. "Does this happen often?" you asked, your voice small. His throat tightened with an irrepressible knot; he hadn’t considered how foreign all this was to you.

…

Alex’s head throbbed, the furrow between his eyebrows deep with tension. You sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped between your thighs, eyes filled with unshed tears as you looked at him. He had used his connections, calling to inform them of the situation and to request the removal of any photos of you from gossip sites if they had already been posted. He was told on the phone that it would be handled, which confirmed that the images had likely been uploaded.

Alex chose to make the call in the hallway, asking you to go ahead to the room, not wanting you to hear and worry more than you might have already. But as soon as he entered, it was clear you had seen something. Your fingers played with the hem of his shirt, lost in thought, and guilt washed over him.

"I can listen to you, pretty one," he said, his voice soft, showing a rare vulnerability as he assured you that he was there with you. He wanted to hear you out, to relieve any burden weighing on your shoulders.

"I know this happened because you’re well-known," you replied, swallowing hard as you struggled to find the right words. Alex waited, kneeling in front of you between your legs, his fingers lightly brushing your skin. He didn’t know exactly what to do, but hoped he could offer some comfort. The touch didn’t feel like a mistake—it was a natural act of reassurance, though the proximity made him feel conflicted. Yet, considering the situation, it seemed right.

"I’m really sorry, truly. It was careless of me," he apologized, his tone sincere. You shook your head, gently cupping his face in your hands, pushing his hair back. His warm, caramel eyes focused on you, filled with concern as you teetered on the edge of tears, a feeling he feared he didn’t fully understand.

"Tur, I might sound stupid, but—" You hesitated, then he responded with his usual tenderness, drawing you closer. Your legs wrapped around him, your arms holding him tight. He stroked your hair, helping you find comfort against him. The towel draped over his shoulders—since he had given you his shirt and didn't feel like walking around the hotel shirtless—slipped to the floor, and having his warmth was enough for you.

"If they like the album, which I really hope they do, and with all the pre-album promotion as an artist... I don’t want to sound ungrateful, huh, like, this whole journey with you has been amazing, but is it going to be normal to have so many people talking ‘bout me? Pictures of me without my consent? And comments about my appearance?" You couldn’t look at him, which made it easier for you to speak coherently without feeling embarrassed about opening up.

It was so much to process, and Alex hadn’t considered it from that angle. After all, he was the one who had brought you into this situation, both in the moment and for the long haul. You were young, and he didn’t want you to go through what he had at your age. He could have prevented this, but now you were caught up in it.

He kissed your forehead, then your eyelids, realizing just how intimately right—and wrong—this all felt. It was inevitable, and it shouldn’t have been. He pulled back slightly, only to give in when you tightened your hold, snuggling closer. You took his hand and placed it on your waist, your way of asking him for it to take longer, seeking more of his embrace. He chuckled softly, needing it just as much.

There wasn’t much to say. "I think you know the answer, little one. I wish it wasn’t like this either. I’m sorry for introducin’ you to this.”

Alex’s hands slid up and down your back, gripping the fabric and holding you tightly against him. Your sigh was one of relief, drawn out, so sweet. He cupped your chin, lifting your head to meet his gaze. Your cheeks were damp, and he offered a small, uncomfortable smile.

“It’s okay,” you said weakly, trying to sound more composed than you felt. “It’s not your fault, Turner. I don’t think that, and I don’t regret being here with you. I’m just scared of everything that’s going to come with this, especially since I never really thought about it before.” Your words seemed distant, but even in your emotional state, you were eloquent.

Alex didn’t know exactly what to expect either; things had changed since 2008. He remembered the Humbug era being the worst, with all the attention from MTV. His tongue rested on the roof of his mouth as your fingers found a home at the nape of his neck, gently tugging at the fine hairs, much like you do with the hem of your shirt when you’re anxious. It soothed you. Your eyes lowered to his chest, and you realized it was the first time you’d hugged him this longer, and he was shirtless. You liked everything about it—the warmth and the view you had.

He pulled the collar of your shirt toward him, bringing your face closer until his tiny beard tickled your skin. You looked at him, and he didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was staring right into your soul. You were beautiful with your red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. Understanding what you were going through, he got you whispering amidst the chaos of finding the right words, “I can’t mess this up, Tur.”

He focused on your words, though he wanted to pull you into him even more, but he resisted, waiting for you to continue. “I want this too, I just don’t want you to think less of me, okay?” Your eyes welled up again, and as soon as you tried to lower your head, he gently lifted it back up, fully aware of what you were trying to convey. “I don’t want you to think I’m like this just because I’m interested in you. I don’t want you to see me as…” You paused, struggling with the words. He simply rested his forehead against yours, holding your face gently in his hands.

“I don’t think anything bad ‘bout you, lil’ one. I’ve never thought that way, and these are just your worries, you got me? Nothing changes the fact that I think you’re talented and competent, huh? That has nothing to do with how I see you as a professional. You don’t have to be afraid of that.” He was firm, his voice louder than usual. You took in every word, noting the roughness of his tone and the space between his lack of manners with sentences. He swallowed hard, his mouth slightly open, and you appreciated how patient he was with you, how well he seemed to understand that you needed this moment. Your fingers tightened on his, and then your lips met his. It was slow, and though you felt like you lacked experience, it was warm. He pulled you closer, every inch of you molding to him.

You started to pull away, embarrassed, feeling like maybe this wasn’t meant for you, but as soon as your lips began to leave his, he tugged your collar, bringing you back for a more urgent kiss, making it clear he had been waiting for this for a long time. You leaned back slightly, but he held you firmly, sensing how your body was softening against him. He chuckled into the kiss, and you felt his velvety tongue against yours, slowly being enveloped by wet, lingering kisses. The taste was salty from tears and the sea, you laughed at the thought of him being seasoned.

You brushed his fringe away, noticing how his cheeks were flushed and his lips swollen. You wanted more. You realized your brain hadn’t fully registered what it felt like to have his beard brushing against your face.

“Was it bad?” you asked, your voice barely audible. You couldn’t help but think about how Alex had been with many other women, while you could count on one hand the people you’d kissed in your life.

“Do you talk when you’re nervous?” His warm breath brushed against your skin, close enough to be unsettling. Before you could answer, he planted soft kisses on your lips, still making a slight sound and lingering just a bit. He tasted of mint, not quite of cigarettes. The tip of his nose grazed yours, and the subtle stubble on his face slid pleasantly against your cheek. When he pulled back, your natural reaction was to lean forward for more, which he didn’t resist, a playful smile on his lips as he let you set the pace. Your fingers seemed made for his hair, and Alex was sure of it. By the end, you were breathless, though he wasn’t quite as much.

“Okay, I need to breathe...through my nose while doing this.” He chuckled, pulling you close for a hug. You felt at ease with him, talking out of nerves, but it was clear it didn’t bother you. He liked that. “It’s not bad at all. It’s actually wonderful, pet.” He touched your nose and cheeks, his fingers tracing every feature, wanting to soak in each detail of you. “You’re beautiful,” he said. You nodded. He struggled to figure out if the way your eyes fluttered when he spoke to you like that was because of his voice or his compliments, yet he was determined to keep drawing those reactions from you.

He ran his calloused fingers up your thigh, stopping at your hips, squeezing them hard. Your nails dug into his shoulders in anticipation as your legs parted briefly, giving him better access and also making the fabric of your shirt give him more of a view. The bottom of your bikini was tight, very tight, leaving a mark on your skin and he ran his fingertips over the spot. You looked at him, thinking about how no one had ever looked at you like that; the mix of desire and actually seeing you as something more than that. You had written about it before, but never experienced it, and so you wondered about the possibility of Alex acting like that because he knew your writing. However, you didn't want to think badly of him, you wanted to enjoy it.

His gaze rose to meet yours, his tongue moistening his lips and the crease between his eyebrows deepening, was it fair that that alone made you wet? He didn't need to say anything, you confirmed what he wanted.

The attention lingered on your face, your heart racing at the serenity of how he undid the ties, getting rid of the piece. You couldn't move, taken by how delicate he was and his eyes on you didn't do the same, even though he didn't fail to contemplate you.

“Turner,” it was like a sob, a tiny sharp. His fingers touched your center, sighing as a way of savoring the moment, then he sank a little deeper, smearing his fingers and spreading them from your entrance to your clit to improve the sensation.

“It's all right, princess, I'm right ‘ere. I've got you, but we've got all the time in the world, so let's be patient, you're with me?" Each word was breathy and soft, difficult for you to string together, but you still repeated his last name in a pleading whisper.

He brushed two of his fingers against you, one of your legs lifting and bending at the knees, he laughed at your reactions but it was adorable, even though he was nothing much but his dark orbs. Respecting your body, he plunged his fingers deeper, sliding in easily. Your body gave in, your hands supporting you back and your moans getting hotter, you felt tighter but it still felt good.

"Relax, lil’ one. You can lie down, everything's fine, huh? You can just relax, no thoughts." His accent, full of patience, so familiar yet made you swallow hard. Alex’s fingers were damp, all along their length, carrying that blissful energy that comes with youth. Certainly, it could be said that you were not so used to that, the gap between doing something and thinking about it was great, given your state you had fantasized about it a few times; maybe you expected something he couldn't give you, but he was there for you.

He felt like an exception, he wasn't so young anymore, but he was acting like one. His fingers slid, you swallowed them completely, until your legs trembled a bit and he pulled back, only to repeat it all over again. He was touching you, getting to know you, and thinking about how he would be tasting your juices on his tongue in a few seconds, getting you ready to have him inside of you without any concern... He throbbed with each glimpse.

He couldn't deny that he had fantasized about you too, how he wanted to corrupt you while you were wearing your usual spaghetti strap dresses, hike them up to your waist and just pull down his pants to take you in the studio, have your voice fade away while instruments were thrown to the floor. He would get heavy, swollen with sensitivity in his underwear when he thought about you from time to time, refusing to do anything that bordered on disrespect, and even if he failed, he followed a ritual in his light groping, looking for relief, without letting himself get there as punishment. He never felt right thinking about you that way, but it seemed like a plausible moment to let himself be reminded of it.

Your eyes were closed, your face to the ceiling, your head pressed into the mattress in agony. You weren't expecting it, but your muscles clenched tighter into the sheets, this was new; you knew what it was, it just had never been like this. There were brief kisses on your wetness, noisy and messy, his hair brushed against your thigh and his hands were firmly on you. You had never seen yourself without thinking about anything, not literally, but your senses only hovered over how to be good for Turner so he could make you feel great.

For Alex, it was better than he remembered imagining. It was hard to breathe when all he could do was focus on keeping going, listening to your sweet whimpers for more. The vivid scent of peach filled his senses, your taste taking over his consciousness, everything felt so good.

He sank his tongue, contracting it hard so that it dissolved inside you and felt in honor how you dripped down the sides of his mouth. He held the edges of your shirt tightly, pushing you closer to him, his nose brushing against your clit while his whole face rubbed all over your folds with desire. Your fingers tightened in his hair, gripping hard as you called out his name, the words barely coherent. You focused on him with a dazed expression, your gaze hazy and unfocused. His face was serene, eyes closed in deep enjoyment, completely immersed in your taste. You shifted a little, although he soon forced you against the mattress so you wouldn't do that, wanting to feel his beard hurt your skin. In fact, boys your age, or at least your experiences, did that very quickly, as an obligation. Alex was not a boy.

"You're so addictive," your throat was dry. Alex hadn't even done half of what he had in mind with you; and you certainly couldn't handle it.

He turned his face away due to your trembling knees, holding your gaze to his. He wanted you to get there, but in another way. Still, he watched you as he pressed only the tips of his fingers on your clit, without movements other than those of your hips. “So smart and charming, is there anything you can't do?” You pulsed, electric current going through your entire body.

You didn't know what to do, your cheeks were burning and you could only moisten your lips, wanting the agonizing knot to disappear.

“Turner,” he laughed, the same nasal sound you loved. It was like a mantra, the repetition of the drawn-out last name coming out of you and the cocky laugh. “Please, I need it, I need you, Tur.”

He nodded, stiff and sore in his shorts, then stood up and pulled them off. He didn’t look in a hurry to you, it gave you a headache, but he was nice to look at; his pale skin, his slim waist, his shoulders red from your scratches and his reddened length. He was hot and well-endowed, good enough to make your mouth water.

"Have you done this before?" His friendly tone made you hate your thoughts, and also question if you actually had. His cheeks were flushed, as were his lips, and he swallowed hard while looking at you. You felt a bit embarrassed. "It's okay if you haven't, princess." You smiled softly, shaking your head. "A few times, but it was never good. But this time, it is." Alex understood; he didn't judge you and never would. He ran his hand through your hair, brushing it away from your face, then gently tugged at the collar of your shirt, pulling it slightly away from your skin. "Are your songs not based on your experiences?" You feared he might think that was a bad thing, but his voice didn't carry any judgment. "No..." You sighed, content with his touch and his body pressed to yours. "I don't think I've ever truly experienced love, at least not directly. But I like writing about how I hope it will be." His eyes were a bit misty, and he nodded. He found that meaning beautiful; it was a perspective he hadn't considered before. He didn't feel so distant from that, since he wrote about things he'd witnessed. "It's beautiful. You do it really well.”

He opened the buttons, one by one, taking his time. He revealed your body to him little by little, admiring your collarbone, the curve of your breasts and stomach. His lips touched every nuance, leaving a wet trail and a bite on the flesh below your perky nipple. You writhed with a shrill noise, your legs clinging to him, ready to feel him as he brushed against your thigh. Alex also moaned every now and then, much more restrained and full-bodied, so hoarse.

He held your face to him, preventing you from turning away. The weight of his body felt good, everything about Alex felt like being enveloped in calm; even though you didn't expect calm at that moment. He opened his mouth, perhaps as thirsty as you were, his tongue on the roof of his mouth, staring at you. Slow and precise, you had your muscles soften as he got warm and tight inside you. You swallowed greedily, wet as never before, taking every inch of him.

“Good pet, good girl.” You held onto him tighter, your eyes watering. He held your head, snuggling you close to him. "You're doing great, you're such a good girl, right? Focus on how I'm inside you, filling you to the brim, can you feel me, lil’ one?” He was hoarser, unavoidable not to pay attention. His voice really calmed you down, making it work, your legs rested slowly and you noticed he was more comfortable in you; fitting better.

He held your hand on top of your head, intertwining your fingers, letting you squeeze tightly. Your body rocked on the bed with the rhythm of his hips, the movement was slow, he let his entire length come out of you like that and then pressed harder so you could accommodate him all the way into your lower tummy. It was good, warm, it made you think of more and more until you felt your belly tingle. Alex had a prominent crease, his pink lips parted and he gasped along with you every time your bones collided. Unable to hold back, he sped up, letting you whisper a painful, "Thank you," which made him release your hand, gripping your wrist violently as his forehead fell onto your shoulder. You stained the back of his neck with bruises, wanting your fist to come out the same way.

Your hot breath came in short gasps, you tried to be coherent in shyly mumbling that he could come inside you; wanting to have him fill you to the last drop until you were exhausted. Which wouldn't be a problem, you took your precautions up to date.

The intensity of his body on yours was growing, similar to the arrival of guitar solos in a chorus; you had to close your eyes, really paying attention to how your walls squeezed him inside you. Your firm thighs around him, added to the strength with which he thrusted you, caused friction on your clit and you were becoming aware of your limits. You felt Alex hug you again, delicate arms around you, wetting your shirt in soft moans as he filled you warmly. The sensation, the noise, everything connected made you relieve yourself too, in a relaxation of having both liquids mixing, ready to run out of you. He slowed down, keeping the same ritual, making you feel your thighs sticky until he realized you were getting too sensitive with tears filling your pretty eyes, and it was better to stop.

There was the familiar, comfortable silence that always settled between you two, both of you immersed in each other's presence. The embrace was gentle yet firm. He was comfy, still inside you, pulsing a bit, but good. His hand moved in meaningful circles on your back, and you mirrored the motion on his arm. His hair was a mess, and you imagined yours probably was too. His swollen lips drew in air as before, making you contemplate the way his tongue rested against the roof of his mouth.

"Can you lick me, Tur?" You asked comfortably given the situation, feeling good all over his touch.

He ran his hand over your chin, looking at you, not finding it bad. You hesitated when you asked, but it seemed inevitable. He moistened his lips, touching the tip of his tongue to your mouth, right on the lower one, holding your face firmly and doing what you said. The velvety, wet touch ran down your lip and into your mouth, which made you smile slightly, holding him for a kiss. It was good, you had imagined that. He sucked your lip to himself, in a somewhat messy act of saliva, and you wanted to do it more often.

“You good?” It was a genuine intimacy, right after a few minutes of nothing but the pure sound of his heartbeat echoing in your ear. You couldn’t help but wonder if this would affect how professional he thought you were—after all, he was your mentor—but you didn’t want to bring that up now. Similarly, feeling the way his shirt clung to your body, brushing against his skin and stealing your scent, he wondered the same thing, afraid you might truly believe you weren’t talented enough due to the internet and that this had only made things worse in your mind. Yet, he didn’t know what to say; the silence felt safe. "I’m okay, Tur. Tired, but I don’t want to think about songs, albums, or what we’ll do in an hour right now." You nestled closer to him, kissing his cheek softly, then his neck. Your voice was laced with tears, and he wasn’t sure if it was about what happened minutes ago or the issue with the paparazzi, but he understood that you were vulnerable. He felt guilty, still processing everything. "I’m not going to leave you, little one. I’ll be ‘ere, to deal with this and remind you how good you are." He whispered into your hair that smelled of peaches. You believed him, and he made you see a future in all of this.

You could have him on the cover of your album.

...

taglist: taglist: @ohladymoon @indierockgirrl @bloo-wisteria @bellaturner @cosmicpiracy @nikisfwn @andrews-lovr @nela-cutie @alexturnersbbg3 @blackberryblossom @lilmisssweetdreams @alexshotelandcasino @tbhclove @rostarblog @babieswiftie @yourstartreatment @atticssmellgood @aacheinthejaw @mingods @theonlyoneswhoknowsblog @andulina567 @tonyxstanks @despairinthedeqarture @harrysbestiee @ultragirrl @lifewasawillow @viviannagiorgini @turnerside @seokjinluvb0t @solacestyles @humbuginmybones @gracieghost3695 @holssireland @trumanblacktreacle @lovelikethunder

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#alex turner x reader #alex turner smut #alex turner #arctic monkeys #alex turner fanfic #alex turner imagine #alex turner fluff

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oopsiedaisiesbaby · 5 months ago

Note

If you're up for it, I would actually love to prompt you a fic based off of the "Steve and Billy are element teachers" idea.

I'm thinking, what if you did a fic about them falling for each other but only set in the teachers lounge? Like one of those 5 +1 style fics?

Ask and ye shall receive (sometimes) 😄 Terribly unedited and sloppy but here you go 😘

Five

“Harrington!”

Steve fought the urge to faceplant against the table. Dropping his sandwich back into its bag, Steve tensed in preparation for whatever Hargrove decided to light him up about that day.

Robin didn’t bother to look sympathetic and Jason looked positively gleeful. He needed new friends.

“What?” Steve sighed, turning around in his seat to watch Billy stomp to the middle of the teacher’s lounge and blanched.

It should be a criminal offense to wear shorts that short. There were children in the building. Hargrove taught said children. In those shorts?

“Your class has been late to PE all three days this week,” Hargrove stated, arms crossed over his chest, brow furrowed in fury.

There was a long awkward pause as Steve waited for him to get to the point. Steve flushed when he realized that was the point. He fish mouthed when Munson cleared his throat, interrupting the oppressive silence.

“And?” Steve hedged, unsure of where this was going.

His class had been late to specials every day that week. Munson and Robin hadn’t complained though. Just Hargrove.

“And? Do I return your little gremlins to you late?” Steve opened his mouth to answer but Hargrove barreled on. “No! Because I have the common decency to respect people’s time.”

Steve cringed in his seat, words failing him as he pressed back against the edge of the table to get away from the absolute aggravation radiating off of Hargrove. He wasn’t doing it on purpose. He had made up a new game for the kids to help them memorize dates and they loved it so much it was easy to lose track of time.

“Don’t let it happen again,” Hargrove snapped before storming back out.

“Phew,” Robin exhaled before going back to her own lunch. “He really needs to unclench.”

Holloway’s snicker across the room did not help Steve’s guilt one bit.

Four

“Harrington!”

Steve clenched his jaw resolutely, turning in his chair and facing Hargrove head on this time. Steve had been caught off guard last time. Not today.

“Hargrove,” Steve replied coolly.

Hargrove paused his march into the teachers lounge, frowning. He narrowed his eyes before continuing his war path.

He was in those stupid little shorts again.

“I thought we established you were going to respect my time last week,” Hargrove told him, arching an eyebrow at Steve’s pinched expression.

“I didn’t agree to anything,” Steve shrugged, arching an eyebrow right back at Hargrove. “They were only late two out of three days this week anyways.”

Hargrove’s nostrils flared like an angry bull, “that’s two days too many.”

“Maybe make your subject more interesting and they won’t want to stay extra learning history facts,” Steve said, inflecting his tone with as much derision as possible.

He always told the kids to ignore bullies but Steve wasn’t one to back down from a fight.

Hargrove scoffed but a corner of his lips quirked in the hint of a smirk.

“Don’t let it happen again, Harrington,” Hargrove warned him, pointing a finger in his direction.

Steve rolled his eye and watched Hargrove turn on his heel before stomping off.

“He wants to fuck you so bad he’s about to catch a public indeceny charge in those shorts,” Jason remarked casually, smiling small and pleased to himself when Munson choked on his lunch across the room.

Steve might just catch a public indecency charge because of those shorts too.

Three

“Harrington.”

Hargrove didn’t so much as snap it that time as sighed it like a disappointed parent.

“I know, I know,” Steve groaned, already rolling his eyes. “They were late today, can we get the yelling over with in less than 5 minutes today? I’ve got a headache.”

Hargrove stopped short, mouth open as he frowned down at Steve. His hands were by his sides rather than crossed over his chest and it framed his awful little shorts way too well for Steve’s sanity.

“Well?” Steve prompted when Hargrove didn’t immediately tear into him.

“One day out of three’s an improvement, but I still expect better next week,” Hargrove told him, tone entirely too serious for an elementary school teacher’s lounge. And those stupid shorts.

“Whatever,” Steve scoffed, too tired and head pounding to truly engage with Hargrove’s bull shit that day.

The silence dragged on while everyone shifted awkwardly in their seats.

“Eat a cookie, your blood sugar’s probably low,” Hargrove told him, eyes roving over Steve’s face before he nodded to himself and stalked out of the room.

When Steve got back to his classroom after lunch, there was a homemade chocolate chip cookie on his desk. It was the best cookie he had ever eaten in his entire life.

He was grateful Claudia wasn’t there to see him be such a traitor as he nearly swooned biting into it.

Two

“Harrington?”

“What?” Steve drawled, slumping in his seat and fighting the itch of annoyance creeping up his spine. “The kids were on time every day this week, even to art and music.”

“Thank you for that,” Billy replied, shockingly earnest. “But your favorite little gremlin complained the whole time that you cut jeopardy short to do it.”

Steve sighed, raising his eyebrows expectantly at Billy, “you think I can control what comes out of Dustin’s mouth?”

Munson snickered from his newest seat next to Jason.

“No,” Billy admitted with a wry smirk. “That would take an act of congress, maybe not even then, but I do expect you to have a conversation with him about taking me seriously. Seems the lack of respect is a family trait.”

Steve and Dustin weren’t even actually related.

He rolled his eyes and gave Billy an assessing look, “you expect him to respect you in those shorts?”

Billy grinned, wide and sharklike, “I expect him standing at attention and saluting next week.”

With that, Billy departed with a resolute nod.

“Oh my god, save all of us the pain and just suck his dick already,” Holloway muttered across the room.

Robin cackled like the traitor she was.

Steve would be doing none of that.

He couldn’t fight the grin when he got back to his classroom and saw a homemade peanut butter cookie on his desk.

One

“Steve.”

Steve couldn’t stop the wild grin that tore across his face as he turned and watched Billy hesitantly enter the teacher’s lounge. His face was pinched with utter confusion.

“I almost sent your gremlin to the office today,” he told Steve, voice halting like he wasn’t sure of his reality just yet.

“For what?” Steve prodded, clicking his tongue on the “t” and doing nothing to hide how giddy he felt.

“Well,” Billy drawled, arching an eyebrow. “For calling me a fascist pig when I told him he had to play dodgeball or get an F for the day.”

Steve’s grin dampened a little bit at the words. He had definitely not told Dustin to call Billy that. That was so far beyond ‘butt head’ it surpassed comical into terrifying. He was seven.

“I am actually so sorry,” Steve whispered, grimacing as Billy’s face grew stormy. “I told him to call you a butt head not a - a -”

“Fascist pig?” Jason supplied way too gleefully.

“That,” Steve conceded, sending his most pleading look up at Billy.

Billy sucked on his teeth frowning at Steve for a moment before deflating with a sigh, “I believe you. Kid’s too smart for his own good.”

Steve exhaled deeply in relief at Billy not blaming him. In his relaxation he let his eyes drift down to the stupid little shorts Billy was sporting yet again. They were a nice dark green that day.

When his eyes drifted back up to Billy’s face, he was absolutely leering at Steve. Steve flushed and bit back a grin, peeking up at Billy through his lashes. He wondered what type of cookie would be on his desk that day when he got back to his classroom.

“Later, Steve,” Billy drawled, voice smooth and sticky like honey.

Steve’s flush spread down his neck.

“I don’t even like dick and I think I just got pregnant, those shorts are a crime,” Robin hissed.

Steve was pretty sure he just got pregnant too. The white chocolate chip macadamia nut cookie on his desk solidified exactly what he knew he needed to do.

Plus One

“Billy.”

Billy’s head whipped up, eyes wide as he took in Steve standing in his office doorway.

“Am I dreaming or is that you Harrington?” Billy asked, a lewd grin stretching across his face as he sat back in his chair spreading his legs.

His stupid little shorts pulled obscenely against his thighs.

“Yeah it’s me,” Steve vollied back, biting his lip, fingers tightening around a Tupperware container of Claudia’s famous homemade sugar cookies. “Don’t cream your pants.”

“I just might,” Billy quipped back easily, tongue coming out to lave at his bottom lip.

“There’s children in this building,” Steve warned him, zero bite to his voice.

“Not that I can see,” Billy replied, quirking an eyebrow.

Steve cleared his throat and set the container of cookies on Billy’s desk.

“We have dinner reservations at Enzo’s at 8:00,” Steve told him. “Wear something nice.”

Billy nodded, opening the container and pulling a cookie out. Steve’s knees nearly gave out as Billy took a bite in the most disturbingly sensual way as possible.

“I’ll bring the shorts for afterwards.”

If Steve choked on his next breath, it was okay. No one was around to see it and Billy definitely wasn’t judging.

Dustin cried when they told him they were engaged three months later.

#oopsieanswers #harringrove #stranger things #elementary teacher au

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604to647 · 5 months ago

Text

Hello you! What should I edit?

Please help me decide what to edit this weekend 🙏🏻🥰 I have two fics for two different challenges, both due at the end of the week (Jan 31/Feb 1) - I would like to post one on Monday, and the other probably... Thursday? But which one should I finish first?

🥊Contender 1:

Javier Pena for @beefrobeefcal's New Year, Same Pena January prompt. This will be a quickie follow-up to Photocopies; a little angsty, maybe a little hopeful.

Title: Always Tomorrow

Summary: Javier chooses an impossible New Year's resolution.

Tidbit: Part of his resolution is to "stop being such a creep"

🥊Contender 2:

Tim Rockford in his entry for @jolapeno's Dear-uary challenge. This will be another instalment for our The Rockford Portfolio couple; very horny, the epistolary form is sexting.

Title: Training Days

Summary: Detective Rockford leaves for a weeklong tactical training course and you miss him something fierce.

Tidbit: Shutterbug is ovulating

Thank youuuuuu! I hope people enjoy both 🥰

Tagging a few lovely folks who have enjoyed Javi and Tim's previous stories - hope you're all having a good weekend 😘😘

@joelmillerisapunk @sawymredfox @milla-frenchy @aurorawritestoescape @inept-the-magnificent

@sunnytuliptime @tuquoquebrute @greenwitchfromthewoods @harriedandharassed @galway-girlatwork

#poll time #tumblr polls #javier pena #tim rockford #javier pena fic #tim rockford fic #javier pena fanfiction #tim rockford fanfiction #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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chihoshisai · 1 year ago

Text

Double Arrangement

Sabo x Reader

Part 1

cw : royalty au, strangers to lovers, arranged/political engagement, reader is royalty, sabo is cold (but will warm up over time in other chapters), fem reader // wc : 3.084

Part 2

Anxiety, like the crawling of silent bugs, had eaten at your mind all evening, morphing into worry, what ifs and over speculations throughout the darkest hours of the night. As for the reason behind such agitation, it stemmed from the temporality Sabo had shared with you — two to five weeks before all fell apart. Two would prove hard to change the mind of his hard driven person, to convince him would require harsh, grand gestures. Five would be plenty, enough to slowly weave your way into his life and hopefully his heart. As for three, the temporal middle ground would result in a mixture of the two. However all three kept hidden the similarity of no guarantee towards the desired outcome.

Morning had come, as usual to start the timer of your day -and responsibilities- with no regards for your mood. Yesterday, after your mother had come to fetch you both in the garden, you had bid farewell to Sabo and his family, his demeanor rather cold despite the fidgeting and amiable look you gave. He had only shut down the idea of you accompanying him in his business, but not that of leading a double life. Therefore, there was hope. A hope which you had carried with you all afternoon but, through its polishing had gifted you in return a sleepless night.

You darkly grumbled at the golden rays seeping through your velvet material curtains, shifting under your silk blankets, internally wishing for time to slow its pace to allow you more chances to forge a path through Sabo's resolution. All you needed were opportunities, excuses to create a shared meeting with him.

Nevertheless, the voice of your lady’s maid came to stir you away from the abyss of your mind, prompting you out of bed, with much reluctance from your part, and aiding you into yet another stifling gown. A half up, half down updo was tied on your head with a ribbon, modest makeup applied to your face and perfumed sprayed around you like one would to a flower.

With your beautification from night to morning completed, you heaved your first sigh of the day, straightened your back in a resolute manner and left behind all traces of an insecure mind to be replaced with the expected nature of a princess; kind, loveable but also clever and quick-witted. Even after all this had been drilled into your soul, you hated the idea of parting from your room, where you could allow your thoughts and behavior to run free, to instead step into the constant raging fire of the castle.

But time wasn't so kind, with its advance it pushed you over the door frame of your chamber and into the lavish corridors to reach the dining room. Inside, you found your mother, your king of an older brother and your two youngest siblings, a twinning pair of boy and girl whom you envied the abundance of freedom and lack of responsibility rather often.

You gave your greeting and sat. The mundane act stirred from you a bored expression as you ate, giving comments here and there to contribute to the family chit chat until the words of your brother harnessed your attention.

“We're to hold a ball at the end of the week,” he announced nonchalantly, taking a pause to sip from his drink while the news flew over the table. At his words your mind had already pinpointed the first guest to invite.

“Cool, what's the occasion this time?” Your youngest sister cooed from your side in excitement.

“In honor of our sister getting engaged,” he gave you a warm smile which you returned rather sheepishly. If your mind wasn't racing with disaster possibilities you would have felt flattered at his gesture.

“Eh, you're finally getting married and getting out of here aren't ya?” The youngest boy smirked from the other side of the table, enticing you to roll your eyes at him.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” you sarcastically responded to him, and at his snicker you finally shot him daggers while feeling the spoiled fruit of your anxiety.

“We'll announce her engagement to Sabo during the event. Invitations are to be sent tomorrow,” your older brother poke, bringing back the conversation on track.

At this, your mind jumped at the opportunity that presented itself on a silver platter. “May I deliver the invitation to my betrothed and his family?” You asked, hoping no one would find an inconvenience in you going.

Thankfully, your mother seemed of an equal mind at the idea. “Why not? It will be the perfect chance to give them a visit. We shall choose a gift for them today and you are to head there tomorrow.”

Oh how you wanted to jump at her neck and thank her for being so supportive. Instead you beamed, showcasing her a full teeth smile, thickening the conversation with ideas of gifts and invitations design.

---------

The following day arrived, sharp on time and quickly dwindling away into early afternoon. With a mixture of jubilation and anguish at facing Sabo for the first time in two days, you boarded a carriage. Alone in your trip, you focused mainly on the flashing scenery rather than your thoughts to keep a composed control over yourself. You weren't sure what to expect from this brief intermission at his house, but still you believed some uninterrupted time together would do more good than harm.

Under no delay did you reach the household in question, stepping out to be led into a drawing room to wait, ultimately meeting the arrival of stunned, yet zealous faces of the couple who welcomed your sudden visit with pompous warmth.

“Your highness, to what do we owe the honor?” Outlook greedily rubbed his hands together.

You maintained a steady gaze over them. “I come to bring you a gift,” the valet that had accompanied you inside holding the parcel in question went to hand over the package to Outlook.

“My, you didnˋt have to!” Didit exclaimed in delight, visibly pleased and greedily eyeing the packaging.

Even if the reality remained that the gesture was done out of obligation and procedures, disgust swelled inside you at the sight of the true character overflowing from the couple. You were raised with modesty and seeing such a tainted display of emotions unnerved you. Refusing to acknowledge their glee, you continued on another note. “I also came bearing an invitation for a ball that is to happen later this week. My engagement to your son is to be revealed to the masses there.” You curtly added, forcing yourself to keep eye contact.

Once again, the couple rejoiced as you placed down an invitation on the table. “What wonderful news, we will be sure to attend,” the man spoke and you gave a rigid smile.

Now that formalities had been cast aside, you felt the speed of your heart accelerate at the true purpose of your visit. “May I deliver the news to Sabo myself?” You inquired to the couple.

They glanced at each other, forcing your heartbeat near cardiac arrest. “Unfortunately we're afraid Sabo is away at the moment…” Didit spoke in a small voice.

It felt as if an invisible weight had been dropped on your shoulders — you had rehearsed yourself day and night for this moment and he wasn't here? To be honest you did find it odd how his parents were the only ones to greet you. “Where is he?” Your tone neared shaking, leaving you with no choice but to intertwine your fingers until your knuckles turned pale.

Outlook shook his head. “We're afraid we don't know. Sabo has a tendency to… slip out to God knows where.” Seeing as you blankly stared following his statement, he quickly waved his hands about as if it was a trivial matter. “It is no need for concern your highness, he is an honorable gentleman.”

It seems clear that both parents were in the dark as to Sabo's business. But his whereabouts and occupations weren't your primary concern, meaning the prevention of the dissolvement of your engagement. “I can wait,” you abruptly voiced aloud before your thoughts had sorted themselves out.

“A-are you sure, your highness? We have no idea when he will be back,” Didit asked, most likely more concerned with your overall impression of their son than your well-being in waiting.

“I don't mind waiting until night time if I have to,” you affirmed. The couple refused to defy your authority and instead awkwardly allowed you to make yourself at home before slipping out with their present in hand. Thus began your gut wrenching waiting; lonely from the absence of the valet you had dismissed, sweet from the aroma of tea you were served to consume and dreadful from the boredom that seized you after an hour.

You had scrutinized every nook and crazy of the room, grown tired of the sunflower colored walls and longed to stretch your legs. Given your title and their approval for being able to make yourself at home, you brought yourself to the door. There you considered your options and opted that a walk in the garden would be considered far from harmful and respectable. As such you twisted the doorknob and entered the deserted corridor.

The residence was far smaller than your own. Nevertheless you wandered in search of the outdoors, which you assumed should be somewhere on the main floor. Yet, as you turned corners after corners, with no staff to ask for directions, you abandoned your aim and instead took interest in the overall decoration of the mansion. Flashy and austere, everything seemed to be displayed as an attempt to show off wealth rather than style. You scrunched your nose when you crossed paths with a credible counterfeited painting. Well it must have fooled one too many if it sustained its place atop the walls.

Analyzing the brush technique of the artist, your ears picked up a muffled conversation from your right. Etiquette would have it that you were at this instance obliged to turn your heels and walked away, but this was the household of your fiance. Curiosity won over and, making sure to tread carefully on the carpet you took slow steps towards the door like opening in the wall that led inside a room you never got the chance to lay eyes upon.

The familiar voice of Sabo's parents filled your ears.

“A vase? To think she took all this trouble to bring us mere pottery,” the harsh voice of Didit discredited your gift.

“This is only the beginning, I'm sure we'll be granted far more luxuries over time,” Outlook spoke with disdain.

Hearing their blasphemy far from scared your heart, instead hardening your ill sentiment towards the despicable pair. With such personalities for parents, no wonder Sabo wished to get away. You would want to do as much too.

As your eyes darkened by their chatter, a hand came to grab your arm from behind and another, quick like the wind, placed itself atop your mouth to prevent a pitch from leaving your lips. Alerted, you clawed your free hand at your face to remove the caging. Your heart raced. Your palm grew sweaty. Your eyes widened in alert. And your insides churned in discomfort.

However, you were wheeled around by the hand clutching your arm and was met with the sight of Sabo; his round eyes, steady and blank, stared directly in yours while the hand he had used to silence you moved to gesture a silent motion at his lips.

Identifying him had made the uncomfortable beating of your chest shrink down into a heavy breathing. Your gaze lowered at the finger he had put at his lips and before you had the chance to look back into his eyes, he dragged you away with the clutch he kept over your arm. It was probably the biggest affront someone outside your family had ever dared to pose to you in your life. Yet you knew better than to speak aloud words of protestation, instead staring confused gazes at the broad back of Sabo, his jacket removed to reveal a sweater vest that lined the length of his shoulders sharply. The nape of his neck too was exposed, and shamelessly, you looked.

Admittedly, you wanted to relish in the sight of his back slightly longer rather than be shoved into yet another sitting room, though smaller in size. You turned around to see Sabo close the door before he reeled on his heels, scorn thundering his features. This wasn't the second encounter you had envisioned. Far from it

“What do you think you were doing by eavesdropping on my parents?!” His voice far from minced the words that came out.

“Surprised I can be discreet?” You tempted as a joke with a sly smirk.

His lips further inclined downward. “Does royalty always snoop around in people's business? What were you thinking of accomplishing either way?”

You shrugged. “Snooping around? Well yes it is our duty to be aware of our subject's life. But let's say that this time around I was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Sabo found no amusement in your witty reply. “Why did you even come here? I received word when coming home that you were waiting in the drawing room but instead found you elsewhere.”

This knived at your conscience, for you felt his opinion of you was lowering. Mix how he had caught you in a reproachable act which had put him in displeasure, along with the lack of warnings for your arrival and you would have very reticent traits to seek in a partner.

You looked away in guilt. Your hand rummaged in the pocket of your dress to fetch the envelope you had set aside for him. “This is why I came,” you extended the invitation towards him.

Sabo eyed your hand rather than taking its content. “Don't tell me you're throwing yet another ball?” His tone was reproachful and you weren't sure why.

“It is for our engagement. Your presence is required,” taking matters into your own hands, you closed the distance with him and placed the envelope in his sweater vest pocket. Satisfied you took a step back and gave him a quaint smile.

“And that's reason enough to waste food and resources that many would kill for?” The anger in his eyes sent a chill down your spine.

You felt like blame was being cast on you, and you hated that sentiment when you weren't the one with power. “Listen, the problems you are speaking of are out of my control. I wasn't the one who decided to throw a ball and all I did was pay you and your family a visit out of respect to deliver the news myself,” you reeled in a harsh breath.

“Discarding all sense of responsibility, I see. Pretty common for royalty, and nobles for that matter.”

Your temper was starting to rise. “Can you stop speaking as if all the problems in the world are my fault?”

“You are the princess of this country, and as you made quite clear last we spoke, you're skilled enough to govern this nation. So tell me why exactly are you excusing yourself from blame?” Sabo raised an eyebrow at you while crossing his arms.

You momentarily found yourself at a loss for words. Gripping your dress in anger, you gave a spiteful pout. He wasn't wrong, and you hated him for rubbing how you made sure not to be perceived as a useless figurehead in your face. “I–”

“Your brother is king too. And the entire nation knows how tight knitted your family is. You could have talked him out of it if you wanted.” Sabo looked like he had more to say but seeing as your jaw clenched from being interrupted, he stopped his monologue.

You had to stop yourself from taking in a deep breath through your mouth. With the fire burning in your insides and the words he had thrusted in your face, it was hard to keep face. “I didn't know you were so agaisn't balls.”

Sabo gave an impatient sigh. “Not just balls. Everything morally wrong with the lavish life of the wealthy. It is quite disgusting.”

“Could that be your reason for abandoning this life?”

Sabo kept quiet for an instant, realizing that he might have said more than expected. “Well half of it, yeah. I cannot stand to partake in such credulous behavior.” He walked past you to sit in an armchair.

“And has it ever crossed your mind that commoners would be no different from us if given the opportunity to live our life?” You turned to perpetuate a stare in his direction.

Sabo leaned on his knees with a grave air. “Because we deprived them from so much all their lives.”

“And you think running away from all of it will change something?”

“Probably not. But at the very least, I can break my part in the system and live a life I consider more fruitful.”

“You are odd.” You bluntly voiced, walking to sit in front of him. “I can't decide whether to dislike you after the accusations you push my way or admire the sympathy you feel for the common people.”

“Think whatever you want of me, I do not care,” his words and conviction striked you as truthful, enough that it caused a slight jealousy to form in you towards having enough courage to remain unbothered.

“You do not care because of my status. I almost pity you, Sabo.”

“What?” He lifted his head with furrowed eyebrows, his eyes surveying your features in search for answers.

“You cannot see further than my title of princess, which pains me. I however have been able to look past your many disrespectful behavior and remarks to deduce in our short time together that you are hard headed, will driven and possess a great deal of sympathy, which I find quite likable in a man. However I wonder if you have been able to discern any good qualities in me.”

A pause, thick in silence occurred.

“Mhmh, I see.” You stood, harboring a hurt expression, feeling you had left a weak impression on his person. “Unfortunately things are already in motion for the ball, and invitations have already been sent and received as we speak. I hope to see you there in good spirits for the sake of the celebration.”

Part 3

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