#most readers don’t feel a need to give when they can just move on to another writer and take again

[ghostsangel]

Please please please can I get Ghost being so unhealthy obsessed with a girl who insists she can do everything herself. No she doesn't need help with the gear, nobody ever helped her before. Want to spot her? Fuck off. She's not lifting more than she can handle. She won't take help from anyone and it pisses Ghost off.

Secretly she's just scared of being vulnerable, so when Ghost manages to wrangle her into a situation where all she can do is accept his care (and his dick) he gives her all the treatment she's secretly craved.

omg this is an amazing concept.

simon “ghost” riley x fem!reader

warnings/tags: mdni, smut as fuck, reader is so stubborn it’s insane, ghost is obsessed, unprotected sex, oral (f!receiving), creampie, squirting

Ghost truly doesn’t understand you.

He’s stubborn, but you may be the most stubborn person he’s ever met. The first time he offered to help you was with your gear the first day on base—you snatched it from his hands so fast his head spun, scowling at him and telling him you could handle it just fine. It’s hard to shock Ghost, but you did, and he was intrigued.

Ever since that day, he’s watched you. It’s almost unhealthy the way his eyes gravitate toward you in a room. It’s almost like you won’t accept help from anyone just to piss people off—like you have a point to prove.

Today is no different. His muscles strain under the weight of the dumbbells he’s lifting, his eyes flicking over to you. You’re on your back, lifting a pair of weights, your lips pursed as you concentrate.

Ghost almost smiles when he watches a new recruit waltz over to the bar and try to spot you.

“I can do it myself—I don’t need a spot,” you hiss out, giving the recruit such a poisonous glare he scurries off without another word.

Ghost sighs, setting down his weights and looking down at you. “He was just tryin’ to help.”

“Don’t need help,” you mutter, eyes flicking to him as you set the bar down. “I’m a grown woman.”

“Just ‘cause you’re grown doesn’t mean you can’t choke yourself with the bar.” Ghost scowls at you under his mask.

You roll your eyes, sitting up and wiping your sweaty neck with a towel. “Fuck off. Haven’t ever had a spot before, and I sure as hell don’t need one now.”

“Stubborn,” Ghost mutters under his breath, watching the way your lips press together in a thin line.

You leave quickly after that, and Ghost can’t help but feel slightly annoyed with you. He understands being stubborn—hell, he’s stubborn. But he accepts help when he needs it. He knows his limits. You, on the other hand, have never accepted help. Well, not that he’s seen.

A few days later, the two of you are paired on a mission. It’s a simple objective—infiltrate the warehouse, get the intel. You’re silent as you hold your gun by your side, peeking around a corner. Ghost squats behind you, waiting for the all clear so you could take out the guards.

You nod at him, and the two of you move forward, shooting at the few guards on the warehouse. What you don’t expect are shots fired from the left of you, a bullet grazing your arm. Ghost grips the back of your uniform shirt to pull you behind a stack of crates, quickly shooting the figure and kneeling beside you.

“You okay?” He asks, eyes searching the bleeding scrape the bullet caused.

You stand, glaring at him. “I’m fine. I had it handled, Ghost. Could’ve taken him out myself.”

Annoyance and anger run through Ghost, his eyes narrowing. “I saw you get shot and reacted quicker than you. That’s why I’m the Lieutenant, and you’re not.”

Your nostrils flare, but you say nothing else before you check if it’s clear before heading to the warehouse. You and Ghost are in and out faster than you think is possible, and completely silent on the heli ride back to base. You grip your gun, posture stiff as you sit next to your Lieutenant. Ghost glances at you and sighs, wanting to speak but not wanting to cause a scene in front of the others.

The heli touches down and you leave before Ghost can get a word in edgewise. He watches you go and shakes his head before heading to Price to debrief and give him the intel.

A hot shower is next—something Ghost needs. He strips, taking the mask off and glancing at himself in the mirror. His eyes rake over his scars—jagged, white lines across his skin from torture, blending in with the circular burns from his father’s cigarettes.

Swallowing, he showers, thinking of you the entire time. You infuriate him, but god—does he want you. Yeah, you’re stubborn and you piss him off, but he’s so enamored with you that he can’t help but fantasize about you every waking moment.

He spends the shower trying to avoid touching his hardening cock to the thought of you, instead taking the time to wash every inch of dirt off him before rinsing and getting out. He dresses casually—black sweats, black tank top, black surgical mask. His baclava and mask are too fuckin’ sweaty to put back on.

He tugs on his boots before heading to the mess hall, bumping straight into you. He looks down at you, watching your eyes harden. The bullet wound is still bloody—you haven’t cleaned it.

“Lieutenant,” you stiffly say.

Ghost tilts his head. “You okay? How’s the arm?”

“Fine. Nothing I can’t handle, Lieutenant.”

His eyes narrow, nostrils flaring beneath the surgical mask. “Have I done something to offend you?”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms in front of you. “Other than save me when I didn’t need saving, yeah.”

Ghost has had enough. He grips your uninjured arm and tugs you inside his room, lips pressed to a thin line. You stumble inside, and he shuts the door behind him, crossing his arms in front of you.

“What the fuck is your issue?” He asks, voice gruff as he glares down at you.

“My problem? I don’t have a fucking problem,” you reply, heart thudding in your chest as you look up at him.

He shakes his head, taking a step closer to you. “You do. You don’t let anyone help you—even if they have good intentions. I took action today to save your life and you’re mad at me for it.”

You say nothing, just look up at him, eyes wary. He looks down at you, eyes flicking to the blood on your arm. “Sit down.”

“I can—”

“That’s an order.”

You huff before sitting down at a chair in front of his desk. He mutters to himself as he digs through his drawers, pulling out an alcohol wipe and a bandage for the wound.

He kneels in front of you, ripping the alcohol wipe open and discarding the trash on his desk. He begins to swipe at your arm, and you wince at the sting.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, eyes flicking up to yours.

“It’s okay,” you mutter back, holding still so he can work. “I’m sorry.”

The words seem incredibly hard for you to say, and surprise flashes in Ghost’s eyes as he tosses the alcohol wipe to the side. He says nothing, just undoing the bandage and wrapping it around your arm.

You clear your throat, inhaling deeply. “I…would rather do everything myself. It’s, uh…sort of like a guard.”

Ghost nods, tying the bandage in place before dropping his hands to his sides. “A guard.”

“Vulnerability scares me.”

His eyes search yours, head tilting to the side as he assesses you. “So that’s why you do everything yourself?”

“It’s not that I want to. I have to. I’m just…scared of opening up to someone.” You bite down on your bottom lip, and twiddle your fingers. “That’s why I don’t get close to people.”

“We’re pretty close right now, don’t ya think?” Ghost asks, smirking at you through the surgical mask.

You roll your eyes, a playful smile on your face. “Shut up.”

He doesn’t miss the way your cheeks heat, and he leans forward, hands resting on either side of the chair. “Don’t you secretly crave for something more?” His voice is deep, gruff.

You squeeze your thighs together, eyes never leaving his. “Maybe.”

Ghost uses his hands to spread your thighs, fitting his body between them. His lips ghost over your neck, mask pulled down, and your breath hitches in your throat.

“Ghost,” you murmur, your fingers squeezing the fabric of his tank top.

“Shut up and let me take care of you,” he grumbles before his lips meet yours.

The kiss is slow and sensual, and a moan slips past your lips as his tongue slides against yours. Your hands move up his chest to his neck, pulling him closer to you, your legs hitched around his waist.

His large hands slip down underneath your shirt, the touch of his fingertips tingling your sides as they travel up.

His lips move to your jaw, skimming down your neck and sucking at the skin. Slowly, his fingertips travel to your covered pussy, rubbing your clit in slow circles through the fabric of your pants.

You gasp, the sound music to Ghost’s ears as he smirks against your neck. Heat flares in your stomach, traveling to your core, and you can’t help but spread your legs, offering yourself to him.

He takes his time, tugging your pants down, taking off your shirt. Removing every article of clothing until you’re bare in front of him. His eyes take you in, his cock already chubbing up in his pants as he admires your naked body.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunts, spreading your legs with his large hands. You’re dripping, your pretty slit soaked with your juices and dampening your thighs.

He holds eye contact with you before his tongue flicks out, licking a fat strip up your pussy and sucking your clit into his mouth. He’s slow—taking his time with you. His tongue lazily strokes your clit, flicking and running around it.

You look at him, eyes half-lidded, hand on the back of his head. He groans into your cunt, the taste like heaven on his tongue. Your back arches, moans and whines slipping past your lips as he takes care of you.

You almost don’t notice when his middle and ring fingers tease the entrance of your pussy, and you buck your hips up at the sensation. Ghost laughs softly against your clit, sucking it into his mouth and flicking his tongue against it before his fingers push inside of your pussy.

You’re tight, and he lets out a grunt as he feels your gummy walls try to accommodate his thick fingers. He curls them and feels that little spongy spot that makes your toes curl, and your hips jolt, a lewd moan ripping from your throat.

“That’s it, yeah?” He murmurs, tongue running around your clit. “Feels good, doesn’t it, doll?”

“Yes,” you groan, his fingers beginning to thrust in and out of your tight hole.

Ghost focuses on your clit, picking up speed and licking your clit in fat strides. Your eyes roll back, head tilted back at the pleasure. It won’t take you long to come—it’s been a long time since anyone’s given you this treatment.

You clench around him, and he chuckles against your pussy, fingers working quicker. He isn’t moving them in and out, just thrusting them up and down against your spongy walls.

“Clenchin’ around my fingers so tight, doll,” he says, moving his fingers faster. “Come for me. Give it to me.”

His words push you over the edge and your pussy flutters as you squirt, your release costing his hand and wrist. He lets out a moan, flicking your clit and licking up everything you give him.

“That’s it, good fuckin’ girl.”

You pant, legs trembling as he removes his fingers from your cunt. He works at his own pants, tugging them down and revealing his heavy cock, hard and fat, his balls hanging heavy. He picks you up like you weigh nothing, pushing you against the wall and pushing his cock inside of you.

He gazes into your eyes, groaning as his fat cock stretches you out. Your nails dig into his neck, clenching tightly around him as he buries himself inside you.

“Fuck,” you whine, rolling your hips down so his tip nestles nicely against your cervix.

“Gonna take me so good aren’t you, sweetheart?” Ghost breathes out, beginning to fuck you against the wall.

You can feel every ridge and vein of his cock as he fucks you, your pussy squelching lewdly as one of his hands settles around your throat. You let out a whine in response, his cock brushing against your g-spot and making you see stars.

No one has ever fucked you like this—hard, fast, and attentive. Ghost knows exactly what he’s doing—he’s an expert. A particularly deep thrust steals the breath from your lungs and you let out a moan, clenching around him.

“Fuck, relax, sweetheart. Gonna make me fill this cunt up if you squeeze me like that,” he mutters, gazing into your eyes.

You grin at him, mouth hanging open as he fucks you deep. Your orgasm is already building, an inevitable force from the way he’s taking care of you. You claw at his neck, and he squeezes your throat as he ruts up into you.

“Go on, doll. Come for me. Milk my cock.”

The words make your legs tremble around his hips and your back arches as you come, cunt throbbing tightly around him, juices dripping down his cock onto his heavy balls. His eyes flutter shut and he lets out a long groan, burying his face in your neck as he fucks you harder through your orgasm.

“Want me to fill this pretty cunt up? Hm?” He murmurs, kissing your neck as he fucks you. “Want me to fill you up till it’s dripping down your thighs?”

You moan out a yes, and you feel Ghost’s cock twitch inside of your pussy. He bites down on your shoulder as his hips stutter once, twice—then he’s burying himself inside your pussy, cock throbbing and balls drawing up as he shoots load after load inside of you.

“God, so fuckin’ good,” he pants out, breathing against your neck as he holds you against the wall, cock still buried inside you.

Raising his head, he grins at you. You smile back, eyes searching his.

“Come on, love. Let me clean you up and we can have a cuddle,” he says, gently lowering you to the ground as his cock slips out of you. He has to force himself not to get hard when he sees his seed dripping down your thighs.

“I can—” You start to object.

Ghost tugs you to him. “Shut it. Didn’t you learn anything from what we just did?”

[rodolfoparras]

Sharing is caring

Pairing; Unspecified Male character x Male reader

cw: 18+,, top male reader, bottom male character, dom male reader, sub male character, fwb

Synopsis: in which you’ll happily share him if it means you’ll have him by the end of the night

I need you 

When you first received the text you thought he’d needed help, breath caught in your chest, pulse roaring in your ears as you raced  to get there.

What you didn’t except was to be met with the smell of sex lingering in the air, clothes scattered about on the floor and the man you’ve been hooking up for the past couple of weeks laying stark naked in front of you.

Instead of being absolutely horrified at being caught in such intimate position, the man in question only further spreads  his legs, showing you his puckered rim that’s all puffy and leaking 

“Jesus Christ ” you choke out, brain practically on autopilot as you lock the door behind you  and walk up to the other man.

“Please, please, you- I - just-“ he manages to splutter out, looking at you with watery eyes, his poor abused hole clenching around nothing.

Despite his incoherent words you already know what he wants, sharp smile tugging at the corner of your mouth as you walk closer.

“You just got fucked and you’re already wanting more?” You say,finger tentively stroking through the furely rings of muscles.

“ ah!- didn’t - didn’t get to cum wanted ah- wanted you to fuck me ” he croaks out, body practically writhing from just the small touch.

“That so?” You say, and hook your thumb onto his rim, pulling on it slightly just to watch more cum trickle out of him.

A soft gasp escape him as cold air caresses clammy skin, hips automatically bucking up into your touch, which result into more cum gushing out. “Yes yes yes- just - Please don’t tease, waited so - ah so long for this”

“Jesus Christ ” you murmur out, not wasting another second to slot yourself between his thighs, quickly getting hit with his musky scent, lingering so heavily in the air you can practically already taste him on your lips.

“Please-“ he croaks out but doesn’t get another word out as you lick a long stripe along the cleft of his ass, tongue all warm, and wet on the sensitive skin and now coated in the tangy taste of him.

“Oh- oh god, please!” He gasps out, sounding like the breathe’s been punched out of his lungs as he pushes back onto you.

You give another experimental lick, tongue languidly circling his rim just to watch in amusement as he withers on the sheets.“Ah- fuck, need more come on come on!”

“So demanding,” you say but despite that you swiftly slip your tongue inside him, licking and prodding on the sensitive walls of nerves till strangled sounds are escaping his mouth, legs firmly locked onto your head to keep you from moving away from him. “Go-god just like that, keep going, fuck!”

With each flick, you taste someone else on him, can practically smell the other men on his skin, and if you look close enough you can see marks blooming on the most sensitive parts of his body.

But instead of getting upset, you feel yourself getting riled up because of it, now eating him out more vigorously.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he manages to splutter out, cock leaking like a broken faucet against his stomach.

It doesn’t take much before you add a finger to the mix, practically making him feel like he’s being split open on your lips “God gonna- ah gonna cum,”

You don’t respond instead you continue your onslaught of thrusts, even going as far as to slurp on his weeping rim like it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted - the obscenity of the act along with the erratic thrust of your tongue and fingers is enough to tip him over the edge, ears ringing, world blurring out as blinding hot pleasure surrounds him “cu-cum-“

It takes him a while to catch his breath, the world still one big blur as he lays there with cum pooling on his stomach.

“You alright there?” You say, while running a soothing hand down his sides.

The man in question only manages to hum in response which makes you laugh “good because I still have to fuck you”

[luna-azzurra]

Do you have any advice for writing a fight scene? No weapons or anything, and one is a werewolf?

Thanks! xxx

sure!!!!:)

The environment is a huge part of any fight. Where the battle takes place can affect the mood and pace of the fight. If it's a forest at night, the atmosphere might be thick with tension, the shadows playing tricks on the human’s mind. Every snap of a twig could be nerve-wracking. In contrast, if it’s an abandoned warehouse or alleyway, there could be crumbling debris or walls that the werewolf could crash through with ease. Consider how the space constrains or opens up possibilities. Does the human have room to run, or are they trapped, back against the wall?

One of the most important elements of this fight is the clear imbalance between the human and the werewolf. The werewolf, being a supernatural creature, should feel like a force of nature, faster, and stronger than anything a human can easily contend with. Its movements are instinctive and powerful, maybe even graceful in their brutality. The human, on the other hand, needs to rely on their wits, speed, and survival instincts. They know they can’t overpower the werewolf, so they’re constantly looking for ways to outmaneuver it, maybe trying to use their surroundings to gain some advantage, like ducking behind obstacles or luring the werewolf into a trap.

To make the fight feel visceral, focus on the physical sensations and the toll the fight takes on both characters. For the human, every punch or kick should feel like a gamble, maybe they manage to land a blow, but it’s like striking a wall of muscle. Each missed hit could leave them open to devastating retaliation. The werewolf, meanwhile, is likely much more durable. Its claws tear through the air with deadly precision, and each swipe could mean serious injury for the human. Describe the impact of each hit. Does the werewolf's claw barely miss, ripping through the fabric of the human's shirt, leaving them gasping with adrenaline? Or does the human manage to dodge just in time, but only because they’re running on sheer instinct? Let the reader feel the weight of the werewolf’s power, how the ground shakes when it charges or how its growl reverberates in the air, sending shivers down the human’s spine.

What is the human feeling during this fight? Fear, obviously, but maybe also determination, rage, or despair. Do they think this is the end, or are they fighting for someone or something they care about? Maybe they’re not just trying to survive, maybe they’re protecting someone or trying to escape with crucial information. On the other side, consider the werewolf’s emotional state. Is it in control, methodical and cruel, or has the beast taken over, making it savage and unpredictable? If the werewolf is toying with the human, letting them think they can escape only to pull them back in, that can create an agonizing tension. Or maybe the werewolf is in a blind rage, reckless and wild, which could give the human a small opening, perhaps the only one, to escape or gain the upper hand.

What does the fight feel like? The smell of the werewolf’s fur, matted with dirt and sweat, the metallic tang of blood in the air, the sound of claws scraping across concrete or bark. What does the human hear? The werewolf’s breathing, the snarl rumbling deep in its throat, the snap of bone as it crushes something in its jaws? Describe how the human’s body responds to fear—the pounding heart, the shaking hands, the burn in their muscles as they keep running or dodging. The fight should feel exhausting, both physically and mentally.

Fight scenes need to be fast-paced, but not rushed. Keep the sentences tight and impactful. Short, sharp sentences can reflect the speed and danger of the fight, while longer ones might slow the action down in moments of brief respite, like when the human is catching their breath or assessing their next move. You don’t want to bog the reader down with too much detail at once, but you also don’t want the fight to end too quickly. Build up the tension, let the human get close to being caught, cornered, or even injured, then find a way to narrowly escape, only for the danger to come back twice as strong.

Every punch, kick, dodge, or claw swipe should have consequences. If the human lands a blow, how does the werewolf react? Does it shrug it off, or does it get angry, its aggression intensifying? Similarly, when the werewolf lands a hit, don’t be afraid to let the human suffer. Maybe they get clawed across the arm, and now they’re bleeding, one arm practically useless. Injuries should affect how they fight going forward, slower, more desperate, limping, or gasping for air. Let the reader see the human struggling, on the verge of giving up, but somehow pushing through. End the fight with a definitive moment, a final, brutal blow, a clever escape, or a narrow victory. Maybe the werewolf’s strength falters for just a second, giving the human a chance to escape, or perhaps the human collapses in exhaustion, moments before what they think will be their end.

[hsunrry]

wedding // one shot harry styles

harry styles x fem!reader

summary: based on this request.

words: ~3,5k

warnings: smut18+, cheating, angst (i guess), mention of being hit, fingering, oral (f receiving), protected sex

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“ready to see me?” you asked excited from behind the bathroom doors that was built in your room. tomorrow is your wedding and you wanted to show your best friend Harry how you look like in the dress.

“go ahead.” he called. when you walked out from the bathroom and stepped to the room he swallowed thickly. “you’re…” he cleared his throat. “i mean you look beautiful, really.”

“thank you.” you only smiled. he was sitting at the bed you were sharing with Denis- your future husband. situation was difficult. you loved him, of course. but there was a person you loved more, unfortunately. you didn’t really wanted that marriage, but your mother was pushing it so hard it was almost painful to hear all the time, so you decided to just give in and do it for your own sake, since you never even thought that your feelings could be reciprocated. little did you knew- you were the love of his life. you thought the same, you were sure he was the love of your life. but instead of getting married with him, he was looking at you in wedding dress, ready to marry someone else. it was painful, for the both of you. he was looking at you from the bed, like you were the most beautiful woman in the world. because for him- you were. he let out shaky breath.

“can i tell you something?” his eyes roamed over your body in this dress one more time. you nodded, sitting next to him. “this gonna sound crazy, god, i don’t even know why am i doing that.” he chuckled nervously.

“come on, i heard a lot crazy stuff coming out of your mouth.” you smiled, looking at his nervous expression.

“i’m in love with you.” he looked at you and you thought that you’re gonna throw up.

“wait, what?” you spoke after few seconds, blinking few times. he nodded slightly.

“yes i… i know you’re getting married tomorrow and that it’s probably the worst time i could tell you this, but i want you to know before i lost you for good.” he confessed. his leg nervously bouncing up and down. you were only looking at him with shocked expression.

“why are you telling me this now? i’m getting married tomorrow Harry.” you shook your head.

“because i know that if i didn’t say something, i’d have to watch you with some other guy for the rest of my life. i can’t keep pretending that you’re not the love of my life, because you are.” he said, feeling already that it was too late for that. he swallowed, looking at you. “i just… please, i just need to hear that you don’t feel the same and i’ll try to move on. i need to hear that.” he looked at you desperately.

“i can’t say it.” you said quietly and you could see hope in his eyes. you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “this it’s so complicated, god, why didn’t you said anything earlier?”

“i was afraid that you don’t feel the same.” he grabbed your hand in his, squeezing it gently. “do you feel the same?” you only nodded. “so why did you decided to marry him?”

“it’s just… i never thought you could feel the same about me. ever. i said ‘yes’ to him, mostly for my mother. she was pushing it so hard.” you explained. he wasn’t looking at you, but at your hand in his.

“please, don’t marry him… you could be mine. all mine.” he looked at you again. “i love you, i’ll do it for the rest of my life, i’ll treat you better than he treats you. you’re the love of my life, y/n.” desperation in his voice was almost killing you. the way he was looking at you. you could see the love in his eyes, it was so different from what Denis was doing. you knew he’d treat you better. but most importantly, that you loved him more than you could ever love Denis. in very different way. “please, don’t marry him.”

“this is crazy, you know that?” your eyes lingering at your intertwined hands. he chuckled lowly, bringing your hand to his mouth, kissing it.

“i know, but maybe we’re just crazy for each other.” he smiled, giving your knuckles another lingering kiss. you bite inside of your cheek, thinking. he was hopeful, that you’ll choose him. “please, don’t do that. spend your life with me, i promise i’ll make you happier than he ever could. i’ll give you everything and i know, that you know i’ll do that. you know me like no one else.”

“jesus, this is so complicated now.” you sigh, looking at him.

“i know and i’m sorry. i should’ve say something sooner, but i was too scared, so i’m telling you this now.” he shifted his body closer to you, cupping your cheek with one hand. “please, tell me you want me. say you don’t want to marry him. that you’ll be mine.”

“Harry…” you licked your lips slightly, looking at him this whole time. you swallowed quietly.

“say it, baby. say that you’ll be mine.” he watched your tongue slowly licking your lips. he started to caress your cheek with his thumb, leaning closer with his face to yours.

“fuck it.” you gasped, pressing your lips to his. he groaned when he felt the contact, immediately kissing you back. your lips moving slowly, feeling perfectly against each other. he pulled you into his lap, cupping your cheek back right after. his tongue begging for entrance to your mouth when he licked your lower lip. his free hand going up and down your waist slowly. you both moaned quietly when your tongues met, his hand went from your waist to your thigh, touching you over the material of the dress. “take this thing off me, i don’t need it anymore.” you said between kisses. he pulled back from the kiss, looking into your eyes.

“are you sure?” he was searching in your eyes for hesitation, anything really. but when you nodded he smiled. “i can’t wait to take this off you then. i want to mark you, to show everyone that you’re mine.”

“baby, are you in there?” you could hear knock on the bedroom door and Denis’s voice right after. you both froze. you looked at him.

“i have to tell him that it’s over.” you bite inside your cheek. he nodded, giving you quick peck on the lips. you stood up from his lap, going to the doors and unlocking it. you opened them, seeing how he quickly covered his eyes with his hand.

“what are you doing? i’m not supposed to see you in the dress before our wedding.” he chuckled. you swallowed quietly.

“we need to talk.” you said, looking at Harry for brief second.

“sure sweetie, but change first, it means bad luck if i see you and i don’t need bad luck in our marriage.” he smiled, still covering his eyes with his hand.

“Denis, i’m not gonna marry you tomorrow.” you sigh, looking at his reaction. he uncovered his eyes, looking at you concerned.

“w-what? i don’t understand… what are you talking about?” he chuckled nervously.

“i can’t be with you.” you swallowed quietly.

“what are you saying? i thought you love me, we’re engaged for months!” his eyes narrowed, he finally noticed Harry sitting on the bed, but he didn’t said anything just yet. his eyes went back to yours.

“i’m really sorry Denis, i didn’t planned that…” you took off your engagement ring, handing it to him. he grabbed it, looking down at it in his hand.

“are you seriously doing this? you’re telling me that you’re breaking our engagement the night before our wedding? is this some kind of prank or something?” he asked, looking at you like you just escaped mental hospital. you only shook your head. “how long have you been feeling like this? you said you love me, you agreed to spend the rest of your life with me! how can you be so heartless telling me this when we’re supposed to get married tomorrow?!” he snapped.

“i’m really sorry.” you almost whispered.

“so that’s it? we’re officially over? what am i supposed to tell our friends and family? it’ll break your mothers heart, you know that?” he was mad. his hand clenched on the engagement ring.

“i don’t care what my mother will say about that, i’ll handle it.” you saw him looking into Harry’s direction.

“is this because of him?” he looked back at you.

“it doesn’t matter.” he scoffed at your words, lingering his gaze at him.

“it doesn’t matter? you’re dumping me for your best friend and you’re telling me it doesn’t matter? we were together for over two years! all my friends knew i was going to marry you, my parents were so happy that we’re finally taking this step! you can’t just throw it away like that!” he yelled, causing your flinch.

“i love him.” you whispered, looking up at his face. his eyes went back to your face.

“for how long have you been sneaking around with him behind my back?” he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. he was supposed to marry you tomorrow, but there you were, confessing that you love someone else.

“i never cheated on you, it’s not like that. i wouldn’t take it that far if i knew earlier that he love me too.” you pinched your hand nervously few times. his gaze softening.

“please baby, you have to be joking. this is a joke, right? please don’t tell me you’re actually in love with someone else…” he was desperate, looking at you pleadingly. you only shook your head saying quiet ‘sorry’. he sigh deeply. “you were always saying that you love me. that you want that, that you want us. now, you’re telling me that you just… fallen out of love with me?… just like that?” his eyes were just simply sad. the way he was saying all of that was too much.

“you deserve the truth, so i’ll tell you.” you started, looking for brief second at Harry. your eyes went back on Denis when you continued. “i’d never thought, that Harry could ever feel the same way about me. it sounds cruel, but he’s the love of my life. not you Denis. i’m sorry.”

“so what?” he clenched his jaw, anger building in him at Harry’s name. “you think you’ll just live happily ever after with him? you think he’ll treat you better than i would?”

“you really wanna talk about treating me better?” your eyebrows raised in disbelief. his face went pale.

“i- i’ve treated you great, no? i’ve given you everything… money, stability, love, home-“

“some bruises and cuts sometimes too, but you weren’t planning to say this out loud, hm?” when you said that, Harry’s brows furrowed. his hands clenched on his sides.

“i didn’t mean to hurt you, babe. i’m sorry, i’ll change, i promise.” his voice cracked softly when he was talking. “i’ll be better, i promise, just give me one more chance.” he grabbed your hand with his.

“i love Harry, you can’t change that.” you looked at him going on his knees. “i’m sorry it all happened like that.” he looked pathetic. his eyes were wide, his skin ashen. he looked like his entire life was burning with your words. maybe because in fact, it was like that. he knew it was over. he wanted to beg, he was ready to do everything, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. it was like realization hit him. he let out shaky sigh, going up from his knees, but still holding your hand in his.

„what do you want me to do now?” he asked, without any emotions in his voice.

„you have to let me go.” you answered quietly.

„you’re killing me baby…” he chuckled in disbelief. „you’ll… you’ll be happy with him? you’ll be treated better?” you nodded at his words. „you deserve that. you deserve to be treated better than i treated you.” his eyes lingering on your face and then your body. „you never looked more beautiful than in that dress.” he smiled weakly.

„i hope you’ll find someone for you.” you smiled softly.

“yeah…” he mumbled. “it was supposed to be you, you know? i always dreamed of marrying you, growing old with you… having family with you.” he swallowed thickly.

“i know Denis, i’m sorry.” you said quietly, looking at your hand in his. mention of family brought a new sort of hurt in his eyes.

“i always thought we’ll be great parents together. i just knew you’d look amazing with baby bump.” his smile weak and full of pain.

“stop saying things like this. you’re only hurting yourself more by saying that.” you pulled your hand away from his. he froze at sudden lack of contact. it was like he couldn’t accept that you’re not his anymore. that he won’t be able to touch you, hold you, kiss you.

“before i leave, can i ask you something?” you smiled softly and nodded. “if i hadn’t done anything wrong, if i had never laid my hands on you, would we… would we still be together now?

“i don’t know that.” you shook your head slightly. he accepted your words, looking at Harry now.

“i hate you, you know that?” he said firmly.

“yeah? you can hate me all you want. i never liked you a bit and now that i know you laid your hands on her, you better be grateful that you’re still alive.” Harry smiled rudely at him.

“you have no idea how much i just want to punch you right now. for taking everything i ever dreamed of away from me. for stealing the love of my life.” he looked like he was about to jump on him every second. you speak up to avoid the situation.

“it’ll be better if you just go now.” Denis looked at you, his face softening. he only sigh quietly and nodded.

“i’ll go to my parents for tonight.” he swallowed. “i hope you’ll be happy, you deserve it. goodbye, my love.” he almost whispered, going out from the bedroom. few seconds later you heard front door closing.

“you okay, baby?” Harry wrapped his hands around you, pulling you close to his chest. he kissed the top of your head.

“yes, i… i should feel bad about this, right?” you pressed your cheek to his chest. “it’s cruel that i feel happy.”

“there’s no need to feel bad. you’re allowed to feel happy now, maybe it is cruel, but… it’s how life works. you can’t force yourself to be with someone who you don’t want to be. everything’s fine.” he caressed your hair, holding you close. he smiled. “he was right about something tho, you really look beautiful in that dress.” you looked up at him with a smile. he leaned down, kissing your lips softly. “i can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.” he smirked right after his words. “but for now, i can’t wait to spend this night with you.”

“yeah? then take this dress off me.” you licked your lips slightly, smiling at him this whole time. his hands immediately went to your back, where the zipper was. he slowly started pulling it down. wedding dress pooled around your ankles, exposing your body. he looked at while laced set, his eyes darkened.

“you’re so impossibly beautiful.” he touched lace of your bra over your breast. his touch gentle. his hands continued to moving around your body, when in meantime you started to unbutton his shirt. you were looking up at him this whole time. you pushed shirt off his shoulders, touching his chest right after. he let out shaky exhale, squeezing skin on your waist. your hands went down to get rid of his pants. he pressed his lips to yours right after you took them off, backing you both towards the bed. he sat on it, making you stand between his legs. he left lingering kiss on your stomach, looking up at you in this position. his hands went to the clasp of your bra, undoing it. he let out quiet groan when he looked at you only in panties. “god, how can someone look this perfect.” he gasped, leaving kisses all over your chest, sucking in few places. his hand went to cup one of your breasts, teasing your nipple with his thumb. he took care of the other one with his lips, licking and sucking gently. you moaned quietly, putting your hand into the back of his hair. his free hand went to touch your core over your panties that were already drenched. you never felt like this in your entire life- it was almost like he was worshipping you. “can we take this off?” he grabbed edges of your panties.

“yes.” you smiled at him. he quickly took them off, his dick twitching in anticipation in his boxers. he stood up from bed, picking you up and laying down on bed. before he hovered above you he took off his boxers, freeing himself from tight material. his kisses started on your neck, going down to your collarbones, chest, stomach, when finally his lips hovered over your core. he looked at you, silently asking if it’s okay. when you smiled at him he opened your legs more to have better access. he started kissing your folds, causing your gasp. when his lips met your clit you arched your back slightly, moaning. he smiled against your pussy, licking and sucking slowly on your sensitive place. his hand went under his chin, pushing his two fingers into your wet slit. you clenched at his digits automatically at the contact. you putted your hand into his hair for some more contact, hearing him moaning into you at that. action sent vibrations, adding to the sensation. his fingers curled into perfect angle, making you go insane from this and his mouth. you’d never thought that it all could feel that good. “oh my god.” you only managed to gasp. he was moving slowly, clearly wanting to prepare you for his cock. he eventually pulled out after few minutes, licking his fingers clean. he went back with his lips to yours, kissing you. you could taste yourself on his tongue, so you hummed quietly. when you break the kiss you smiled at him. “top drawer.” you said and he looked from you to the bedside table. he opened the drawer, taking a condom from it. he quickly opened it and rolled it on his length. he positioned himself between your legs, pressing his tip against your entrance.

“i love you.” he smiled, pressing soft kiss on your mouth.

“i love you too.” you smiled back, feeling him slowly entering you. his eyes searching for any discomfort, but when he found none he started slowly moving in and out.

“god, you feel so good, so perfect.” he gasped, leaning to your neck and kissing it. your hands went on his back and your legs around his hips. he wrapped his arms around you to feel you as close as possible. his breath was hot against your skin. your gasps and moans were driving him crazy. he picked up the pace when your nails started digging into his skin slightly. “i want to make you feel so good.”

“you’re already doing it.” you caressed his back with one hand. when he adjusted slightly you found yourself almost crying out of pleasure, when he found spot Denis was never able to reach. you let out desperate whine and he started moving even faster. he couldn’t hold back anymore. the way you were moving under him, the way you sounded. your back arched towards him, making you both even more skin to skin. his arms tightened around you and you could already feel your orgasm approaching. “oh my fucking god.” you panted, tilting your head back.

“look at me.” he gasped, looking at your face. “i want to see your eyes.” you quickly obeyed, looking at him. he grinned, moving even faster. his movements desperate already, chasing his own climax. “i don’t know how long i can hold that, you feel too good.”

“i’m close, so close, please.” your one hand went from his back to cup his cheek. he licked his lips, moving faster. you kissed him, moaning loudly into his mouth when you finally fell over the edge. your whole body arched and your core clenching around him, milking his length. he moaned himself at the feeling of you squeezing your cunt around him. he fucked you through your orgasm.

“fuck.” he panted, feeling himself emptying into the condom. his dick pulsating inside you, his hips twitching from intense pleasure. after you both get down from high he peppered your face with kisses, making you chuckle softly. last peck lingered on your lips and when he pulled out he looked into your eyes. “you’re truly the love of my life, baby.”

[silhouetteonpaper]

Goodbye

Summary: It’s time for you to move out of the compound now that you’re ready to move onto bigger things in life—things you’re more passionate about. But what happens when that means leaving the person you love the most? Natasha Romanoff x Reader WC: 1,235 Warnings: Veryyy angsty, not proofread completely A/N: I’m going through some huge changes in real life so this was really therapeutic to write, I’m sorry in advance 🥲

Your hands grasp the rough edges of the cardboard box as you stack one on top of another. The collection of your items once sprawled across the room, now subject to a pile in the corner. All the things you’ve collected over the years, from clothing, to pictures, to memories, all with their own spot in the place you call home.

But you can’t call it home, not anymore. As of last week, you finally decided it was time to make a change. Sticking around the compound has made you miserable, each day leaving you beside yourself with boredom and a desire for more. So, you chose to commit to the one thing you’ve been dreaming of for years now; a new home somewhere you felt you belonged.

It’s not that you don’t feel a sense of belonging here in New York, you just knew this situation would never be permanent. It’s been years of waiting for the ‘right’ day to leave, and you soon realized it was only your procrastination—among other things—preventing you.

As you place the small box on top of the growing stack, the girl you’ve spent those years procrastinating for walks in. “How’s the packing?” Natasha’s warm smile lightens the whole room, now left dim and colorless by the lack of decoration.

You both eye the boxes. “Good, yeah.” Your answer sounds more like a question than a statement, but Natasha already knows how you really feel. After all, you’ve spent the last few years by her side. She knows you too well.

A relationship had stemmed a while back, but ended a few weeks ago when you both wanted different things. She loved you too much to hold you back, you loved her too much to leave; it was a decision you weighed on for a while. Now, you’re content as friends… or as content as someone can be after giving up a relationship that meaningful.

You’ll always have a longing for Nat, and her for you, but no one can change your true destinations in life. You’ve never been the superhero kind, and that’s alright with you. A part of you just wishes that didn’t mean leaving Natasha.

“What’s on your mind?” Natasha asks, surveying every inch of your expression. You sigh, rubbing your forehead out of uncertainty.

“Not now, Nat.” You breathe. The last thing you need right now is to confront the remaining pieces of the strings holding you and the redhead together. You’ve finally committed to this new path, and you can’t let yourself fall backwards.

She nods once, dropping the subject. Friends usually can talk about their feelings, but the two of you know it’s easier to be together than to be friends. Natasha sits on your bed, watching as you continue to throw the last remnants of your existence at the compound into a new box.

Her gaze falls on one of the few objects still sitting on your desk, a silver-framed photo of you and her both in uniform. Tony had just made you a custom suit, you were beyond ecstatic about it. Natasha was excited to finally have you on a mission, the two of you being inseparable.

But that novelty wore off quickly; you went from going on missions every week, to maybe once a month. You weren’t happy, and she knew that. But neither of you were willing to mention it out of fear of what the future would hold.

“I remember that day.” Nat speaks up, nodding toward the photo. You chuckle, looking at the large grin plastered on past-you’s face. You both were together, her arm is hooked around your waist. A faint flutter in your chest makes you crave for that touch—the idea of what could have been. But you swallow it just as you did with your grief over leaving.

“That was a while ago.” You brush it aside, going back to packing. You open your desk drawer, revealing numerous photos of the two of you taken over the years. Quickly and quietly, you slip them all into the box before Natasha has a chance to notice. No one needs to make this harder than it already is.

Natasha stays silent for a bit, but you can feel her eyes watching you. It’s easy to sense that she’s deep in thought, and you debate asking what’s on her mind. But she beats you to it with another topical conversation. “I’m excited for you.” She voices.

You want to agree, tell her you’re excited too. But the truth is, something else is getting in the way of that. There’s something more to it, beyond the idea of waiting until the right moment to leave—waiting until there’s absolutely nothing left between you and Nat.

As you run circles around your room packing boxes, you realize exactly what’s getting in the way. Fear. You’re scared of leaving behind a good thing in the chance there’s nothing for you anywhere else. You know how happy you can be here with Natasha, but it’s not enough. There’s a life for you to live outside of the time you both spend together, and the two of you reluctantly agreed on that.

Your fingers find the smooth edge of the picture frame, and you can’t help but feel the swell of emotion inside your chest. Natasha’s silent, studying your changing expression as tears suddenly fill your eyes. “Hey,” She stands, stepping behind you. The ghost of her hands try to offer you comfort, but Natasha leaves them at her sides. “Talk to me.”

She never asks you if you’re okay, or pretends like things are fine when they aren’t. She states things how they are, and it’s something you love about her. Even when Natasha’s blunt or too honest for comfort, you’re grateful it’s that over being stuck with what went unsaid.

You take a deep breath, so desperate to lean into Natasha’s non-existent touch. “I’m scared, Nat.” You don’t look at her behind you, just down at the redhead in the photo. “What if I don’t ever get something this good again? What if I’m making a huge mistake?”

Her expression softens. “You’re doing what’s best for you, remember? It’s okay to put yourself first. I want you to be successful in life.” Natasha voices in the most confident way possible. Neither of you are fully convinced, though.

“I’m scared to be on my own.” You finally admit, the salty tears finally rolling down your cheeks as you turn to her. It takes every ounce of self control for Natasha to not touch you, to not wrap you in a tight embrace and kiss you until there’s nothing left to fear. Instead, she looks at you with eyes full of love, and at one point—it was enough.

But it isn’t anymore. “I know.” She breathes, gazing into your glassy eyes. You nod slowly, aware that she’s not going to move a muscle, and neither are you. There’s no reason to keep torturing yourselves. You know what you have to do.

“Goodbye, Natasha.” You suppress the sobs building in your throat as the redhead’s expression falls. Both of your hearts finally ripped into two, never to be joined again. This is it.

She doesn’t speak, she doesn’t even frown. She just nods in return, leaving your bedroom like she was never there. And as of tonight, it’ll be like you never were either.

[demonsslayersstuff]

Goodbye (Gojo x Reader)

A/N: This a reposting. I was having some issues with my blog for the past few weeks, so I will be doing some reposting.

A/N: I’m in a Gojo mood apparently. Anyway Jujitsu Kaisen Manga Spoilers, so keep that in mind before reading. Bit angsty cause I’m just in that mood. Thanks for reading! As I’ve said before I’ve been having a bit of a writers block so I’m not sure when I’ll post again, but I’m leaning towards Demon Slayer for the next one.

The room was silent that morning. Aside from the steady breathing off to your left, there was no noise. You glance at the clock and your heart freezes at the date, December 24th. It was the day you had dreaded for the past month.

But time moved forward as it always does, no matter how much you pleaded to a nonexistent god to stop it. You can feel tears gather in your eyes, but you push them away. You had already said your goodbyes last night, mapped out each other’s bodies for the most likely the last time.

You hear a deep intake of breath and know that he’s waking up. Gojo’s blue eyes open and lock onto your own. The two of you stare at each for a moment as the reality of what day it was washes over him. “Love”, he starts but you shake your head. “Please, I don’t want to cry, not now”, you tell him quietly. He hums in response before moving to kiss you deeply, arms wrapping tightly around you, crushing you against him.

The two of you dress quietly, preparing for what was about to happen. You look out the window and briefly wonder if this will be the last morning you’ll ever get to spend in this room. You watch as a bird flies past the window before you feel Gojo wrap his arms around your waist as he rests his chin on your shoulder. “I never appreciated this view as much as I should have”, he murmurs against your neck.

You turn around to fully face him, knowing it was going to be last time the two of you spent alone together. “Satoru”, you start quietly. He looks down at you, giving a soft smile of encouragement. “Words can’t describe the happiness you have given me. I just want you to know that…no matter what happens, I will always love you”, you tell him. His eyes soften and he pulls you into a tight embrace. He holds you in his arms before there’s a light tap on the door.

He cups your cheek, “It’s time”, he simply says. You greet Utahime at the door, before the three of you begin the descent down the stares. Your students and various sorcerers look up at you and Gojo, empathy and respect reflected in their eyes. Yuji is the first to break the tension, “Sensei, your technique is in the way”, he shouts. You watch as Gojo gives him a large smile before he says , “Give it your best shot”, with a smile on his face. He always put his students needs first.

Everyone makes the trek into the city as silence befalls the group. The full weight of what was about to happen evident on everyone’s faces. You watch as Gojo goes to stand with Ijichi, Utahime, and Gakunganji. The time was finally here. You walk up to Gojo for the finale time, staring up into his eyes as tears gather in your eyes. The others look away, giving you a bit of privacy. You feel Gojo’s fingers brush the tears away that silently fall on your cheek.

“You have what I gave you in case I-“, he starts but you cut him off, not wanting to hear those words fall from his lips. “Yes”, you say, voice cracking. “I love you, I will always love you. I will find you again if I have to, I promise”, Gojo says, voice full of emotion. You nod your head before he pulls you into a crushing kiss. You thread your fingers through his hair, as his hands grip your waist tightly.

He ends the kiss after someone coughs politely, but you don’t let him go just yet.  You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close. “Get our son back”, you tell him before letting him go. You see determination flash across his face. “I will”, Gojo says before he kisses you one finale time.

You watch as the group takes the stairs to the top of the building. Gojo pauses at the top for just a moment before turning to look at you. He gives you his signature smile and a second later he’s gone. “Goodbye Toru”, you whisper before heading to join the others as the battle begins.

[wannabehockeygf]

plastic palm trees - william nylander

part of the think later fic series

"Thought that it was real, thought that it was worth it, Out the window everything was looking perfect, Caught in a dream, it's not what it seems."

*** request: "hey girl saw you wanted more maple leafs players and don’t you worry I would love some willy nylander for plastic palm trees"

summary: a whirlwind romance was only serious consideration for one of you. word count: 6.8k pairing: william nylander x fem!reader warnings: insinuation of sex (in a fade-to-black, time lapse thing), alcohol notes:

MY FIRST WILLY FIC

^ we've been getting fed such good pics of him lately

heartbreak because if i can't be happy NO ONE CAN.

i had to do hella research on the city of Toronto for this

It was one of those suffocatingly warm nights at the end of April that always managed to catch you off guard. Since moving to Tampa, you'd gotten used to the random bursts of heat and humidity, but tonight, it seemed more oppressive than usual. Maybe it was the setting—an after-party for the Toronto Maple Leafs on top of a fancy skyscraper, with a rooftop bar and pool. It was after their last regular season game against the Bolts, the one that got them to clinch the playoffs, and it was as far out of your element as you could get, especially with your best friend nowhere to be found. Typical.

Everyone here was either already wasted or riding some other high, and despite the fact that you were wearing a bikini that made you look like you fit right in with the army of models around you, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you didn't belong. Not that anyone cared or noticed, but the nagging insecurity in your gut was loud enough to drown out the music blaring from the DJ booth.

You needed out. Immediately.

With your head down, you started pushing your way through the crowd, dodging guys in swim trunks and girls in bikinis more expensive than your rent, when suddenly it hit you—the pool deck was indeed wet. Slippery, in fact. You tried to stop yourself, but gravity had other plans. Your feet slid out from under you in slow-motion horror, and for one terrifying second, you were convinced you were about to make a grand entrance into the pool.

Except… you didn’t. Instead of a splash, you collided with something warm and solid behind you. Not too solid, though—just the perfect amount of solid that made you immediately wish you could stay there a little longer. A squeak escaped your lips, and you twisted your head around to apologize, but as if playing the role of clumsy, awkward girl to perfection, your eyes locked onto his.

Oh. Oh wow.

His eyes were beautiful—crystal blue, sharp and hypnotic. You were so caught up in them that you almost forgot how to breathe. Your jaw hung open, just a little, and his laughter was the first thing to break through the spell. God, even his laugh was attractive. Deep, yet boyish. The kind of sound that makes you feel all kinds of flustered for no good reason.

He brought his hand up to scratch at his patchy blond beard, which was—against all odds—also unfairly good-looking. And then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he pulled you back onto your feet in one smooth motion, his arm still firmly around your waist. You didn’t miss how strong he was. Okay, cool, play it cool. Definitely don’t acknowledge the fact that you just fell into a guy with abs for days.

"Whoa, you alright?" he asked, voice warm and tinged with amusement. You could practically hear the smile in it, which only made your heart flip-flop even more.

You nodded quickly, trying to steady yourself. “Yeah, I’m good! I just… forgot the ground was wet.” Great. That sounded totally sane. 

“Easy to miss,” he grinned, his arm still lingering a little longer than necessary before he finally let go, stepping back just enough to give you space. “Not your fault. Happens to the best of us.”

You tried to laugh it off, though it came out more like an awkward cough. Smooth. Very smooth. “Thanks for, uh… catching me. I probably would've done a full backflip into the pool otherwise.”

He chuckled again, that sound making your stomach twist in ways you weren’t prepared for. “Glad I could help save the day.” He paused, and then as if he was actually interested in you beyond just saving you from a catastrophic splash, he asked, “I’m Will, by the way.”

Will. Of course, his name is William. Because of course, I’d fall into a guy who looks like a freaking Nordic god with a name like William. You cleared your throat, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. “Nice to meet you, Will. I’m… well, I’m just trying not to die of embarrassment, so you can call me a mess.”

He laughed again, this time a little softer, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Nah, you’re doing fine. No more slipping, though, alright?”

“I’ll do my best,” you said with a weak grin, still fighting the urge to just melt into the ground.

He took a small step closer, glancing around at the chaos of the party before turning his attention back to you. “You look like you could use a drink. Can I buy you one?”

You blinked, the words Can I buy you one? still bouncing around in your head like a ping-pong ball that refused to settle. Your heart did a quick stutter step, trying to catch up with the situation as you stared at the walking Norse god who had—somehow—deemed you worthy of his time.

A drink. He was offering you a drink. You should say something. Anything, really.

“Uh, sure,” you croaked out, before clearing your throat and attempting to sound like a fully functioning human. “I mean, yeah. That sounds great.”

His smile widened, like he found your awkwardness adorable, and you cursed internally at the fact that even his smile had to be perfect. Because, of course, it did. Of course, he had to be the kind of guy who looked like he stepped off a movie set, made you feel like a complete idiot, and was still nice enough to offer you a drink instead of just leaving you to fumble your way to the poolside bar alone.

William motioned for you to follow him, leading you through the crowd with surprising ease—probably because people just naturally got out of the way for someone who looked like that. Meanwhile, you were fighting to keep your cool, your feet somehow both heavy and light as you trailed behind, staring at his broad back and the muscles that shifted with each movement. Was it hot in here, or was that just you?

Yeah, it was definitely just you.

You arrived at the bar, and William leaned against it, catching the bartender’s attention in a way only someone with that level of effortless confidence could. “What’s your drink?” he asked, eyes locking onto yours again, and for a split second, you forgot how to form words.

“Uh…” You glanced up at the chalkboard menu, your brain desperately trying to pick something that didn’t scream I’m lost, help me. “A margarita?”

He grinned, giving a little nod like you’d passed some secret test. “Good choice. I’ll have the same,” he said to the bartender, who had the audacity to wink at Will before disappearing to make the drinks. You stood there, doing your best not to fidget, but Will’s attention was back on you, and you suddenly felt like you were under a spotlight. He leaned in slightly, the smell of expensive cologne wafting in your direction. Why does he have to smell so good?

“So,” he started, his voice smooth and casual, “what brings you to a party like this? You don’t exactly look like the type to hang around a Leafs hockey crowd.”

You nearly choked. “I—uh—I could say the same about you.”

He raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. “Really? You don’t think I could pass for a hockey player?”

“You’re a hockey player?” you blurted out, louder than you meant to. Then you immediately wanted to slap yourself. Of course, he’s a hockey player, you idiot. He just said this was a Leafs party, and the man looked like he could bench-press you without breaking a sweat. Smooth. So smooth.

William’s grin spread wider, clearly enjoying your flustered reaction. “Yep. William Nylander, right wing for the Toronto Maple Leafs.” He paused, leaning in a little closer as he lowered his voice. “Not gonna lie, though… I’m a bit more interested in you than hockey right now.”

Your brain short-circuited. William Nylander. Oh my god. You were talking to that William Nylander. You’d somehow managed to embarrass yourself in front of one of the most famous hockey players in the NHL. If there was a hole in the ground, you’d gladly crawl into it.

“Oh,” you said weakly. Because what else could you say?

He didn’t miss a beat. “You seem a little surprised,” he teased, his hand brushing against your arm in a way that sent shivers down your spine. “Didn’t expect to meet a guy like me tonight, huh?”

You swallowed hard, trying to keep up with the situation. “No, not exactly. I mean, I didn’t even know this was a Maple Leafs party. My friend invited me, but she’s—well, she’s disappeared.”

He chuckled, clearly amused by your rambling. “Lucky for me, then. I get you all to myself.”

The bartender handed over your drinks, and you gladly took a sip, hoping the alcohol would somehow calm your racing heart. William watched you, eyes twinkling with mischief, like he knew exactly the effect he was having on you.

You could feel the warmth from the margarita sliding down your throat, but it did absolutely nothing to temper the heat already coursing through your veins. The ice-cold drink clashed with the fire igniting inside you, fueled by the fact that William freaking Nylander was standing right in front of you, smiling like he knew every secret thought you were desperately trying to keep hidden.

Oh god. He was looking at you again—those impossibly blue eyes scanning your face with a level of intensity that made your breath catch. It wasn’t fair. Not when he had that stupidly perfect jawline, the kind you only ever saw in glossy magazine spreads. Or, you know, when you accidentally fell into the arms of a guy who looked like he could bench press you for fun. The thought of it made your stomach do another one of those unwelcome flip-flops.

“So,” William began, leaning in just a little closer, his voice soft yet dripping with that effortless charm. “What else don’t I know about you, aside from the fact that you’re stunningly beautiful and apparently terrible at walking on wet surfaces?”

You blinked. Stunningly beautiful? Did he just say that? You knew it was a line. It had to be a line. But the way his voice wrapped around the words made it feel like more than that, like he actually meant it. Your brain scrambled to respond, and you barely managed to avoid a full-on choke this time. “I—uh, well, I’m usually not this clumsy, I swear.”

He raised an eyebrow, his grin widening, that teasing sparkle still alive in his eyes. “Mm, I don’t know. You seem like you might need a little more… steadying. You know, just to be safe.” His gaze flickered to your waist, where his hand had been earlier, and you swore you could feel the phantom weight of it still lingering. “I could always lend a hand. Maybe two, if you need ‘em.”

Your laugh came out too loud—awkward, but you couldn’t help it. “I’ll, uh, keep that in mind,” you stammered, taking another sip of your margarita like it was a lifeline. His flirtation wasn’t corny, but it was relentless in a way that left you completely unprepared. It was as though he was gently laying down brick after brick, building up the tension, each little compliment stacking on top of the last. And you? You were just trying to keep from crumbling under the weight of it all.

“You know,” he continued, his voice dipping lower, leaning into that sweet spot where a whisper might live, “you really do stand out here. I’m not just saying that.” His eyes locked onto yours again, and suddenly, the noise of the party seemed to melt into the background. “Everyone else is… well, they’re either trying too hard or not trying at all. But you…” He paused, letting his eyes roam over you in a way that felt both appreciative and entirely too intimate for the middle of a party. “You look effortlessly gorgeous. Like you’re not even trying. It’s… refreshing.”

You could feel your face heating up, and it wasn’t just from the humidity. There was no way he could really mean that, right? You felt like a fish out of water, surrounded by people who seemed to thrive in this kind of environment—women with legs for days and hair that didn’t frizz up at the slightest hint of moisture, unlike your own. But here was William, saying things that made you feel like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t completely out of place.

You took another long sip of your margarita, hoping the liquid courage would do its job, but your nerves were still very much in charge. Every time you looked at him, you were acutely aware of how out of your depth you were. The man had an aura about him, an energy that came effortlessly, like he was born knowing he could make women weak at the knees with just one well-placed glance. And tonight, all that effortless energy was directed squarely at you.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” William teased, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous level again, the kind that made your toes curl. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

Pretty. There it was again, another compliment dropped into conversation like it was nothing, but this one landed differently. It felt personal, like he wasn’t just throwing out lines to get a reaction. His eyes stayed fixed on yours, curious, like he genuinely wanted to know what was going on in your brain, which was a dangerous place to be right now.

You forced a laugh, trying to act like your entire body wasn’t buzzing with a mix of nerves and attraction. “Oh, you know… just wondering how I managed to fall into the arms of the one guy at this party who’s apparently allergic to shirts,” you joked, gesturing to his open button-down that was doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that his abs were, indeed, carved by the gods themselves.

He threw his head back and laughed, the sound so full and rich it almost made you forget how embarrassing your comment was. “Shirts are overrated,” he said with a playful shrug, glancing down at his chest like he was only now realizing he wasn’t wearing one. “Besides, you’re not exactly overdressed either, you know?”

Your cheeks flamed. “Touché.”

He smirked, the kind that made your heart do that stupid little flutter again. “But honestly? I’m not complaining. If I’d known falling into my arms would be part of your plan tonight, I would’ve ditched the shirt earlier.”

Okay, now you really were melting. He wasn’t just flirting; he was relentless. And worse, he knew exactly what he was doing, gauging your every reaction like he was running some kind of experiment on just how flustered he could make you. Spoiler alert: very.

You smiled, trying to play it cool, but it felt like every nerve in your body was hyperaware of how close he was standing. You could practically feel the heat radiating off his skin, the subtle scent of his cologne still teasing your senses. Focus, you reminded yourself. You didn’t want to come off as some starstruck fan who couldn’t handle a little flirting.

“Falling into your arms wasn’t exactly on my to-do list tonight,” you quipped, finally meeting his eyes again. “But, hey, accidents happen.”

William’s lips quirked into that smirk again, the one that was quickly becoming your undoing. “Some accidents aren’t so bad,” he said smoothly, his eyes flicking down for just a second before they locked back on yours, making your breath hitch.

There was something about the way he looked at you—like he was undressing you with his eyes, but not in a sleazy way. No, it was more like he was figuring you out, studying every little reaction, every shift in your body language, every flutter of your lashes. It was almost unnerving how much attention he was paying to you, like he had all the time in the world.

“Okay, now I know you’re trying to kill me,” you muttered under your breath, barely loud enough for him to hear. But of course, he did.

“What was that?” He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. “Something you wanna say to me, sweetheart?”

You felt your heart stutter in your chest at the sudden proximity, the pet name slipping out of his mouth so casually, like it was something he’d said a hundred times before. You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way his voice sent heat pooling in your stomach. “Just that you’re not exactly subtle, are you?”

“Why would I be?” he asked, pulling back just enough to give you that devastating smile again. “I’ve got you right where I want you.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He was so goddamn confident. Not cocky, not arrogant, just… sure of himself, like he knew exactly what effect he had on you, and he wasn’t afraid to use it. And the worst part was, it was working. Every word, every glance, every laugh—he was pulling you in without even trying.

You swallowed hard, trying to find your voice. “Yeah, well… maybe I just like the view.”

His grin widened at that, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Oh, you like the view, huh?”

You felt your face heat up instantly. “I meant of the party,” you corrected quickly, even though it was a blatant lie.

Willam raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Sure you did,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as he leaned in just a little closer. “But I’m glad you like what you see.”

You felt the air between you shift—just a little, but enough to make your pulse race. His eyes darkened slightly, and for the first time tonight, the teasing edge in his voice softened, replaced by something more serious. More intense.

“Listen,” he said, his voice low, the flirtation still there but laced with something deeper now. “This party’s fun and all, but… I’d much rather spend the rest of the night with you. Somewhere quieter.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, and you stared at him for a moment, trying to process what he’d just said. He was asking if you wanted to leave with him—if you wanted to take this to the next level.

Part of you knew you should probably play it cool, act like this wasn’t sending your mind into overdrive. But the other part of you—the part that had been riding the high of his relentless attention all night—was screaming at you to say yes.

William waited, his eyes never leaving yours, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He wasn’t rushing you, but there was a heat in his gaze that made it clear he was hoping for the answer he wanted.

And honestly? So were you.

“I—uh—yeah,” you finally managed, your voice shaky but steady enough. “I’d like that.”

William’s smile widened, his eyes lighting up with that same mischievous glint as he straightened up, offering you his hand. “Then let’s get out of here.”

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm, golden hue across the unfamiliar room. You blinked against the brightness, disoriented for a moment until you felt the weight of the arm draped across your waist. Right. William. Last night. Your mind replayed flashes of the night before—the teasing, the drinks, his relentless flirting, and then… everything else.

You shifted slightly, the cool sheets brushing against your bare skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from the man beside you. William’s breathing was slow and steady, and you could hear the faint rustle of him stirring next to you, his presence impossibly close and yet suddenly foreign in the daylight. What the hell just happened?

You glanced over at him, your heart doing that annoying flutter thing again. Even half-asleep, he looked annoyingly perfect. His blond hair was tousled from sleep, his face relaxed, and those damn long lashes—seriously, what kind of guy has lashes like that?—cast soft shadows on his cheekbones. He shifted slightly, his arm tightening around your waist for a moment before loosening, as though even in sleep he wasn’t quite ready to let you go.

It was kind of surreal, being here. In bed. With William freaking Nylander.

You closed your eyes for a second, trying to piece together your thoughts, but before you could drift too far into overthinking mode, you felt him stir next to you. His arm moved away, and the bed shifted as he sat up, the sheet slipping down to his waist. You kept your eyes closed, pretending to still be asleep as you listened to him move quietly around the room. The rustle of fabric, the sound of a zipper, a soft curse under his breath as he searched for something. You could practically picture him getting ready to leave, and part of you wondered if this was the part where he would just disappear without a word.

But then you felt the bed dip again, and his hand brushed lightly against your shoulder. “Hey,” his voice was soft, huskier than it had been last night, laced with that morning grogginess that somehow made him even more attractive. “I’ve gotta head out soon. Got a flight back to Toronto in a few hours.”

You opened your eyes, blinking up at him as he sat on the edge of the bed, half-dressed in a plain black T-shirt and jeans that somehow still managed to look designer on him. His hair was still messy, but it only added to the effortless charm he seemed to carry like it was second nature. You sat up slowly, clutching the sheet to your chest, suddenly hyperaware of your own disheveled state in comparison to him looking like he just walked off a runway.

“Oh, right,” you mumbled, your voice a little scratchy from sleep. “Back to the glamorous life of hockey stardom.”

He chuckled softly, his blue eyes catching the morning light as he glanced back at you. “Yeah, something like that.” There was a pause, a moment where neither of you seemed to know what to say next. You weren’t exactly prepared for the morning-after small talk with someone like him, and part of you wasn’t sure if he’d want to stick around for it either.

But then he reached into his back pocket, pulling out his phone and turning it over in his hand before offering it to you. “Here,” he said casually, but there was a sincerity in his voice that caught you off guard. “Put your number in.”

You blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard. “My number?”

He nodded, a small, almost boyish smile playing on his lips as he looked at you. “Yeah, unless you’d rather I just disappear into the night, never to be seen again.” His tone was teasing, but there was something genuine behind his eyes, like he was offering more than just a casual exchange of digits.

You hesitated for a second, staring at the phone in his hand. Part of you wondered if this was just something he did—collecting numbers like souvenirs from his nights out—but the way he was looking at you, waiting, made it feel different. Like he actually wanted to stay connected.

You reached for the phone, your fingers brushing against his for the briefest moment before you started typing in your number. “Alright,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant despite the nervous flutter in your chest. “But only if you promise not to spam me with shirtless selfies.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm, making your stomach do another one of those stupid flips. “No promises,” he grinned, taking the phone back once you’d handed it over. He glanced at the screen, then back at you, his smile softening just a little. “But I’ll definitely text you.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that, so you just nodded, feeling a little out of your depth again. This whole thing felt like it existed in some kind of surreal bubble—like you’d stepped out of your normal life and into some alternate universe where William Nylander was asking for your number and promising to text you like this wasn’t completely out of the ordinary.

He stood up then, pulling on his jacket and giving you one last look before heading toward the door. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

You smiled, though it felt more like a question than a statement. “Yeah. See you around.”

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the quiet room, the scent of his cologne still lingering in the air, clinging to your skin. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, staring at the door for a moment as you tried to process everything. The night, the morning, the fact that he had just given you his number.

What. Just. Happened?

You flopped back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling as a small, incredulous laugh bubbled up in your chest. This wasn’t real life. It couldn’t be. But as your phone buzzed on the nightstand, you glanced over and saw his name light up the screen.

“Talk soon :)”

Yeah. This was definitely real. And you were in so much trouble.

The days that followed that surreal morning were a blur of disbelief, excitement, and an overwhelming sense of What the hell just happened?. You spent an embarrassing amount of time staring at his name in your contacts, debating whether to text him first or wait for him to follow up on his promise. But, true to his word, he didn’t leave you in suspense for long. That very same day, your phone lit up with a simple, casual message: “So, did I pass the ‘won’t disappear’ test?”

From there, it was like a dam broke. Texts became more frequent, each conversation flowing more easily than the last. The banter came naturally, with him teasing you about your corny responses at the party, and you firing back with just enough wit to keep him on his toes. But it wasn’t just flirting anymore—it was something deeper, more meaningful. Soon, those texts evolved into long FaceTime calls that stretched late into the night, your screen lighting up with his face as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Except it wasn’t. Nothing about this was normal.

The first few calls were awkward in the way new things always are—filled with small talk about your day, what you were doing, and how many hours he’d spent training. He’d call you from all sorts of places—his car, the gym, even in between meetings with his agent—giving you glimpses into the world of a professional hockey player that still felt so far removed from your own life. Yet, the more you talked, the more he let you into those private, quieter moments. It wasn’t all glamorous; there were days he was exhausted, barely able to string sentences together, his hair mussed from pulling off his helmet, wearing nothing but his gold chain and boxers. He’d laugh at himself, apologizing for being a “boring, dense hockey guy,” but those moments, when his guard was down, were the ones that pulled you in deeper.

You found yourself opening up too. You’d show him little snippets of your life, whether it was cooking dinner in your tiny apartment or walking on your favourite beach. He seemed genuinely interested, asking questions about the things you never thought anyone would care about—your job, your friends, even your ridiculous obsession with late-night baking shows. He'd make comments like, "You bake? That’s cute. Maybe you can make me something when you're in Toronto," as if the idea of you being there wasn’t absurdly impractical.

Yet, every time he said it, that spark of curiosity flared to life. What if you did go?

There was no denying the pull. With every passing day, every call, every conversation, Toronto became more and more tempting. You could picture it so vividly—flying out, seeing him in person, experiencing this thing between you without a screen separating you. It was ridiculous, though, wasn’t it? You barely knew him. You had sex with him once. This was all supposed to be some fun, flirty thing, not a long-distance… whatever this was turning into. But when he mentioned it—“When are you coming to visit me?”—your heart would skip a beat, and the idea suddenly didn’t feel so far-fetched.

It was around the two-week mark when he FaceTimed you from his apartment. The view behind him was incredible, a sprawling cityscape with the CN Tower looming in the background. He was dressed in sweats, hair still damp from the shower, lounging on his couch like he didn’t have a care in the world. You, on the other hand, were curled up in bed, trying to keep your excitement from showing too much as he asked about your day. It was a mundane conversation, really, but there was a comfort in it, a growing familiarity that felt… nice. More than nice.

“You should be here,” William said suddenly, his eyes locking onto yours through the screen. There was a seriousness in his voice that wasn’t there before. “I keep telling you, you should come to Toronto.”

You laughed it off, like you always did, trying to mask the way your stomach flipped at the suggestion. “Yeah, because hopping on a plane to Canada is totally practical. I’ll just drop everything and come running, right?”

But William didn’t smile this time. His expression was soft, almost vulnerable. “Why not? I’m serious. You keep saying no, but you’re not really giving me a reason. I told you I’d pay.”

You blinked at the screen, momentarily thrown off by the change in his tone. He wasn’t teasing, wasn’t flirting—he was asking, really asking, and for the first time, you didn’t have a quick comeback ready. You stared at him, feeling your heart pound in your chest.

“Willy,” you started, your voice softer now, unsure of how to explain the million thoughts racing through your head. “It’s just… complicated. I have a life here, a job. And we’ve only known each other for, what, two weeks?”

“So?” His response was immediate, like he didn’t see the issue at all. “It’s not like I’m asking you to move here. Just… come for a visit. Spend a weekend. See what happens.”

Your mind spun with the possibilities. A weekend. It sounded so simple when he said it, but to you, it felt like opening Pandora’s box. What if you went, and things weren’t as easy in person like it was the first time? What if this whole thing fell apart? But another part of you, the part that had been growing more attached to him with each passing day, screamed at you to say yes. To stop overthinking and just take the leap.

“I want to,” you admitted quietly, almost afraid to say it out loud.

William’s face lit up at that, the corners of his lips tugging into that boyish grin that always made your heart skip. “Then do it. You’re way too in your head about this. Just come. What’s the worst that could happen?”

The worst that could happen? Oh, you could think of a few things. But staring at him, his expression so open and genuine, you found yourself nodding slowly, your own grin starting to form.

“Okay,” you said before you could talk yourself out of it. “I’ll come.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, both of you processing what they meant. William’s grin widened into a full-on smile, his excitement palpable through the screen. “You won’t regret it,” he promised, his voice full of certainty. “I’ll make sure of it. I’ll buy your tickets, too.”

And just like that, the decision was made. You were going to Toronto.

For the next week, your anticipation grew, along with your nerves. Every time Will mentioned it—“You’re going to love the city. I can’t wait to show you around,”—you felt a mix of excitement and anxiety. It wasn’t just the trip; it was the what ifs that came with it. What if things between you were different in person? What if this whole thing fizzled out? But the pull was too strong, the connection you’d built too real to ignore.

By the time you were at the airport, suitcase in hand, your nerves were a tangled mess. Yet, somewhere beneath the anxiety, there was a sense of thrill, a quiet voice telling you that this might just be one of those moments in life where you take a risk and it pays off. After all, how often do you get the chance to fall headfirst into something this unexpected?

The flight to Toronto felt like the longest of your life. As the plane descended, you stared out the window, watching the sprawling city beneath you slowly come into focus. The CN Tower stood tall, piercing the sky, and the shimmering waters of Lake Ontario stretched out like an endless mirror. You clutched your phone in one hand, the other drumming nervously against your knee. This was it. You were about to step into something that could either be a dream or a disaster, and the weight of that realization hadn’t fully hit until now.

When the plane touched down, you were hit with a rush of nerves. What if things were awkward in person? What if the chemistry that felt so electric over FaceTime fizzled out the second you were face-to-face? You had no idea what to expect.

But then you saw him, waiting just outside of baggage claim, and all the doubts melted away.

He stood there in a hoodie and sweats, casual yet effortlessly cool, his blond hair messy like he’d just rolled out of bed—but somehow, on him, it worked. The moment his blue eyes met yours, his face lit up in that same grin you’d seen a hundred times through a screen, and it felt like everything around you faded.

Your heart did a little flip as you approached, suitcase dragging behind you. “Hey,” you breathed, trying to sound normal, but your voice came out a little shaky.

William stepped forward, closing the distance between you in a few strides. “Hey,” he replied, his voice soft, his grin never wavering. Without hesitation, he pulled you into a hug. And just like that, everything felt right. His arms around you were warm and solid, his body familiar in a way that surprised you. He smelled like cologne and clean laundry, and for a moment, you let yourself sink into it, into him, letting the reality of the moment wash over you.

“You’re actually here,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you, his hands lingering on your arms. His eyes were bright, amused. “You weren’t just messing with me, huh?”

You laughed, feeling a little more grounded now that the ice had been broken. “What, did you think I’d back out last minute?”

“I don’t know,” he teased, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping lower. “You seem like you scare easy.”

Before you could come up with a witty response, he grabbed your suitcase and motioned toward the exit. “Come on, I’m starving. Let’s get out of here.”

The first few hours were a blur of excitement. He took you to a cozy café not far from the airport, somewhere tucked away and intimate, where you could sit by the window and watch the city move outside. Over coffee and a shared plate of pastries, the conversation flowed as easily as it had over the phone—only now, there was something more. He wasn’t just a face on a screen anymore; he was real, sitting across from you, his smile lighting up his entire face whenever you made him laugh.

And he did laugh. A lot. More than you expected. You’d forgotten how much your weird sense of humor had slipped out in those earlier texts, but now, sitting across from him, you felt freer. The walls you’d built, the ones you’d used to guard yourself from being too vulnerable too fast, were crumbling faster than you could stop them.

After coffee, he drove you around, showing you the city like it was his personal playground. You marveled at the historic brick buildings of the Distillery District, snapping photos as he teased you for acting like a tourist. You walked along the waterfront, where the breeze off the lake was cool and refreshing, and he bought you ice cream from a little stand by the pier. At the mention of grabbing lunch at St. Lawrence Market, you could only laugh—he was a whirlwind, jumping from one idea to the next, his excitement palpable.

Later that day, you met his brother, Alex, who welcomed you with a warm smile and a handshake that quickly turned into a hug. “So you’re the mystery girl,” he said, glancing between you and William with an amused grin. “He hasn’t shut up about you for weeks.”

You felt your cheeks burn, but William brushed off the comment with a smirk. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just jealous.”

That evening, as the city lights began to twinkle against the darkening sky, William took you to a quiet rooftop bar, a stark contrast to the one you met at. The view of the Toronto skyline was breathtaking, and the mood between you shifted. You weren’t just two people exploring a city anymore—there was an undercurrent of something deeper, something you both felt but didn’t quite put into words.

You ended up at his place that night, the air thick with anticipation. His apartment was modern, sleek, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a stunning view of the city. But you barely noticed it. Your focus was on him, the way he looked at you, the way his hands felt on your skin, gentle yet insistent.

The nights that followed were electric, filled with quiet murmurs and heated kisses, bodies intertwined in the dark. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just the two of you, giving in to the pull that had been building since you fell into his arms. It was intense, thrilling, and everything you hadn’t realized you were waiting for.

You stayed for the full week. You explored more of the city together, visited Kensington Market, strolled through the Royal Ontario Museum, and even caught a Leafs game where he introduced you to his teammates. They were charming and funny, ribbing William for finally bringing a girl around. “This one must be special,” Mitch joked, and while you laughed it off, part of you wondered if it was true.

But as the days went on, something shifted.

You’ve been here longer than planned, each day blurring into the next in a way that feels easy, natural. But there’s something different about William tonight. He’s quieter, more distant, the usual spark missing from his eyes. You’re curled up on his couch, his arm thrown around you,  the Toronto skyline glittering through the window–-but there’s an unease hanging between you.

“I’ve been thinking,” William starts, his voice low, as if he’s trying to find the right words. He’s sitting right beside you, although he doesn’t dare meet your gaze, fingers tapping restlessly against your shoulder. “About us. About this.”

Your heart stutters. “What do you mean?”

He finally looks at you, eyes soft, but there’s an underlying tension there. “I just… I didn’t think it’d get this serious this fast. I mean, I like you. I really do. But…” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t expect it to be this… much.”

The weight of his words sinks in slowly, a cold pit forming in your stomach. You don’t say anything at first, waiting for him to continue, to explain what exactly he’s trying to say.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is, I need to keep things casual. For now. It’s a lot, you being here, and I’m just… I don’t know if I can handle more with everything going on.”

There it is. The words you didn’t want to hear. The same ones you’d feared might come, lingering in the back of your mind ever since you landed in Toronto.He’s exactly like the rest of them. And believing that he was worth it?

Well, that was just gullible of you.

[iwaasfairy]

hello friends it’s been said before but I think it bears repeating: content creators are already doing all they can to add to fandom.

me and I’m sure a lot of other writers often get the question “any fics similar to yours/any writers who do more of what you do/hey please recc people or fics” and,,, I hope you can see that all these sort of asks are asking for more things to consume, more to read, preferably exactly like what they like about you as a writer -and while I don’t get upset over these messages- I also don’t love them. ༼ ் ▽ ் ༽つ

because the truth is that writers read less than readers. seems pretty obvious hhahshdh . we’re writing for you all, so we don’t have time to go dig through the tags and find new fics or writers we like. so getting messages like this just reminds me that when I’m actively making content for others, I don’t get the time to enjoy fandom. luckily I enjoy writing, so it gets lifted somewhat. but I would like to say this:

if you want more of a certain thing, how about instead of taking more, you try to give? it’s so so rare to receive back as a content creator, and it’s honestly pretty draining. it kills fandoms. genuinely. you guys have to understand fandom is a two way street.

if there’s a fic you really like, send it to a writer you think will enjoy it, and maybe that writer will get inspired. if you know someone likes a certain topic, send them some blog recs! If someone’s having trouble writing, send them an ask about an idea they might enjoy. It’s really really not as hard as you guys seem to think it is to make fandom more enjoyable for both parties. Because I promise you, I promise you!! If a writer is inspired and happy, you will get a lot more content to read too, than when they’re not. It benefits you to interact with, and help out your fav writers.

unless someone specifically has a rule not to, help us (writers) out a little. and ofc this isn’t calling out people who already interact, and reblog, and leave nice comments on fics. yall are little muffins whomst I love the most. but I wont answer asks that want more, because one, I don’t know many other writers to rec and two, it’s not fun to know you’re sending another writer a bunch of readers who will just pass by to read everything they’ve poured hours into, and then most likely ask them the same thing and move on

[sttoru]

𝝑𝑒 synopsis. after being married to satoru for two years, you still giggle and (secretly but not so secretly) fangirl about him whenever given the chance. your husband absolutely loves indulging you.

tags. husband!gojo satoru x wife!female reader. fluff, sfw, tiny bits of angst. tooth rotting fluff yeah. reader gets called ‘princess, baby’. inspired by this ask.

“and and and, his smile ‘s just so beautiful,” you sigh dreamily, resting your head on satoru’s lap. you’re both enjoying the cozy night in your shared apartment. with no one bothering you—with no regards for the world that’s continuing its cycle outside.

satoru chuckles as he pats your head slowly, taking his time to appreciate every feature of yours. from your pink-ish lips to your pretty eyes. he’s so in love with the creation god has gifted him. he nods attentively, “yeah? what else?”

you giggle as he indulges you. it’s a habit of yours, to fangirl over your husband like you’re not literally his wife. satoru finds it absolutely adorable. plus, it boosts his ego. in a very good way.

“aaaand, he’s caring. that’s the one thing i love most about him,” you continue to ramble about your little ‘crush’ on that so-called mysterious white-haired sorcerer. satoru wishes he could capture this moment and keep repeating it over and over in his head.

the way you talk about your crush - him - is filling his stomach with butterflies. the tall man can’t deny the faint blush on his cheeks and the fuzzy feeling in his chest. you keep getting cuter and cuter the more time passes.

when he thinks you’ve reached a state of perfection in his eyes, you once again prove him wrong and go beyond that. “caring, hm? he must treat my princess real good then,” satoru hums and continues petting your head. his other hand rubs your stomach—fingers creeping under the material of your nightgown.

“he does,” you nod in agreement, “he treats me so well. i don’t know how i got so lucky to have met him.” you squirm a little as you feel satoru’s slender fingers graze your midriff, going back down to your belly and then back up your chest again. his touch is so intimate and loving. you’re spoiled. spoiled rotten by his affection.

satoru sighs. his white lashes flutter shut for a second. hearing you say such stuff makes him want to check if it’s reality he’s in. if it isn’t another too-good-to-be-true dream of his. no one had loved him as much as you did.

it feels good to know that he’s wanted. needed.

“no, i think he is the lucky one,” satoru continues. his hand petting your head stops and he moves it to rub your cheek tenderly. he leans his head down, the tips of your noses touching. he whispers, “having a pretty girl like you love him so dearly… yeah, he’s won the lottery.”

your heart skips a beat. satoru’s words leave you speechless. you don’t know if you can keep up the little silly act anymore. his flirting, the teasing and the genuineness behind his words—it’s all too much.

you grab the back of his head and push his lips down against yours. satoru’s breath hitches for a second before he gives in to you. he visibly melts, eyes closing and hands tightening their grip around your body.

“mmh,” satoru lets out a content moan. he loves you. he’s glad he’s met you and he’s glad he made you his wife two years back. you’re the only one for him. death won’t do you apart—no—he promised you on your wedding day that it wouldn’t.

you kiss him like it’s your last kiss on earth. the spark between you is still as warm and strong as it was when you met. the people who’ve warned you about the ‘honeymoon phase’ are clearly all wrong. they aren’t aware of the strength your bond with satoru has. you’re inseparable.

“i love you,” you sigh against satoru’s glossy lips and he deepens the kiss after that.

somebody loves him. somebody cares for him. that’s all he needs in life. his life is complete with you in it. he smiles against your lips and says the three words back, with more passion than ever before, “i love you too, my angel.”

nothing will ever separate you. not fate. not anyone.

[brokenmenswhore]

release | jacaerys velaryon

pairing: jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader

summary: jace is on the brink of snapping and lashing out toward his mother and her council for their lack of action against the greens, so you give him another outlet for his frustration

warnings: smut (MDNI 18+), rough sex, jace is a lil rough & feral in this one

────── ☾ ──────

“And what of those who sent him?” Jacaerys snapped, questioning his mother as they buried yet another body.

He was angry. He couldn’t help but lose people. Everyone around him kept fleeing or dying, and he tried desperately to hold his tongue, but his patience was slipping. War was inevitable, and he was frustrated at his mother’s lack of action toward the opposing force. He wanted revenge, retaliation, and most of all, he wanted to be the one to give it.

As the eldest son, however, he tried not to cause a scene, knowing he played an important role in this war, and hoping that his silence and unwavering support of his mother’s decisions would breed the proper trust that was needed to allow him more involvement and access in the war.

He was evidently tense at council meetings. His tongue was becoming sharper with each sentence related to the war. He couldn’t help it. He pushed through the doors to your chambers, angry and frustrated from the events of the day.

He stopped short when he saw you turn in your chair to face him. Taking a deep breath, the tension in his body dropped. “I need a hug.”

You smiled, standing and approaching him, wrapping your arms around his waist. You remained a step lower than him in the entrance. He rested his chin on the top of your head.

“I just don’t understand why she won’t do anything,” he began, “I know she doesn’t want this war. I don’t want this war, but it’s happening. We have all lost so much, and it will not stop. Why won’t she do something?”

“Perhaps she believes it can still be avoided,” you responded.

“How much blood from my family must be split before she realizes it can’t?”

Your heart ached for him. You wanted to hold him in the hug forever, curing all his pain and never letting him out of the room.

“I’m sorry, Jacaerys.”

“It is not a fault of yours,” he replied, “it is just exhausting. I wish for a break from all of this, even if just momentary. I feel as if any moment, I may break, and I do not wish to take these frustrations out on my mother or her council. It would only cause the situation to worsen.”

You looked up at him, “then take it out on me.”

“What?”

“Take your frustrations out on me, Jace.”

“You do not deserve such treatment.”

You sighed, “but I am asking for it. Allow yourself to have an outlet. Why else am I here?”

Jacaerys was bewildered, “you are not here for me to take my anger out on. I would not do such a thing.”

“I wish for you to relax. I would not speak the offer if I did not mean it. Please, Jace.”

Jace leaned down to kiss you, initiating a sweet, intimate kiss before his frustrations took over and he deepened the kiss, gripping your thighs, causing you to jump and wrap your legs around his waist. He continued to kiss you as you clung to his shoulders, his steps towards the bed shaking you and causing you to nearly fall.

The Velaryon prince was usually quite nice to you, making sure to take things slow and constantly checking in on your comfort and pleasure. He would typically slowly drop your back onto the mattress, but tonight, he quite literally pushed you down, keeping your legs wrapped around his waist as he kissed you into the mattress.

You moaned at the eagerness of it all, Jace’s hands running up and down your side, gripping your waist and pushing your hips down, until your legs were no longer wrapped around his body. Never breaking the kiss, he lifted up your nightdress, his fingers finding their way under your small clothes, not giving you time to ease into it as he began roughly rubbing circles on your clit.

You squealed into the kiss. Jace moved to begin sucking bruises into your neck, his hair falling in front of his face, as he continued to rub you. You couldn’t help but moan, trying your hardest to remain as quiet as possible, since his little brother’s chambers were just a wall away.

“He’s not here,” Jace groaned.

You could barely speak. “What?”

“He’s not in his chambers. He’s out with Arrax. Stop holding back,” Jace demanded, “wanna hear what I’m doing to you.”

This controlling nature was a change, but you didn’t mind it at all. You stopped trying to quiet yourself, a moan of his name leaving your lips as he pushed a finger into you.

“That’s it,” he cooed, “you sound so pretty.”

“T-thank you,” you responded.

Jacaerys didn’t stop curling his finger inside of you, but giggled, “did you just thank me?”

“Mhm,” you moaned.

“You’re too cute,” he said, breaking his frustrated and controlling demeanor for a second, the compliment making your heart swell as he continued to fuck you with his fingers.

He felt you start to squeeze, and he immediately pulled his hand away from you. You sighed in disappointment.

He lifted you from under your arms, shifting you so you were sitting up, as he began to undo his breeches.

“I just wish I could go to King’s Landing,” he started, pushing his small clothes down and allowing his cock to be free, “I’d kill every last one of them.”

He gripped your hair, pushing your face down until it was level with his cock. “Open.”

You did as he told you, opening your mouth as he pushed his cock into your mouth, immediately hitting the back of your throat. He was big, too big to fit completely in your mouth, but you were getting better and better at breathing through your nose to avoid gagging around his cock.

“Not today,” he sighed, “stop holding back or I’ll fuck it out of your throat.”

You listened to him, forgetting everything you know about avoiding gagging, and allowing him to direct your head up and down, his cock hitting the back of your throat with every single thrust. You gagged and choked around him, but he didn’t let up.

“They think they’re so big and bad,” he said, breathy from the pleasure of your mouth around him, “if only they were around me. I could take all of them. I could end their whole fucking line.”

He began to thrust his hips at a vicious pace. You had no choice but to take it, trying your best to continue sucking and swirling your tongue around the head of his cock as he fucked your mouth mercilessly.

“I’d end their whole. fucking. line,” he said again, speaking through each thrust and throwing his head back in pleasure.

“Fuck, get up, I’m not done with you yet,” he commanded, pulling you off of him to stop himself from coming before he wanted to.

You didn’t dare adjust your position without his say so. You sat there waiting for him to put you where he wanted you. He flipped your body over, pressing your face into the pillow as he pulled your hips up to meet his. He took both of your wrists in one hand, locking them behind your back as his other hand guided his cock into your entrance and then moved to your waist as he started rocking into you, pushing you further and further into the mattress.

Your body folded and became weak, as much of you falling into the bed as was possible, the only thing keeping your hips upward was the rough grip Jacaerys had on them. You whined and moaned, your entire body rocking forward with each snap of his hips.

“Seven hells,” he breathed out, his pace never relenting, “are you still okay?”

“Mhm,” you moaned out, unable to form a coherent sentence.

“Shit, I hate not being able to hear you,” he said, pulling out of you and flipping your body so you were flat on the mattress, facing him. “That’s better,” he smiled, immediately fucking back into you with no warning.

You cried out, grabbing his face and kissing him through the intensity. He grunted into the kiss, having never fucked you, or anyone for that matter, this hard before. All of his pent up rage and frustration was being taken out on your cunt.

Your back arched off the mattress, Jace taking the opportunity to wrap an arm around your waist, holding you even closer to him.

He spoke with every thrust, “I. Want. Revenge.”

“I k-know,” you moaned out.

“I. Want. Fucking. Revenge.”

It was overwhelming, and the intensity with which he was fucking you started to make your head cloudy. “J- Jace, it’s too m-“

Jacaerys cut you off by kissing you, doing everything he can to stop your words. “You can take it, baby.”

“I c-“ the pressure was so intense. You could feel your walls start to squeeze around his cock, and his pace was relentless.

“You can,” he said, looking directly into your eyes, “and you will.”

You nodded and let him continue splitting you open on his cock, dropping your waist down to the mattress again as he fucked into you, hands rough on your waist as they pushed you down.

Your eyes filled with tears. Jacaerys had never seen you like this, crying from the intensity, sweat sticking your hair to your forehead as you writhed under him. He didn’t know he was capable of making you feel like this, and he didn’t know you would look so fucking pretty as a result.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled, “I’m close.”

You couldn’t even respond, you just continued to whine and moan under him, watching his face contort as he released inside of you. The final few thrusts of his hips were cruel, his large length hitting that spongy spot inside of you that made you see stars. Through his high, he could feel you close, and he forced himself to continue pushing in and out of you until you met your climax.

Your legs shook as a wave of pleasure washed over you, your entire body eventually melting into the bed with weakness. Jace waited a moment before pulling out of you, kissing you as he did so.

You tried hard to catch your breath, but it took you longer than you anticipated. Jace, ever so attentive, looked down at you and asked, “you okay?”

You couldn’t help but smile. “I should start making you mad.”

[sugume]

EAT IT !! — JUJUTSU KAISEN

( TW ) f!reader. cunnilings. panty sniffing. tongue fucking. overstimulation.  

FEATURING. Geto Suguru. Gojo Satoru. Toji Fushiguro.

authors note. short n sweet because I’m fighting the worst cold of my life rn

☾ GETO SUGURU 

“Gotta get ready for work, Sugu.” You whisper between the heated kiss. “Ten minutes baby, all I need.” He grins into your mouth before moving to trail kisses down your naked body. He stares up at you with mischievous eyes as he kisses down your stomach before disappearing under the duvet cover. You bite your lip in anticipation as Suguru slowly spreads your legs open. You arch in surprise when he spits on your pussy and before you have time to comprehend what he’s doing he lowers his head and covers the entirety of your pussy with his mouth. You gasp, back arching higher off the bed when he slurps at your juices. “Pussy tastes s’good baby.” Suguru praises, trying suck at everything he can get in his mouth. “Mm—you eat me so good Sugu.” “Oh yeah? Why don’t you thank me then?” He bites down one of your swollen lips between his teeth. “Suguru!” “Say thank you, baby.” He laughs, letting go to give the other the same treatment. “Thank you, Thank you Sugu!” 

☾ GOJO SATORU 

“Look how fucking perfect you look, angel.” Satoru groans into your panty-clad pussy, grip tightening on your thighs. “S-Satoru!” You cry, your hands gripping the counter behind you as your boyfriend lifts one of your legs onto his shoulders. “Fuck angel, you smell so fucking good. Wanna stay down here forever.” Satoru mumbles into your pussy before taking another big sniff. He exhales and places another kiss over your panties before moving them to the side. “Pretty, s’pretty.” Satoru runs his tongue over your opening a few times before dragging his soaked tongue higher to your clit. You moan when he brings his soft lips to your clit and sucks. “Satoru, ohmygod!” You scream, throwing your head back when he chuckles into your swelling clit and starts to suck even harder. “Don’t s-stop! Don’t stop—hmm—oh!” You cry out, bringing your hands down to push his face impossibly closer to your clit. “m’gonna cum Satoru!” 

☾ TOJI FUSHIGURO 

“No more Toji!” You cry, trying to pull him from the spot between your legs. “No.” He lifts his soaked face to grumble and move your hands. “One more.” You throw your head back and cry when he says that. You shouldn’t have told him you couldn’t come from head. “Color?” “G-green.” You could take one more, you weren’t gonna tap out now. “Good girl, now m’gonna make you come with just my tongue.” He explains, dragging his tongue up your overstimulated pussy. You hiss at the feeling, hands going back to his hair. Toji drags his tongue up and down your pussy a few more times before bringing it to your hole. He pushes it in. You moan thighs clenching around his head. “Too much—‘s too much!” You scream when he picks up the pace, tongue fucking you faster—better—than most of the men you’ve fucked. “gonna cum again!” You scream, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your pussy contracts on Toji’s tongue.  

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

the pro

part ii: what we're willing to accept

Pairing: Art Donaldson x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. minors, please get off my lawn.

Notes: My brain chose violence this morning. Not beta-read because when is it ever.

Length: 4.8K

Warnings: Slow burn; unhappily married reader; divorced Art Donaldson; infidelity; oral sex (female receiving); vaginal sex; unsafe sex

Summary: Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch.

He's the biggest men's tennis star since Andy Roddick.

That’s what your husband says, as if it’ll entice you. As if you know anything about tennis, about the pro that your husband says will be coming to the house to teach you to play.

It’ll be good for you. You need a hobby. 

You don’t gripe or argue. You don’t tell him that five months into your marriage shouldn’t have you looking for a new hobby. You should still be in the honeymoon stage, spending all of your time with him, hanging off of his arm, off of his every word. But he works so much and he’s away so often—

I don’t want you to get bored. 

It’s a sweet gesture. The maid handles the housework; you have a chef that handles most of the grocery shopping and cooking, unless you insist on making something yourself; you have a housekeeper that arranges for anything you need—dry cleaning, maintenance. And it’s no wonder that with all of his money, his power, he can just order a retired pro tennis player up to your house, like you’d order a pizza. There’s a tennis court in the back of the mansion, a few feet from the pool. You’ll get some new outfits, the best sneakers, the nicest rackets. You’ll finally have something to do to fill your days. 

Art Donaldson. 

You know his name before the lean, fair-skinned patrician man turns up at your front door. He trails you through the house, politely declines your offer of a beverage. 

“You ever played tennis before?” He asks. 

You haven’t. Before your husband arranged this for you, you hadn’t so much as given the sport more than a passing thought. You don’t have the heart or confidence to tell that to a man that’s made tennis his whole life, so you just give him a small, guilty smile and say no, you haven’t. He nods, waves you off, insists that it’s fine. 

“We’ll start with the basics.” 

-- 

Two months of lessons on the basics make your arms tired, and your hands sore. But where your swings are clumsy and your grip is weak at first, you can see improvement in the way that you move. Your steps are less clumsy when you go after a ball; you’re more aware of the service line and the base line; your forehand stroke from contact to your left shoulder is smoother; your rotation and follow-through on your backhand is coming along, but has a long way to go. 

Art’s instruction is calm and steady. He explains technique as much as he demonstrates it. When you get something wrong, he doesn’t scold, just lightly corrects. When you do something well, his encouragement is constant and free-flowing. Every accurate move and motion is met with, “Nice,” or, “Perfect,” or, “That’s it.” 

On the days when you don’t have a lesson with Art, you practice. You order a tennis ball machine to work on your forehand and backhand. You attempt (and fail) to learn how to slice on your own. You try anyway—you can only imagine the way his eyes might light up if you manage to surprise him. 

You’ve tried to ignore the rising interest that you have in Art, but you can’t help the little…Crush that’s developed. He’s just so attentive, and kind. When you find yourself smiling these days, it’s often because of something that he said, or did. You can’t remember the last time your husband made you feel giddy this way. It was probably when you started dating—before you’d made the decision to marry for comfort, rather than love. Your husband is practical, rarely physically affectionate, more heavily involved in his job and social circles than with you. 

But you’ll have to find a way to thank him. He’s given you a hobby, and a man that grins at you like you just painted the goddamn Mona Lisa when you serve your first ace. 

-- 

“So, tell me about the Mark Rebellato Academy.” 

Art smiles, dipping his head as he reaches for his coffee. It’s taken a few months, but you finally convince him to have something to drink with you after practice. Your chef is blessedly out shopping for ingredients for dinner, so you have the kitchen all to yourself. Art has watched you putter around, seeming surprised that you know where everything is. You can’t blame him; the kitchen is chef-grade, and you don’t cook much these days. 

“Did your husband tell you that’s where I went?” 

“No.” 

“Then how do you know?” 

You’re too embarrassed to admit that you’ve done some googling, and watched a couple of clips of him interviewing before and after his matches. 

“I’ve just heard,” You fib. “Tell me about it?” 

He leans back in his seat, eyes skating across your face as he seems to consider something. 

“What do you wanna know?” 

“Did you enjoy it? I mean—” It feels like a dumb question once it’s out, and you hurry to redirect, “With what you know now, if you had the choice, would you have learned how to play tennis somewhere else?” 

He considers for a moment, trailing his finger over the side of his cup. Your gaze flits to his fingers, and your own flex around your mug handle. You’ve spent far too much time looking at and thinking about Art’s fingers—their length and quickness; the slight roughness of his calloused hands; the lingering tan line from where his wedding band used to sit. 

“Yeah,” He admits, drawing your full attention back to his face. “I would. It was foundational, you know. I’ve been thinking of sending Lily there.” 

“Lily?” 

A bittersweet smile twists his lips. “My daughter.” 

“Oh!” It catches you off-guard.  

“Tashi, uh—” He clears his throat, “Lily’s mother, my ex-wife. She and I are thinking about schools.” 

“I’m sure they’d be glad to have her. Does she play tennis?” 

“Little bit. She didn’t start until last year, but she's a natural.” He clears his throat again, presses, “Are you and your husband planning on having kids?” 

“Oh god no.” You blurt it out, and realize as he raises his brows that you’ve spoken too quickly. You lean back in your seat, stirring your coffee quickly to distract yourself from your growing embarrassment. “He actually has kids already. Two girls, seven and ten. They’re at boarding school and they stay with their mother when they're on vacation. I haven’t gotten to spend much time with them.” 

“...He seems to be pretty busy.” 

“He is.” 

“So it’s just you in this big house?” He tips his head to the side, brows knitting with curiosity. “What do you do all day?” 

“Play tennis.”

He grins, chuckling, and your stomach flips at the sound. 

“It shows, you know,” He says. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I can tell you’re practicing without me. And,” He leans across the table, running his fingers lightly over the exposed skin of your bicep, “You’re getting stronger.” 

You wonder if he can see or feel the goosebumps that break out across your skin at the gentle sweep, his gaze heavy on yours.

“I have a good teacher,” You murmur. Art’s lips twitch with a soft smile, his hand gently cupping your arm. 

“Just good?” He plies. 

“The best. A real pro.” 

His smile widens, and the flash of his tongue sweeping across his lower lip makes your face go hot. You know that you’re caught when Art’s touch becomes firmer, pulling your arm toward him just a little. 

The sound of approaching footsteps startles you, and you hurriedly tug your arm away. The sight of your husband makes your heart leap into your throat. 

“There you are,” He smiles. “Art, how’s she doin’?” 

“She’s killing it.” 

You don’t dare look at him, but you can feel the weight of his attention lingering on you still. You just give your husband a smile, tipping your cheek up obligingly as he leans down to kiss it. 

“Actually, Art,” Your husband straightens up, hands resting on your shoulders. “I’m glad I caught you. There’s a charity event for a local club this month. It’s for uh…What is it?” He squeezes your shoulders for answers, and you have to keep from rolling your eyes. 

“It’s a charity tennis match to raise funds to fix up the local courts. They need resurfacing and they’re raising funding to keep the fees down.” 

“We could use a sponsorship from the foundation,” Your husband adds. 

“Honey,” You glance back, wary of insulting Art. But—

“I’ll do it,” Art agrees. “Send me the details.” 

“Excellent,” Your husband grins. “Maybe we could coax you into a match or two.” 

You don’t chastise him this time—not when you see something light up in Art.

“Maybe.” 

--  

You haven’t seen Art play before. You’ve specifically avoided it. You’ve known that when you saw it, you would be too intimidated to do a damn thing on the court with him. But now, you can’t stop watching him. You don’t even care that you probably look so out of place—where everyone else is watching the ball, you’re just watching him. 

His movements are so neat, so precise. It’s like watching a dance. He’s running the poor guy on the other side of the net up and down the court. And the sounds that he’s making—god. Every little grunt and groan is weaving increasingly filthy thoughts in your mind. You already know that you’ll seek out the memory of those sounds, as you reach between your legs later. His shirt clings to his chest, showcasing the muscles that you’ve always suspected he has. Strands of hair plaster to his forehead as sweat drips over his cheekbones, down the bridge of his nose, over his jaw. 

When he scores a match point and he looks toward the cheering crowd—when his eyes land on you instantly, without having to search—it’s like you’ve been hit by a bolt of lightning. You can’t think, or move. You barely have the focus to applaud, but you manage to raise your hands and clap. 

-- 

Every lesson becomes an exercise in self-control. You force yourself to try, really try, and not make silly mistakes for the sake of Art coming closer, grasping your arm or elbow, pressing close and redirecting your swing. You don’t know what you crave more these days: his praise or his touch. 

Coffee becomes a post-lesson ritual. He starts to stick closer and closer to you as he follows you into the house until he begins to rest his hand on your lower back, guiding you to your door. He keeps nearby when you’re making it, brushes droplets of sweat off of your forehead or neck. Every touch is electrifying; you have to make a concentrated effort to keep your hands steady, your face neutral as your heart pounds and your stomach floods with butterflies. 

He pushes you harder on the court, and you force yourself to meet the level that he sets for you, even when you don’t feel confident in it. But you want to make him proud. 

It spurs you to lunge a little too far. 

The sharp stabbing pain in your left ankle makes you shriek, and you tumble to the ground, dropping the racket with a clatter. You hear the pounding of his feet, glance up just in time to see him clear the net before he’s on the ground at your side. 

“What hurts?” 

“My ankle,” You grit out, hissing softly as he helps you straighten your leg out. He smooths his hands over your calf, leaning over you and gently guiding your foot in a few different directions. You whimper as he starts to guide your foot to the left. 

“Okay, okay,” He soothes, “Let’s get you inside.” 

For as much as you damn the throbbing in your ankle, you thank it a little, too. You lean heavily against Art, making the slow, arduous journey back to the house with his arm wrapped tightly around your middle. 

When your husband comes home, he finds you with on the couch with Art coming back in from the kitchen, an ice pack in your hand. 

You’d hope for concern, but your husband frowns, glances at the swelling knob of your ankle, and simply asks: “What did you do?” 

“She lost her balance.” Art sits down on the other end of the couch, soothing you as the chill of the ice pack makes you shift with discomfort. 

“Are you going to be able to walk tomorrow?” Your husband presses. “We have dinner at the Fineman’s.”

“I'm still going, don't worry about that."

“...Tomorrow might be a bit soon,” Art warns. 

“I’ll be okay. It’s just a sprain, right?” You tip your brows up, hoping, praying that he’ll agree for your sake. His fingers flex around the ice pack, jaw ticking as he clenches it. He doesn’t say a word as your husband sighs heavily, grumbles, “I hope so. Still, we should put a pause on the lessons until she’s fighting fit again.” 

Art finally tears his eyes from yours, a tight smile on his lips. 

“Of course.” 

-- 

“How’s the ankle?” 

It takes you a moment to scrounge up an answer. You can’t believe that he called. You knew that Art had gotten your number when you started taking lessons with him, but he’s never used it beyond texting to confirm a lesson time now and again. 

You look down at the still-swollen flesh as it strains against the thin strap of your slingbacks. 

“Fine,” You lie, “It’s um—” You glance over your shoulder, listening for your husband. “It’s not that bad.” 

“Good enough to walk on?” 

Hardly. 

“Yes.” You think you’ve gotten away with it, but when you hear Art sigh and chastise, “You should rest,” You know that you haven’t.

“I have,” You insist, “All day.” 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“Yes.” 

“You can tell him no, you know.”

Your mouth works wordlessly, body going hot with indignation. You can’t think of a thing to say. You can’t tell him that he’s wrong, that your husband’s connections are the lifeblood of his business. You can’t tell him that if your husband’s business falls apart, you won't be able to afford those tennis lessons, and then how the hell are you supposed to see Art again? 

You just yank your phone away from your ear and hang up. 

-- 

I invited Art. 

It shouldn’t be a surprise, but your husband’s statement makes you feel like you’ve swallowed your tongue. You haven’t seen or spoken to Art in nearly two weeks. Your doctor recommended putting off any physical activity, which your husband surely relayed to him. He was the one whose name was on Art’s checks, after all. 

Your husband has always thrown a massive party to kick off the summer. Every year, 150 of your husband’s closest family, friends, and business associates flooded into the house. It shouldn’t be such a surprise that your husband invited Art after the performance he had given at the fundraiser—$25,000 from the foundation, and ticket sales went through the roof when it had been announced that the Art Donaldson would be making an appearance. Your husband owed Art a lot, and probably saw this as an opportunity for him to network, to take on more clients. He had been evangelizing Art’s training to any of your friends that would listen—how good you are on the court, how engaged and energetic you seem to be these days. 

It’s one thing to know that you’ll have to put on a happy face for the crowd, but to know that Art will be among them makes your insides twist with nerves. You can’t stop thinking about the way that he had spoken to you when you were hurt; his calm, steadying demeanor as he’d gotten you inside; the careful coaxing and gentle touch that he’d used as he’d taken your shoe off and examined your ankle more closely. 

You think about it now, as you strap on another pair of heels. Your ankle really is doing well, though you have a little lingering pain in shoes like these. You’ll likely be on your feet for the length of the party; it’s going to be a long night. You look over yourself in the mirror, self consciously tipping your ankle from side to side for anything that he may spot or catch out. But there’s nothing, you reassure yourself. You slide your hands over the skirt, plastering on a smile as your husband pokes his head into your dressing room. 

“Almost ready in here?” He asks. 

“All set!” 

-- 

He doesn’t come over to you. On the crowded patio, you can feel him watching you—you’ve gotten so used to seeking out the sensation that you can’t ignore it now. The first true look at him is agony. He watches you from just a few feet away, a glass of champagne in hand as he speaks with your husband and the Finemans. He openly looks you over, eyes drifting over your body to the flash of ankle revealed by the slit in your dress. He tips his head to the side just a little, squinting before his eyes flit back up to your face, lips twitching with a small smile. 

You want to hate how good it feels; you want to be angry with him for his smug knowing, his insistence of You can tell him no, you know. But it feels so goddamn good to have his attention again that you can’t bring yourself to be annoyed. You know that you’re staring—that you both are—and you force yourself to turn away and excuse yourself from the conversation you’re in. You go inside, murmuring your thanks for the waitstaff that pass you along the way.

The house isn’t nearly as busy as the patio, and you're able to slip into your darkened study unnoticed. You leave the lights off, certain that if you turn them on, people will be drawn in to bug you, like moths to a flame. The party’s lights and music filter in through the partially-closed blinds. 

You lean against the desk, circling your ankle and wincing a little. You’ll hide for a few minutes, let it rest—

Your breath catches in your throat as the door opens. You expect your husband, ready to scold and usher you back to the guests. 

You only have a second to get a look at Art before he shuts the door behind himself, plunging the room back into darkness. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the desk as you use it to ground yourself. 

“...Do you need something?” You ask, voice wobbling with nerves. 

“Wanted to come say hi.” 

“Well. Hi.” 

You hear him chuckle, his footsteps muted by the carpet. 

“Thanks for the invite.” 

“It wasn’t my idea.” It’s not polite to admit, but you want it to sting him, just a little. Maybe it does; in the dim of the room, you can’t see Art’s expression as he comes to a stop just a couple of feet from you. 

“Do you want me to go?” He asks. You know what you should say, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. 

“No,” You whisper. You feel the heat of him as he comes closer, his hands resting on the desk and caging you in. You bite your lip as gently brushes his nose against yours. 

“He isn’t taking care of you.” 

“My ankle is fine.” 

“I’m not talking about your ankle.” He lifts a hand, smoothing it over your hip as your breath mingles. Art’s fingers drift from your hip to stroke over the apex of your dress’s slit. His fingers slip further down, and you nod as he palms your thigh. Before you can say or do a thing, Art sinks to his knees. He curls his hand around your left calf, lifting it. You shiver as his lips press a gentle kiss to your ankle. His hand and lips travel up, easing the fabric of your dress higher with each second. The first brush of his knuckles against your panty-covered clit makes you jolt. Your hands dig into the wood of the desk as his fingers hook between the fabric and your skin. You lift your hips without a word, allowing him to draw them down. 

Art presses a kiss to your mound before he lowers his head, giving your lips a sweet, sucking kiss. You gasp softly as his tongue swipes across your clit. You look down despite the fact that you can’t see him well. You can just make out his blissful expression, his eyes closed as his laps broadly across your aching cunt. You lower your hand to his neat hair, winding your fingers through it, unable to help grasping it. His heady moan vibrates against you and you nearly cry out at the sensation. You manage to just catch it, the sound dying in your throat as Art buries his tongue inside you. He sweeps his thumb over your clit in rush, harried circles, panting against your heated flesh. You rock your hips down against his lips, tightening your grip on his hair as you guide him. He lets you do as you please, whining against your skin as your movements become less controlled.

“Art,” You warn, “I—Oh, oh god—” 

He hums in encouragement, sucking your clit back between his lips and lashing it with his tongue. Your jaw drops open, your hand shoving Art even more tightly against your skin as you cum suddenly. A stunned, breathy moan slips from your lips as Art leans back, smearing his lips against the inside of your thigh. 

You use your grasp on Art’s hair to draw him back up off of his knees, giving him a crushing kiss as he catches his balance. You swipe your tongue across his lips, whining against his lips as you taste yourself on him. He presses close, his hard cock straining against the fabric of his pants. You reach down, palming and squeezing his length as you trade slick, messy kisses. He steers you back onto the desk as you fumble to undo his belt, button, and zip. 

“Condom?” He asks. 

“Pill,” You reassure, shoving his pants down. You lap broadly across your palm, grasping Art’s length and guiding him closer. He brushes the tip of his cock against your still-throbbing clit, smiling as you whine. You’re going to ache tomorrow, but you’ve never been so happy to be sore.

“Art.” 

“Sssh.” 

“Please—” It’s hardly out of your mouth before he shoves his hips forward, seating himself fully with a single thrust. You bite down on your lip to quiet your moan, curling your arms around your shoulders. He rocks into you with firm, quick strokes, his mouth covering yours. You can hear things on the desk rattling with each thrust, kisses growing less controlled as he hoists your thigh up around his hip. 

“Oh, god,” You breathe, “We have to be quick—He’ll come looking—” 

“Not until you cum for me again,” He urges. “I need to feel it, sweetheart.” 

“Art—” 

“When’s the last time he did this? Hmm?” He presses, “When’s the last time he made you cum? When’s the last time he tasted you?” 

“Never,” You admit with a shiver. It seems to renew Art’s passion, his thrusts and hold growing more intense. You squeeze your eyes shut, hands hooking tightly in the fabric of his jacket. He yanks the front of your dress down, bowing over you and drawing one of your nipples between his lips. You whimper as he toys with the bud, tugging it gently with his teeth before swiping across it. You arch into the slick heat, using your leg to tug him even closer as you chased the swelling curl of your orgasm. 

“Just like that,” You urge, “Ffffuck—yes, yesyesyesyes—”

Your eyes squeeze shut as your hips buck down against his, pussy pulsing as he spills into you. Your heart pounds in your chest as the two of you slow and still. Art rests his forehead heavily against your neck, peppering gentle kisses across the exposed skin. You have to move—now. You don’t know if anyone heard you, but if someone did, you’re screwed. If no one did, your husband will probably be looking for you anyway, ready with a scold for neglecting your hostess duties. 

“...I have to go,” You warn softly. It takes Art a moment to move, but he does, gently drawing himself back from your still-throbbing cunt. You hear the clanking of his belt buckle as he tucks himself away, and you reach down, righting your dress where it’s been pulled away. You take up your panties from where they’d been discarded on the floor, tugging them on before you straighten your skirt and hurry out of the room. 

--  

“Can I see you?” 

It’s only been an hour since the last guest has left, and you are so, so fucking tired. You glance toward the bathroom door. You know that you locked it, and you’re certain that your husband can’t hear you over the shower running, but you can’t help but be paranoid.

“You just saw me,” You remind him. 

“Tomorrow,” Art clarifies. 

“Where?” 

“I’ll send an address.” 

You bite your lip, toying with your earring. Your pussy is still aching from the stretch of him, your ass sore from getting fucked on the desk. 

“...You regret it?” He asks. 

“No,” You don't give your answer a second thought.

“I’ll send an address. Whether or not you see me is up to you. Just…think about it. Okay?” 

“Okay.” 

You lower your phone, hanging it up and watching his contact information blink away. It’s only a moment before a text with an address lights up your phone. You don’t have to think about it. You already know what you’re going to do. 

--  

You know that you’re staring, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. Art has spent so much time in your home, so you feel entitled to look around a little bit. You eye the row of trophies on his mantle, photos of him playing when he was young. You come to a stop at a picture of him with a young girl, a racket in her hand and a medal around her neck. 

“Is this Lily?” You ask. 

“Yeah,” He nods. “First competition.” 

“Already getting gold,” You smile. “The Mark Rebellato Academy isn’t ready for her.” 

Art chuckles, nodding as he steps around you.

“You, uh…You want something to eat, or drink, or…?” He trails off, tucking his hands into his pockets as he takes a couple of steps back toward his kitchen. You turn to face him, taking him in more fully. 

“Art?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Why am I here?” 

He doesn’t answer for a few moments. You can see him weighing his options before he comes closer. 

“I…I’ve been thinking about last night.” 

Fear shoots through you, but you force yourself to stand tall. “Okay.”

“I could lie and tell you that it should be a one-time thing, but I can’t remember the last time I got through a day without thinking about you. And I think you’ve been thinking about me, too.” Art stops as the tip of his shoes brush against yours, and you let your eyes slip closed as he rests his forehead against yours. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” He pleads. “Tell me to fuck off right now and I will never say another non-tennis related thing to you again.” 

-- 

When he fucks you, he curls close, chest pressing against yours as he catches your lips in a kiss. You sink back against his pillows, your head cradled by his broad palm as he rolls his hips achingly slowly. You don’t bother to hide your whines and moans, and you revel in his. Every grunt and whimper and groan that Art lets out lights you up. 

And when you cum, you don't have to quiet yourself. His name tumbles out of your mouth, cushioned between expletives as your nails dig into his shoulders.

--

"What time is he home tonight?"

You don't want to think about it. You want to stay in this cozy little bubble, trailing your fingers over his muscled chest as he massages your nape and kisses your forehead.

But you know that you'll have to let the world back in sometime.

"I don't know," You admit. "Late."

"...Could stay."

"He'll be suspicious if I'm not home when he gets there."

Art sighs softly, running his hand down to rub between your shoulder blades.

"This isn't going to be easy, is it."

"What?"

"Letting you go every day."

"Every day?" You tease, pushing yourself up to get a better look at him. "Don't get greedy, Mr. Donaldson."

He smiles, raising his hand and cupping your cheek. "Is it greedy to know what I want?"

You shake your head a little, lowering your lips to brush against his.

"Not when I want it, too."

part ii: what we're willing to accept

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity

@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ;

@buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989

[luveline]

i have a request for roommate!spencer where he's just miserable that no one remembered his birthday at work but when he gets home his roommate just welcomes him with the most thoughtful gift and a warm hug PLEASE

thank you for requesting! <3 fem!reader

The lights are off. The air conditioning blows a shade too cold. Spencer shrugs off his jacket and acknowledges that, despite his awful, aching day, it’s nice to be home. 

The living room is clean where it hadn’t been this morning when he left. If he had to clean it by himself, he’d die. It must’ve taken a good hour or longer, even the floor shines sparkling clean. 

“Hey?” he asks into the open air, wondering where you are. 

“Spencer!” you yelp from the kitchen, “Hey, what took you so long? It’s almost seven!” 

He sighs to himself with a great dash of self-pity. “I know. Had to stay and finish something. You cleaned?” 

“I had to! Quick, come in here, I need your help with something.” 

He doesn’t want to help, he wants to lay down in bed. Spencer wonders how a normal person, a normal boy, would feel after a day like today. He wonders if Morgan would go home and lay in bed and cry. He wonders if it could ever be possible for everyone to forget Morgan’s birthday. 

Spencer hangs his jacket on the rack and puts his bag by the shoes. He’s tempted to go to bed and pretend he hasn’t heard you, but he supposes he shouldn’t. He’d sort of been hoping you’d text him happy birthday, and but that never happened. He doesn’t think anybody in the world besides his mom knows what day it is today, and Spencer had to remind her, so. 

“Spence,” you say, your smile of a calibre he’s never witnessed, standing in front of the kitchen island with your hands behind your back, “I hope you know I’ve been waiting two whole hours for you to get back. Actually, I’ve been waiting all day, but you can’t be blamed for working. Okay. Are you ready?” 

“Am I ready? What did you want help with?” 

You step to the side, grinning, the sleeves of your nice blouse like big, soft petals around your wrists and against your thighs. “Tada!” you say, guiding his attention to the silver platter on the countertop, a chocolate cake at centre stage and stuck with candles, flames aglow. “I rushed to light them when I heard the door,” you tell him, and he can hear your breathlessness now, your excitement for him evident. “A lot of candles, you’re getting old! Too old for chocolate sprinkle. I should’ve got you something sophisticated.” 

“You got me a cake?” 

“It’s your birthday,” you say happily. “Happy birthday, Spencer. I got you some presents, too, but the cake is the best, it’s from the Leaven. How fancy is that?” 

“Will you sing?” he asks. 

He doesn’t know why he asks. He’s mostly kidding, but you smile shyly and beckon him toward you. “I’ll sing. Come stand over here.” 

You sing him happy birthday, and he blows out his candles, only ten candles altogether but enough to feel like a kid as the heat kisses his chin. 

“Okay, and I got you this,” you say, finally pulling both hands from behind your back, seemingly eager to move the focus from your performance.

It’s a bundle about as thick as an average novel. He knows it’ll be books before he opens it, because you know him, and it’s in your nature to give him your everything. 

He doesn’t look at them. He takes the package blindly and shoves it onto the counter, wrapping you in a hug so hard it makes your back click. “I’m sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t let go. You don’t make him. “Sorry, I just– I–” You’re the only one who remembered. “Thank you for the cake.” 

You hug him not quite as hard, but tight. “Hey, it’s okay. I love you, you’re my best friend ever, you can pop me like a roll of dough any day of the week.” You might be exaggerating. Spencer doesn’t know. “But especially today, you know. You can have anything you want.” 

Spencer should let go. Anything you want, you’d said. He hugs you until he’s sure you’re sick of him, your thumb pressing little circles into his shoulder, his arms tucked up under your armpits and around your back. “Thanks,” you murmur.

“What?” he asks. “For what?” 

“For such a good hug. And being a great roommate. And for not complaining about the candles.” 

“The candles are perfect.” 

You lean back in his arms. “Thank you. Now what do you want first, cake or dinner?” 

Spencer really wants another hug. “Um. Cake?” 

“Good choice, handsome.”

His cheeks are pink by the time he gets a slice, but it’s the best birthday cake he’s ever had.

[aliteralsemicolon]

We can't be friends, but I'd like to just pretend

Part 1 of We can't be friends (wait for your love) | See part 2 | See part 3

You and Spencer have convinced yourselves that you’re only meant to be friends despite the strong tension between you two. It only seems to intensify the longer you ignore it, eventually reaching its boiling point and forcing changes in the friendship.

Spencer Reid X Fem! Reader

(but no mentions of pronouns in this so it can be read as gn)

DISCLAIMER This story is SFW but it’s intended for mature audiences only. You are responsible for the content you consume. Make sure to read all necessary warnings. Please remember this is a work of fiction; if you don’t like it, don’t read.

WARNING Mentions of: Indirect peer pressure, alcohol/drinking/being drunk, very slight implicated SA (it doesn’t happen), serial killer, kidnapping, torture, murder, stalking, and threats. It’s all barely there and doesn’t really matter to the story tbh. Proceed at your own risk.

Word count: 9.3K See notes at end for authors note & spoilers.

Being in love is hard. Being in love with your best friend is harder. It’s a merciless form of torture really, devoting yourself entirely to the person you hold dearest to your heart, but they aren’t yours. It was almost masochistic, standing by to serve him in whatever way you thought he needed. Luckily, you weren’t a masochist. 

Not entirely, at least. 

You were there for him when he needed, offering whatever you had to give, but there were parts of you that you kept guarded. To protect yourself, but more importantly, to protect Spencer. It wasn’t uncommon for you to hear that you were ‘too much’ from passing lovers in your life. A certain level of detachment was necessary to ensure the safety of Spencer’s friendship. He was the most important person in your life. 

Maybe it was the multitude of degrees as a result of his intelligence. He never let you feel stupid or any less intelligent. 

Maybe it was the way his whole body lit up when he shared information he’d stored in that beautiful mind.

Maybe it was the charm in how goofily he carried himself. The way his hands would flail around when he spoke to keep up with the speed his brain moved at. 

Or maybe it was how he made you feel seen. 

How he always knew what to say, what to do. How he remembered little details about you, like how you preferred the window seat on the jet. And how he went out of his way to accommodate the details, like giving up the window seat just so you could sit in it. He was an unusually thoughtful man, with everybody he knew. 

That’s something you had to remind yourself of often. 

He’s like that with everybody. He has an eidetic memory, of course he remembers the little details. 

If only you knew how wrong you were. Spencer was a thoughtful man, there was no doubt about that. Sure he was gifted with an arguably incomparable memory, but unlike all the things he had no choice in remembering, he chose to remember the little details about you. To him you were the closest thing to a real life angel. 

It was the way you were the only person he’d ever met, willing to sit there and listen to him talk for hours. You’d go out of your way to show interest in the things he’d share, even if you didn’t actually have any interest in it.

The way he could swear he saw stars in your eyes whenever he stole an opportunity to stare into them. They would burn brighter if accompanied with the sweet sound of your laughter. 

He felt compelled to accommodate you. Especially when you light up the way you do from such minuscule actions on his part. Spencer loved being the person to bring out your smile, taking any excuse to try and coax one out of you. Even if he’d slightly inconvenience himself at times. His convenience mattered little to him because he knew how much you did for him too. 

Every morning before work you’d make the trip to his favourite coffee shop, getting him scones and coffee exactly to his liking because you knew he had a tendency to skip breakfast. His favourite coffee shop was a fifteen minute drive from your apartment and an extra twenty from Headquarters. You went out of your way to deliver it to him, even reheating the coffee yourself before handing it over. 

Spencer wasn’t alone in recognising your generosity. The entire sixth floor had noticed how both of you subconsciously performed acts of service for each other, even if nobody had brought it up to your faces. 

“I know that look.” Rossi remarks, turning his head towards his raven haired co-worker, eyes on you and Spencer.

“Yea..I just wonder if they know.” Emily mirrors his actions as she gives her own comment on the sight just a few feet in front of her. 

Neither of you realise you have spectators observing your conversation. You’re in your own little bubble at Spencer’s desk, the resident genius seated comfortably with his gaze on you as he speaks. Your focus is entirely on the man across from you, leaning in slightly, perched on the wooden surface. 

“Because stomach acid in the human body is typically 1-2 on the PH scale, it’s capable of dissolving metals such as certain types of stainless steels. Razors for example! The Gastrointestinal Endoscopy journal shared that scientists found that the thickened back of a single-edged blade dissolved just two hours of immersion in stomach acid!” His voice went up a pitch as he spoke and you couldn’t help but smile.

“So theoretically, an unsub could use a razor blade as a murder weapon and potentially eat it to dispose of it?” It was a relatively dumb question, but you just wanted to keep him talking. 

“Well, it’s possible, but realistically I don’t think a razor blade-” 

“Sorry to interrupt my younglings,” A colourful Garcia appears in your bubble and cuts Spencer off, “but I am here to let you know that the team will be going out for drinks, on Rossi, tonight! No exceptions!!”

When your head swivels to Garcia, you also notice the gawking pair not far behind her, shuffling off when they realise they’ve been caught staring. 

“I’ll come, but I won’t be drinking.” Spencer says with an awkward smile. They shift their sights on you for your response. 

“Sorry guys…I already have plans for tonight.” You purse your lips together apologetically. 

“What no! No, no, no! You know how rare these nights can be!” Garcia frowns and grabs your shoulders pleadingly.

“I knowwww…I’m sorry!!”

“Fine, fine, but at least share what’s keeping you busy tonight?” The blonde pokes.

You shift your eyes to Spencer, who’s just staring at you with a curious look and then back to Garcia. 

“Well I have a date-” You begin, but are interrupted by a whispered squeal.

Garcia begins a response, but stops herself when she spots a nonchalant Derek Morgan heading towards the elevators. “We will discuss this in detail during Saturday’s girls night. For now I will accept your excuse and remind you to dress your sexiest! Now excuse me while I go and intercept my sweet chocolate thunder.”

She grips you in a tight hug and scurries off after Morgan. The atmosphere shifts slightly, as you meet Spencer’s eyes awkwardly. 

“You have a date? Why didn’t you mention that” Spencer titters.

“I’m sorry, it just didn’t occur to me.” You try to lie, but Spencer’s expression gives away that he doesn’t believe you. “Okay, okay, I just didn’t wanna say anything because the last time I talked about one of my dates you got all weird and I didn’t want to upset you again.”

“Upset me? I was not upset.” He protests and folds his arms across his chest. 

“Okay what would you call it then?” 

“I wouldn’t call it anything.” 

“Oh really? So you’re not upset that I’m going on a date?”

“Nope. Not at all. I’m interested actually, tell me about him.”

You eye him carefully, trying to figure out where his head is at. Spencer has a tendency to get sassy when he feels defensive. 

“You’re interested? To hear about one of my dates?” You question with playful caution. 

“Yes. I’m always interested in things about you.” He spills. 

Your reaction to his words is immediate, a surprised jump in your features, but you manage to mask it almost just as fast. Spencer’s just as surprised as you. 

“I-I just mean- you know? Because yo-you’re my best friend.” He tries to play it off. 

There’s no way. 

You think to yourself. Spencer definitely didn’t mean it in that way. 

No he definitely didn’t. He just said so himself. You’re his best friend. Spencer Reid does not feel the same way about you.

It stings to admit to yourself, but it’s for the best. Spencer is a smart, handsome, wonderful man with so much to offer. You’re too much work, come with too much baggage, just too much.

“Yea, we’re best friends.” An affirmation more for yourself than him. 

A silence looms as you stare at each other stiffly. 

“Anyways, my date,” you decide not to linger on it for too long, “it’s with that guy I told you about, Nathan.”

“Nathan? Didn’t you go on a date with him last time?” A casual inquiry. 

“Yea!” You squeak enthusiastically, grateful that he had reverted back to his light-hearted self. 

This was something you deeply enjoyed about your friendship. The fact the two of you could flow back into casual conversation no matter what.

“So it’s a second date?”

“Yes! The first one went really well, so I thought why not agree to a second when he asked?”

“That’s good. I’m happy for you.” 

His approval should feel better than it does. For some reason, it makes you uneasy. Almost as if you don’t want him to approve. 

He has approved though, meaning he isn’t against you dating other people. He doesn’t want you the same way.

“Really?” You want to be sure, scared that you might put him off again.

“Yes! Really! If you’re happy then I’m happy for you.” A fib that you were unaware of. 

In truth, Spencer would rather crawl on the office bathroom floor than see you with some other guy. Fortunately for him, he isn’t actually going to be there to see you with this ‘Nathan’. So he doesn’t need to submit to such an awful torture. Maybe he’s being dramatic, you aren’t his girlfriend. He has no right to feel such a heavy drop in his gut. 

Part of him really is happy for you. He wanted you to feel loved, even if it wasn’t by him. God, how he wished it was by him. If friendship is what he has to settle for to be near you, then so be it. Though at times it feels like it might kill him, you being the closest person in his life, but not close enough to the point where he could call himself yours. 

“REID!”

Spencer jumps at the sound of Morgan’s voice, finding it difficult to focus on his current surroundings. He missed half the team scattering around to different parts of the bar, Morgan now his only company. 

“What’s up?” His expression shifts to a tight-lipped smile.

“Where’s your head at man?” Derek probes.

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean I have never seen you this zoned out before. You haven’t checked back in since you sat down.” 

It wasn’t intentional, but since you walked out the doors of the BAU all Spencer’s been able to think about was your date. You probably went straight home to get ready, pulling out all the stops to feel as beautiful as you are. For somebody that can never truly appreciate it, not like he can. 

“I guess I’m just not feeling well.” A pathetic excuse. One Spencer finds himself making whenever he’s pulled out of his thoughts about you. 

Morgan doesn’t believe him. Hell, Spencer doesn’t even believe himself. 

“Kid. You know you can always talk to me right? About anything.” 

“I know. I’m really just tired. Actually- you know what, c-could- could you just tell the others that I’m just not feeling great, I’m- bye Derek.” Spencer stutters as he rushes out of his seat. 

He doesn’t even give the man a chance to respond as he makes his exit out of the bar. He’s lacking the capability to force himself to socialise. The knowledge of you on a date with another man was something he’s been able to handle, but a second date with a man was harder to stomach. You must like him if you’re willing to see him again. 

The ride home feels longer than it actually is. How far had the date gotten? Were you enjoying it? Did Nathan make you laugh the way he could? Spencer might lose his mind. He wondered if you had given Nathan the privilege of touching you. Your skin always looked so soft, his heart panged at the thought. He felt sick. 

You were his best friend. You trusted him. He shouldn’t think this way about you, feel this way about you. Unreciprocated feelings were something Spencer was entirely used to. He’d perfected being able to put the person at the receiving end of his affections in the back of his mind. To ignore until it went away entirely.

Why was it so much harder this time? There is no universe in which you would ever return his love for you. Which is why he needs to force himself to love you from afar. It was a fact Spencer reminded himself of repeatedly. And he would’ve kept at it, if he wasn’t interrupted by the sight of you standing in front of his door as he stepped up his apartment stairs. 

“Hi!” His voice alerts you softly.

“Hi!” You squeak back, turning on your heel to face him. 

He can’t help but note how heavenly you look. It almost knocked the air out of his lungs, except he noticed the poorly wiped tears glistening on your face. He didn’t ask about it, immediately. Instead he just pulled you in for a hug, something he rarely did with others, and unlocked his door as he motioned for you to enter first. Another thing to love about Spencer Reid. 

You step inside, more than familiar with the deep green walls surrounding you. If the stench of liquor wasn’t enough, then the way you stumbled on your way to his couch was all Spencer needed to deduce that you had been drinking. A lot. He walks past you towards his kitchen, returning with a glass of water and painkillers you would definitely need later. 

“Have you eaten?” He asks softly, handing you the glass of water. 

“Um..” you take a sip and pause as you sigh, “yeah.”

The two of you just sit there, silently, stealing small glances at each other and averting your gazes before the other can notice. You know he’s waiting for you to feel comfortable enough to speak first. Except you don’t know what to say. You feel so embarrassed. He probably had better plans for tonight, but here you are, pestering him again. 

“How long were you waiting?” He speaks up once he realises that you aren’t going to.

“Not long, I had actually just gotten there, your timing was really good.” You mumble, forcing an awkward chuckle. 

“Did Nathan drop you off?” Spencer hopes that bringing up your date might give you enough courage to vent. 

“No. No, I walked.” A resigned smile creeps on your face, not wanting to talk about your journey here. “How was your night?”

“Walked?? Alone?? Drunk??” The words seep out of him before he can hold his tongue. “Why didn’t you call me?!”

“I’m sorry! I just didn’t want to bother you!” You defend. 

But you are bothering him. You’re bothering him right now.

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to hold back tears. Guilt creeps inside him. He knows that he’s not the source of your tears, but he didn’t want to make you cry regardless. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” he takes hold of your hand and squeezes ever so gently, “we don’t have to talk about it.”

“Why don’t we play chess? You’re getting better at it, you know?” He adds, thinking of a quick distraction. 

Chess was a favourite pastime of yours with Spencer. You pull your hand out of his grip and use it to rub the opposing arm, his touch overwhelming you. He was too soft with you. You suppose it’s why you seek him out so often. Out of all the men you’ve ever known, Spencer was the only one who knew you. It felt so nice to be known. 

“Y-yea..yes. Please. Let’s uh- let’s play chess.” You stumble on your words, eager to think about anything else. 

Spencer retrieves his mini chess board from his satchel and prepares the board between the two of you. Neither of you utter a word as you play your moves. You appreciate the silence, because you know that you can’t say or do the wrong thing. 

“You’re going easy on me.” You break the silence anyway, scared that the silence might bore him. 

“You’re holding back.” He argues and you finally meet his eyes for the first time since you started the game.

“No, I’m just drunk.” You counter.

“I was the one at a bar but you’re the one who’s drunk.” It’s a stupid comment, slightly cringy even, but he earns a genuine laugh out of you. 

His dorkiness was part of his charm. Your laughter makes him smile. A comfortable silence fills the atmosphere as your eyes meet again. Spencer’s eyes were so beautiful, you could drown in them. Spencer in general was so beautiful, in every way possible. 

“It’s your move.” He has to remind you, worried that if he’s allowed to look at you for two long he might do something really stupid.

“I-uhm- I had a shitty date.” You owe him an explanation for ruining his night.

He doesn’t respond, not wanting to say anything that might make you close up again. He wanted to be the person you talked to about your problems. He wanted to be your solace. 

“It started really well. I thought I could see something more, but it turns out he just wanted the same thing as all the others. Thought that maybe if he got me drunk enough..but it obviously didn’t work” You try to lighten the weight of your words by laughing with them. “It’s probably for the best, you know? I don’t think it would’ve worked out regardless, I couldn’t stop-”

Stop comparing him to you. 

Normally, Spencer is the one with the tendency to ramble, but the alcohol wasn’t making it easy for you to shut up. You just hope he doesn’t realise where you were headed with that statement. You kept comparing your date to Spencer. Everything Nathan did today was a direct reminder of things Spencer would never do. 

“Check.” You choose to stop making a fool of yourself there.

Spencer’s breath hitches. Not because he picked up on what you hoped he didn’t, rather because he was concerned by the possible implications of what you said.

“Did he..did he try to-” 

“No. Oh my God, no!” You cut him off before he can finish the thought. 

His shoulders relax and the silence resumes. For the first time since he met you, Spencer found himself speechless. He didn’t know whether to comfort you or give you advice. Part of him felt selfishly relieved, at least he didn’t have to worry about some other guy anymore. The other part, the part that felt disgusted with himself for even thinking about himself right now, felt a mixed range of hurt for you. 

It started with resentment for the negligence Nathan displayed with you and ended with sorrow for how easily you brushed off your hurt. While he ran all the possibilities of the best thing to say, you ran all the possibilities of leaving his apartment in the least inconvenient way for him, interpreting his silence as irritation. 

He should be irritated, you’re disrupting his night. 

You need to leave before he can tell you to. Just as you’re about to mutter some bull-shit excuse, Spencer gently cups your hand with both of his hands and locks eyes with you. His voice is so painstakingly gentle, your breath gets stuck in your throat.

“Nathan and anyone else who has ever allowed themselves to be blinded by their shallow urges is an absolute fool. Idiot. Moron. There aren’t enough words in the English dictionary to describe how stupid they are for missing out on knowing you as you are. I’ve experienced a lot of good things in my life, none have ever brought me as much joy as you do. I can’t even begin to explain how deserving you are of love and it’s heartbreaking to see that you’ve convinced yourself of the opposite.”

It’s your turn to be speechless. Of the list of things you didn’t expect, this wasn’t even on the list. You should have expected it. It was in Spencer’s nature to prove you wrong for underestimating his tenderness. He felt perhaps he went too far. Said too much.

“I-I just mean-” 

“Why are you so nice to me?” Your heart feels like it’s lacking space inside your chest, tears threaten to build. 

“Because you’re my f-friend.” He struggles to utter the last word.

“Friend..” You nervously laugh.

The meaning behind his words don’t register in your drunken state. All your focus is diverted to the feeling of his calloused skin on yours. The liquor in your veins awakens dazed boldness. One you’d be too wary of displaying otherwise. You allow your fingers to dance against his, an act of intimacy not reserved for friends. He doesn’t stop you either. 

“You know…” 

it’s almost not even a whisper, 

“...if I wasn’t who I am…” 

but Spencer was an expert in tuning out everything else to focus solely on your voice,

“...maybe you could love me the way I love you.”

And the world, as Spencer knows it, stops. Your words ring in his ears and he’s sure his heartbeat has become audible. 

“Y-you love me?” He repeats, unable to suppress his need to hear those words again.

The validity of your confession doesn’t bear any weight until you hear it from him, your motions against his hand coming to an immediate stop. You shift line of sight to his face faster than you can blink, waiting for his reaction so you can scramble to save your friendship. 

Parroting your words wasn’t enough, Spencer couldn’t believe it. He had never considered it feasible for you to love him. He had spent so many sleepless nights tormenting himself over the fact. He wanted so badly to cup your face and tell you about all the thoughts of you that consumed his mind. To say those three words back. 

“You can’t love me.” Instead he said four words that strained your hope for salvation. He’d shoot himself if he had any realisation of what he had just done. 

“No, of-of c-course, I meant like an- a- amazing fr-friend. You k-know, like the kind of bes-best friend you only mean once in your lif-life.” And you unknowingly shattered that hope in him. 

Silence has never been more deafening. Neither of you can look away from each other. There’s so much to say but how can it be said now? 

“Right. No, yeah. Of course.” He forces out. 

A fake understanding between you two. The expressions canvassing both of your faces display anything but understanding. Though you’re no longer physically touching, you’re still holding each other in your view. A few moments pass and Spencer is the first to look away. 

“You must be tired-” He starts.

You were still disrupting his space.

“Right, I’ll go-” You stand, ready to rush out the door.

“No-no.” He sighs. “Stay please. It’s late and you’re drunk-”

“No I’ve alrea-” You try to protest, not wanting him to go out of his way for you any longer.

“Please. I’ll feel a lot better knowing you’re safe.” He begs, not just with his words but his eyes. 

“Okay.” You murmur. “But I’m taking the couch.”

Under any other circumstances, Spencer would have resisted you taking the couch. Today? He was utterly drained.

“Alright. I’ll get you something comfortable to change into while I set up the couch. You know where the bathroom is.” He sports a weak smile, unable to meet your eyes again. 

He watches you disappear into the bathroom after handing you some spare clothes. He sets the couch with the pillows and blankets he’d reserved for you. He bought them after you’d slept over a few times at the start of your friendship, wanting you to sleep as comfortably as possible so you would keep coming back.

You’d just broken his heart into a million pieces, so fine that he’d never be able to put it back together whole, but he still couldn’t not exert the utmost care when it came to you. 

In the bathroom, you fight back tears again as you fumble into his clothes. You’d worn this particular sweatshirt before, because you didn’t anticipate staying the night. It was never planned, often you two just lost track of time because you spent too long engaged in conversations. After a while you started leaving things at his place so you had an excuse to keep coming back. 

You can handle just being his friend, but you don’t think you can handle not being anything to him. Was there something you could do so you didn’t have to stop coming back? 

When you came out and saw your makeshift bed for the night, you felt slightly fuzzy inside. Spencer had already gone to bed but he’d covered the cushions of the couch with a thick blanket and two fluffy pillows. A fresh glass of water was waiting for you on the coffee table with the pills from earlier. 

Maybe things were okay after all? Surely he wouldn’t have put as much care into your comfort if they weren’t. So why couldn’t you shake this feeling of dread inside you? Why did the air feel so thick?

You spend most of what’s left of the night awake, curled into yourself on his couch, muffling your sobs. You’ve ruined another good thing. Pushed away probably the most important person in your life. You knew he was too good for you, he could never feel the same way. You got greedy.

Just a few feet away from you, Spencer’s in the exact same position as you on his bed. No rejection has ever hurt as much as when it came from you. He knew you were drunk, he knew you could never actually feel the same way. But aren’t drunk words sober thoughts? Statistics definitely agree they are.

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the pounding headache. Then the dry mouth. Spencer had left a glass of water, painkillers and a bagel on the coffee table. You reach for the pill first, hoping that the faster you take it, the faster it kicks in. As you practically pour the water down your throat, you see a little note next to the bagel. 

“Paper work day at the office. Make sure to eat and drink lots of water. Will tell Hotch that you’ll be late/taking the day off. - Spencer”

Thoughtful as ever. The bagel was still warm so he must’ve left recently. It was strange that he’d left without waking you up like he normally does. Your first bite of the bread jolts the memories of the night before and it hits you harder than the headache. Your appetite faded and the remorse set in. 

Shit. 

You and Spencer have always been able to bounce back, but the damage you caused last night might be irreparable. Say Spencer does forget about it, can you? You always knew he couldn’t love you back, but you never imagined that he would forbid you to love him in the first place. As much as you didn’t want to face Spencer right now, work was the best place for you to be if you didn’t want to go mad thinking about last night. 

You’d have to change into appropriate work attire first, so a trip back to your place was warranted. The whole uber ride back to your apartment you think of things to say when you see him. Things didn’t need to change. You had to apologise, obviously, but there had to be some way of apologising while maintaining normalcy. The best start was getting him his coffee and scones like you usually did. 

Meanwhile at the office, Spencer was stuck on the same page of his file. It had never taken him more than a few seconds to turn a page, but he wasn’t actually reading the words. You took up every thought in his mind again. He wondered if you were awake yet, if you remembered the events of the night before. 

“You know if I wasn’t who I am, maybe you could love me the way I love you.”

When he initially heard you say it, all he heard was that you love him.

“You know if I wasn’t who I am, maybe you could love me the way I love you.”

When he said it out loud to himself all he wanted to do was tell you how much he does love you, but the chance was ripped away from him just as fast as it was given to him. Did you even care? Or was it just an insignificant event to you? It was a lot easier to accept that you could never love him the same way before he had a taste of what it would be like if you did. 

There was this moment, when your fingers were fiddling with his and you said those words, just a second where he experienced what it could be like. He can’t go back to how it was, not now that he knows how it could’ve been. In order to protect himself from unravelling completely he has to let you go. An impossible task, considering you work together. 

“I brought coffee.” Your expression is tentative. 

Spencer looks up to see you standing above him, holding his daily coffee and scones in hand. There are no traces of the night before to be seen on you. Your makeup is fresh and you’d clearly changed clothes. You looked perfectly angelic, as always. If it were any other day, your gesture would’ve made him feel like the most special person in the world. Today, it felt like the cruellest thing in the world. 

“Do you wanna come with me while I heat it up? Or should I just bring it back to you?” You prompt. 

“No.” He rises from his seat and pries it out from your hand. “I can do it. Thank you.” 

Before you comprehend what’s happened, Spencer’s walked away. You try to follow him to the kitchen, but when you get there he’s nowhere to be seen. This seems to be a trend for the next few days. You find some excuse to try for conversation and he shuts it down after about one sentence. That’s if you’re able to get close enough to him for that sentence. It’s becoming more and more obvious that he’s avoiding you. 

You decide to give him space after about a week of it, wishing everyday that you could go back in time and change things. Around the two week mark, he starts giving you the cold shoulder, not even so much as looking at you. He couldn’t look at you. It was taking everything in him to force himself away from you, but it was easier than being near you. You weren’t the only one who could feel this change in your dynamic, the team was just as confused.

They’d all tried to investigate the root of this shift, individually directing casual questions to both of you in conversations. You’d both just brushed it off, not wanting to be the burden of the topic. Spencer had been doing so well in keeping his distance, but eventually, Hotch made the decision that enough is enough.

The BAU was in Chicago this week, hunting down another unsub who thought he was too smart to get caught. This was one of those cases that would stick with you for a while, so tensions were already high amongst everyone. Nobody was more on edge than Spencer and now he was forced in a car with you, driving around the city, chasing leads. 

Rarely did he ever get behind the wheel, but he knew he would need any distraction he could get. Driving was supposed to mean he wouldn’t be stuck in the passenger seat, fighting the urge to stare at you. Now he was fighting the urge to stare at you from the driver's seat. He hated being in love. You were trying your best to stay silent and looking out the window at the passing buildings. 

“Are you hungry?” 

That’s the first time in a month that Spencer’s been the first one to speak. He tried not to. Like he tried not to pay attention to your routine. It wasn’t possible. No matter how hard he tried, there were just some things Spencer couldn’t not do in regards to you. The most important thing was that he couldn’t not care. 

He knew you hadn't been eating properly. You had a tendency to forget about your well-being during hard cases. You were probably hungry. Somebody had to take care of you because you most definitely weren’t going to. He was right. The thought of food made your stomach growl. It was wicked timing. 

“No, thank you.” You lie anyway, not wanting to inconvenience him further. 

“Why won’t you stop lying to me?” He mutters in annoyance. 

“Excuse me?” You scoff, turning to look at him. 

He doesn’t look away from the road, pretending to not have heard you. 

“Seriously?” You sputter. “You’re ignoring me now?”

You huff as you throw yourself back against your seat. He didn’t mean to ignore you, he just didn’t know what to say. 

“I don’t understand why you’re being like this.” You mumble. 

It was already daunting when he was barely acknowledging you, but refusing to acknowledge all together? When you were the only person next to him? That was just vicious. You knew you’d fucked up, but was this necessary? You had already spent so much of yourself trying to keep it together, being confined in this car with him would waste your efforts. 

“Pull over.” You say in the kindest way possible, which was immensely harsh. “Spencer Reid pull this damn car over or I swear to fucking God I am going to jump out of it.”

That definitely caught his attention. In all your time together, you had never spoken to him in that way. You had definitely never addressed him by his full name. He brings the car to a halt on the side of the curb and finally turns to face you. You push the door open and hop out, slamming it behind you. 

“What are yo-” Spencer starts, but you’re already walking away. He quickly gets out and follows behind you. It doesn’t take him long to catch up to you and he stops you by the arm when he realises saying your name won’t make you turn back around. 

“Don’t touch me!” You yank your arm out of his grip and keep walking. 

“Where are you going?!” 

“Anywhere you’re not.” 

He tries you by your name again, but when it fails again, he grabs you by the shoulders and spins you around. You hadn’t noticed that you’d walked into an alleyway. 

“Get back in the car.” He demands.

“I am not getting in a car with you.” You have never been this upset with him before. 

“You’re being childish!” He snaps, rolling his eyes.

“Oh I’m being childish?! Spencer, believe me when I say I mean this is the nicest way I possibly can right now – FUCK OFF!” You push his hands off you and take a step back, but he just grabs your wrist.

“Listen to me,” he urges, “there is a serial killer that’s kidnapping women in broad daylight, torturing them and murdering them. And he’s threatened each of us individually during the course of this investigation. You cannot just be walking around alone, in a city you hardly know.”

“Don’t explain the details of this case to me, I’m well aware.” You snarl, your irritation increasing tenfold.

“Then why are you being so difficult?!” He screeches.

“Why are you–fucking hell, I cannot keep doing this. I’m not getting in the car when you won’t talk to me. Hell, you won’t even so much as look at me!” 

“Fine! You wanna talk? We’ll talk! Just–get back in the car. Please.” He sighs in defeat. You still don’t budge, so he pleads softer. “Please.”

You take a deep breath and roll your eyes, stealing your wrist out of his grasp. Spencer doesn’t move until you do, both of you silently making your way to the car. 

You’re both silent initially, not knowing where exactly to go from here. There’s one thing you know for sure, you won’t be the first to speak. Spencer catches on to that fast. 

“What do you wanna talk about?” He snarls, shrugging his arms. 

“Cut the shit, I won’t get back in this car if I get out for a second time.” You’re not in the mood. The two of you had avoided this conversation for long enough, it was now or never. Some part of you wished for never. 

“Fine. Did you mean it?” He shoots, briskly. 

“What?” You didn’t know which part he meant. 

“That you love me specifically as an ‘amazing friend’, I believe was your wording.” His voice cracks and it causes a shift in his behaviour. He’s no longer hostile, just hurt. 

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?” 

In your rush to get him talking, you hadn’t actually realised that you weren’t ready to talk about this. You were stalling. 

“Answering a question with a question.” 

This doesn’t feel like a conversation. More like an interrogation, except you’re the unsub. He scoffs bitterly at your silence. 

“Spencer, don’t–” 

“No, you’re the one who wanted to talk! You were so insistent, in fact, that you would have rather made yourself a serial killer’s target then get in a car with me if I didn’t talk to you. And all of a sudden you’re speechless?” He snaps at you. 

“Yes! I was the one who wanted to talk! I just– I can’t understand what I’ve done to make you hate me so much? Was it because I said I love you? Did it really upset you that much?” You were both shouting from frustration. 

“You think I’m upset because you love me?!” Spencer scoffs in disbelief. 

“Aren’t you?!” You bitterly laugh. 

Spencer rubs his temples and squeezes his eyes shut, mumbling some under his breath. He’s genuinely never been this frustrated in his life. 

“Are you being serious?” His voice strains in pitch, as he tries to keep himself a lot calmer than he feels. “Is this some sort of joke to you?”

“Some sort of joke–”

“Do not interrupt me again. You wanna run away from this? Fine. But you will listen because I will not have this conversation again.” His tone is sharp, like a blade being held against your throat. It definitely shuts you up.

“Talk. Okay, let’s talk about how I have spent the last four years watching you allow undeserving men to walk all over you, letting them treat you like you’re worth nothing. I damn near drove myself insane trying to figure out why. Why is it something you accept for yourself? And then I realised– that’s how you see yourself. You actually hate yourself so much that you’ve convinced yourself you deserve it! Do you realise how infuriating that is?!

Especially because it’s the furthest thing from the truth! Still, I watched you throw yourself into this vicious cycle over and over again. You gave yourself away to those idiots, knowing that they didn’t have good intentions, but you still hoped it would be different every time. I mean you’re a fucking profiler for God’s sake! How can you expect others to love you if you can’t even love yourself? 

That’s not even the worst part! You’re so desperate for their acceptance that you continuously neglect the acceptance you already have from the people who love you. People like Emily, Penelope, Derek– the team– people like– people like me. I mean I’ve always known that you didn’t love me as anything more than a friend, but your constant reminders feel like a punch to the gut! Is it that embarrassing for you to love me as anything more?

I’ve survived way worse things, but this is the cruellest thing I’ve ever been through. Because it’s coming from you! I just never expected it’d be from you.” He’s practically hyperventilating for air by the time his speech comes to a stop, the vein in his forehead more prominent than usual.

Your jaw is tense and restless, twitching from anger. Some part of you still wants to keep this friendship. The louder part knows that there’s no going back from this. You’re not entirely sure you want to go back. Your entire body is shaking from rage. The first rule of your friendship was no profiling. Not only did he break that rule, he used the profile against you as if you actually were an unsub he was interrogating. 

“That’s not fair”

His eye twitches at your response.��

“Not? Fair?” Spencer grumbles in pauses.

“No, that's not fair!” You cry out. “It’s your turn to listen.”

It doesn’t feel like there’s any oxygen left to breathe in the car.

“Self loathing? Spencer, that's your projection! You love too hard and nobody’s ever loved you back the same way. But just because you lack things you want in your life doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me! And all this talk about love, but none of it makes any sense. You think I’m embarrassed of loving you? Is that how shallow you think I am?! You’re the one who told me that I can’t love you. God, you are the most duplicitous person I’ve ever met! I can’t believe I didn’t see it. You’ve been giving me the cold shoulder because I love you as an ‘amazing friend’? Because you love me and you think I’ve been neglecting you?!”

You had never spoken to anyone this way in your life. There was so much truth to Spencer’s words, but he had no right. He’d touched every nerve in your body without ever laying a hand on you. Up until roughly twenty minutes ago, being seen by Spencer was your favourite thing in the entire world. Now? You’d never hated the feeling more in your life. 

Spencer squeezes his hand into a fist, knuckles going white and releases his fingers like if he were aggressively squishing a stress ball. If asked about a month ago, he would never in a million years think that your friendship would manage to dissipate in just a few seconds. He didn’t think he could associate the word love with you anymore.

“Let’s get one thing straight. I do not love you. I do not love anything about you. Actually, I hate you. I hate how sweet you pretend to be. I hate the stupid morning coffee you bring me, nothing tastes more bitter. I hate to admit this but you’re right; everything about you is a brutal reminder of all the good things I can never have and I despise you for it.” He spits his words out with extreme tension in his blood vessels. 

“I can’t say I’ve known what it feels like to truly loathe someone before I met you.” You fire back, breathlessly, not having it in you to spare any more words for him. 

You’re not exactly sure how long the two of you have been sitting there just glaring at each other. Only when Spencer’s phone rings do you two look away. 

“Reid.” He answers the call. “Yea, she’s still here. We’re on our way back now.”

The ride back to the precinct was silent. Even as you regrouped with the rest of the team, you acknowledged everybody but each other. The team was instantly alert to the change, but no one mentioned it at the time because of the high stress of the case. You wrapped the case up a few days later and only then did the questions start making their way around. 

“Is everything okay between you two?”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“What happened between you and Reid?”

“What’s up with Boy Wonder over there?”

You didn’t entertain any of them, Spencer had taken up enough time in your life. You refused to talk about him, look at him or acknowledge him at all. He shared that same incentive. Another three weeks passed as the team watched what was once the closest duo in the BAU, pretend that their counterpart didn’t exist. 

If one of you was in a room and noticed the other enter, you’d walk out without drawing attention to the situation. When leaving the room was not an option, you either went as far in the opposite corner of the room as you could or you’d simply pretend the other wasn’t present just a few metres away. You wouldn’t discuss intel with each other about cases, sharing your findings with anybody else. 

Since Chicago, Hotch only assigned you with Spencer once more, but quickly realised that wasn’t going to help when both of you begged to be assigned with someone else privately. If you were in a discussion with someone and they started talking about Spencer, you’d tune out entirely. After a while the hating game got exhausting.

Spencer hated pretending that he hated you. He felt an immense amount of guilt for the things he’d said, but it was too late to take it back. He thought it would be easier to deal with his feelings if he wasn’t around you all the time, but it was just as difficult as before. You still lit up the dull grey rooms of the building. The only difference was that now he had to watch you shine from afar. 

In truth, you didn’t hate Spencer either. What you actually hated was that you didn’t hate Spencer. You still caught yourself staring at him for long periods of time. There were days when you’d go to his favourite coffee shop before work and buy his order, only to give it away to somebody on the street because you didn’t want to ruin Spencer’s day with the bitterness of your coffee. 

By the fifth week since you had gotten back from Chicago, you and Spencer were no longer ignoring each other as much. You’d gotten into a routine of professionalism for the sake of the team, only talking to each other about cases when necessary. That didn’t stop you from subconsciously showing subtle gestures of love. These were a lot quieter than the gestures you showed when you were friends. 

You’d make sure that there was always a fresh pot of coffee in the office kitchen, so Spencer would have it ready to drink whenever he needed. He’d make sure that the snack cupboard was always filled with your favourite snacks because he knew you liked having something to munch on when catching up on paperwork. You’d keep extra painkillers in Garcia’s lair knowing Spencer would retreat there when a migraine hit.

He’d ensure the aircon was always set to room temperature, you get uncomfortable if the room was too cold. Both of you were aware of the little gestures too, no one else knew your truly niche preferences. Neither of you was brave enough to actually go up to the other, though. It was all too much for you. No matter what was said, he was still your thoughtful Spencer deep down and it killed you.

You’d tried to talk to Spencer a few times, building up the courage for days in advance. As soon as he noticed you heading in his direction, he nearly bolted in the other direction. His avoidance didn’t end at the office. You recently became aware that Penelope had been scheduling rosters to invite you and Spencer to outings, trying to ensure you were present for equal amounts of time. 

You were chilling at her desk in wait for her, when you noticed a little note with your name next to a date and time. Under that was Spencer’s name with a separate date and time. 

“Hey! What are you doing here?” She greets you.

“I needed to talk to you…Penelope what is this?” You hold up the little pink sticky note.

Penelope sets her octopus mug down and takes the note from your hand. 

“This? This is nothing.” She fumbles a bit as she speaks.

“Garcia?” You purposefully speak with warning.

“Okay! Okay! But you didn’t hear it from me! We’ve kinda been taking turns hanging out with you and Spencer sometimes. But it’s because we love you and don’t want to make either of you-” She starts a panicked tangent.

“Garcia!” You interrupt her before she sends herself into a spiral. “There’s no need to do all of this. Yes Spencer and I aren’t close anymore, but you guys don’t need to go out of your way for us.”

“Well..” She grits her teeth and tilts her head.

“What?” 

“We didn’t really mean to. It’s just we noticed that Spencer would never come if you were going. And both of you just straight up refuse to talk about it, so this was the best we could come up with.” 

“Oh. Penny, I’m sorry that you guys have had to do that.” That was all you could say, your head hanging in guilt.

“Can you at least tell me why you won’t talk about it? I mean it makes sense for Boy Wonder, he’s always been stubbornly private, but you’ve never not told me anything!” 

You look towards Garcia again, thinking for a minute. You didn’t know exactly why you refused to talk about it. 

“I don’t know, honestly. I just don’t want to talk about it, if that makes sense?” You pull your friend in for a hug as an apology. 

You felt awful leaving her lair without giving her a proper answer or a resolution. It didn’t matter how professional you acted, this rift would always impact your friends and your work life. 

Spencer would always impact everything in your life. 

The guilt didn’t spare you that night, creeping its way to the forefront of your mind every few minutes. It had been four months since your last fight. It was the longest you’d gone without Spencer. This had to end for the sake of the team. That was how you found yourself standing at his door once again. After a few minutes you finally knock. You didn’t know what you were going to say, honestly you just wanted to run before he answered. You hear the locks being undone, but it’s not Spencer who answers when that door finally swings open.

“Yes?” 

It’s a woman, one you've never seen before. You’re taken aback and look around to make sure you got the right apartment. This was definitely Spencer’s apartment, you’d been here a hundred times before. And some woman was answering his door for him. Some very beautiful woman. 

“Can I help you?” She follows up, looking you up and down. 

“Hi, yeah, sorry, is–um– is Spencer here?”

“Who’s asking?” She’s definitely not very friendly. 

“We work together. Is he here or not?” You didn’t have the patience for this, annoyance seeping through your pores. 

“Who’s at the door?” His voice emerges from behind her and he finally shows up. “Oh.”

“Hey.” You glance away as soon as you see him. 

“Could you give me a minute?” He turns to the woman. She flashes a sickly sweet smile and kisses his cheek before disappearing inside. Spencer shuffles out to the corridor, closing the door behind him.

“That–uh–that was–” He stops himself, clearing his throat and switching to his professional voice. “What are you doing here?”

Cold.

“I was hoping we could talk.” You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to play off what you just saw. 

“What more is there to say?” 

“About the team. I came over to, um, apologise and maybe move past things for the sake of the team.” You were looking everywhere but at him. 

“Honestly?” His eyes are on you though. “I don’t care. And even if I did, I don’t want to hear it.” 

He starts to walk away, but turns back and mentions your name like it’s the most vile word in the dictionary. “Please don’t come back here. It’s hard enough at work, I don’t want to see your face in my personal time too.” 

With that he re-enters his apartment, leaving you standing in the hallway. It’s hard to imagine that this man was once your best friend. If you didn’t know about all the good times, you wouldn’t have believed it. Every tear that your body could ever produce streamed out of you for the rest of the night. Once you had made it back to your apartment, they broke out in sobs. In your line of work, you had survived being shot at, almost blown up and even a kidnapping once.

The man you loved with every fibre of your being looking at you like you were less than filth under a person's shoes was your breaking point. There was no way you were going to face him again. You needed to forget about Spencer Reid, which meant a fresh start. This city was a constant reminder of his essence, you couldn’t stay. You plopped down on your bed with your work bag, reaching into it for your work computer. Hands twitching as you type. 

You remember being so proud when David Rossi recommended you for the FBI’s Behavioural Analysis Unit. You were even more ecstatic when Hotch actually requested your transfer there. You had worked your ass off for it. It was there that you met the infamous Doctor Reid. He was much different than how you had imagined him. He was so charming, friendly and so down to earth, not liking him wasn’t an option. The two of you had so much in common, despite being so different, it was the foundation for your friendship. His caring nature pulled you in further, you soon found yourself deeply in love with him. 

Tears flooded your keyboard as all your memories with him flash through your brain. His friendship was a beautiful bonus of the job you once loved, you never thought that he would become the reason you’d leave it. Yet here you were, furiously drafting your resignation to Agent Hotchner. There were so many signals in your brain telling you to back off, to open a bottle of wine and drown your sorrows instead, but your heart didn’t feel like that would be enough. Your love for your job didn’t outweigh your desire to run.

Spencer Reid was your best friend and being in love with him is an excruciating torture. One that you can no longer endure. You had never been more sure of anything as you are at this moment and you weren’t going to give yourself time to change your mind. Your time with Spencer and, as a consequence, your time at the BAU had come to an end. Another memory flashes through your mind as you sign the letter off with your name. A case in Boston had gone wrong and you were really hung up on it. Spencer, in an attempt to help you move on, shared a quote with an author he had recently read. You bitterly chuckle to yourself at this recall and press send with no second thought.

 “Getting over a painful experience is much like crossing monkey bars. You have to let go at some point in order to move forward.” - C.S. Lewis.

Spoilers: BAU! Reader, friends to enemies, mutual pining, hurt, angst no comfort, whump (maybe idk), Reader & Spencer are both idiots, they should probably consider therapy actually, Spencer is a sassy little shit, but really just needs a hug and a class on communication. 

AN - You’ve heard of enemies to lovers/friends, now I present to you the exact same thing in reverse (been done time and time again, I’m not in any way original <3). You can blame Ariana Grande for this one. Sorry that I haven't posted, I've had insane writers block. I might be slightly incapable of shorter word counts, I’ll try to improve that.  I apologise for grammar/anything that does not make sense, I am both an idiot and also was dealing with a bad case of the flu when I wrote this. I’d like to thank @reidmotif for curing my writer's block and inspiring me on the second half of this fic. Thank you @starstruckbambi for proof reading this.

Drop thoughts & feelings so I can ponder on them. Always remember that I’m in your walls. 

Thank you for reading!

[cleo-fox]

Overtime

Summary: Sometimes, working overtime isn’t all that bad.

Pairings: Loki x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+ minors DNI, sex, cunnilingus, teasing, light bondage, office romance.

Series: Overtime (I don't have a masterlist for this, but if you enjoy these idiots, check out Daylight, a sort of sequel).

A/N: This was largely written prior to season 2 and posted right before episode 4, so it’s not entirely canon compliant and the parts that are may be compliant by accident.

Also, @give-me-a-moose and I were on a similar wavelength about Loki angrily reading romance novels and I would strongly recommend checking out her fic The Imagine Nation if you too are enthralled by this idea.

You don’t think that Mobius intended to keep Loki’s desk behind yours.

“It’s temporary,” he tells you apologetically. “He just needs somewhere to go for now, until I figure out what to do with him.”

“You’re talking about him like he’s a stray cat that you found,” you say.

“You won’t even know he’s there, I promise.”

“You’re still doing it.”

Mobius sighs and puts on his most sincere, earnest expression—the one that he always uses when he’s about to ask you for a stupidly massive favor.

And it’s only because you almost never, ever see this look from him that you back down.

“Okay, fine,” you say. “But he’d better be on his best behavior.”

Mobius puts his palms together and tips them toward you. “Thank you. You will not regret this, I promise.”

You sigh and shake your head. “Just remember this next time you’re budgeting for raises.”

But then—in a move that you certainly don’t expect—Loki ends up sticking around. And, in the subtle way that the stray you’ve been feeding slowly turns into your cat, Loki’s temporary desk becomes his permanent desk. And strangely enough, Mobius’ assurances turn out to be more correct than not: Loki does a lot of fieldwork and is often away; when he is at his desk, it tends to be because he is working on more complicated missions, the ones that require poring over mountains of files looking for patterns and trying to untangle the slippery mess of time itself.

Your work is decidedly less glamorous than Loki’s—almost no fieldwork, lots of files. Endless files. Some days you feel as though you must have seen every file in the TVA’s extensive library and then you’re immediately proven wrong by another wing of filing cabinets that you swear wasn’t even there before.

Although he is generally well-behaved as your desk neighbor, Loki’s presence has a way of distracting you. Even if you didn’t know who he was, your gaze would still naturally drift his way, lingering on those regal cheekbones, that ink black hair, that cunning smirk. The way that the fabric of his dress pants clings to his thighs certainly doesn’t help, to say nothing of how his forearms look with his shirtsleeves rolled up. He can make your heart start to race with no more than a casual glance in your direction and god help you if he gives you one of those devastating smiles. Luckily, you don’t think he takes that much notice of you. You have the sort of pleasantly dull exchanges of coworkers who don’t really know each other and he is almost painfully polite to you. It’s a strong departure from the way he interacts with others—with others, he is bold, charming, sarcastic, talkative, a far cry from the more subdued, almost courtly tone he strikes with you. It’s a difference that is so stark that you can’t help but attribute it to some sort of negative feeling on his end.

“How’s it going with Loki?” Mobius asks you during a one-on-one meeting a couple of months after Loki’s temporary desk becomes his permanent desk. “He’s behaving himself, right?”

“It’s been fine,” you say, “though truthfully, I don’t think he likes me all that much.”

“What? Of course he likes you,” Mobius says. “Why wouldn’t he like you? You’re lovely.”

You shrug. “I dunno, he’s just different with me than he is with everyone else. Like…overly polite. It’s like he thinks I’m going to send him to the principal’s office or something.”

“Let me get this straight,” says Mobius. “First you were worried that he wouldn’t behave himself and now you’re worried that he’s too well-behaved?”

Privately, you realize he has a point. Outwardly, though, you’re not going to admit it. The sardonic tilt of Mobius’ mouth suggests that he knows this.

“No, I just…I don’t think he likes me all that much,” you say. “And he’s entitled to that. People don’t like each other all the time, it’s not a big deal.”

This is also a little bit of a lie—you do wish he liked you. Loki is so magnetic it’s hard not to want his attention. And with the matter of your silly little crush, well…that doesn’t help either.

Mobius sighs. “I think you’re overthinking this. He likes you, sometimes it just takes him a little time to warm up. He’s a bit of a prickly guy.”

You bite down the urge to point out that you’ve seen him warm to other people almost immediately. This conversation has already gone on longer than you want and you are edging dangerously close to having to admit that you care so much because you have a big stupid crush on him, which is obviously unacceptable.

“Well, the point is that it’s fine,” you say quickly, trying to project an aura of cool confidence. “I don’t have any complaints, he seems like he’s settling in, so let’s move on. Did you have any feedback on my recent report?”

The furrow between Mobius’ eyebrows deepens just slightly, the only indication that he doesn’t fully believe you. But for whatever reason, he decides to let it go and follows your change in topic without further comment.

This is one of the reasons you like Mobius as much as you do: he always seems to know the right moment to push and the right moment to bend.

You’re not sure if your relationship with Loki would have changed had it not been for the problem of Charles Berlitz.

The joke around the office is that after Mobius convinced Loki to work for the TVA, he needed something new to obsess over and Charles Berlitz was the next best option. It’s hard to say exactly who Berlitz is, as he has a tendency of showing up, well…everywhere. He is quite literally in every timeline, at least as far as anyone can tell. Sometimes he is an author, penning serious, scholarly essays on outlandish theories like the Bermuda Triangle and the Philadelphia Experiment. He seems to have a fondness for all manner of schemes—he was responsible for introducing both homeopathy and multi-level marketing to no fewer than sixty different timelines. His ability to peddle bullshit naturally led him to politics—pick any rebellion, coup, or campaign on any given timeline and there’s a good chance you’ll also find Charles Berlitz.

Scammers and con artists are not atypical in your line of work, but what makes Charles Berlitz an enduring mystery is that he has never been found. You can have reputable documentary evidence that Berlitz was present at a certain time and location, but if you show up to investigate, he is never there. There have been some glimpses over the years—a shadowy face in the back of a crowd, the hem of a cloak disappearing behind a corner—but nothing concrete or substantive.

“Our ghost in the timeline,” Mobius had said in one of his more poetic moments at an all staff meeting, his voice overly hushed and dramatic. You had seen Loki roll his eyes and you had to fake a coughing fit to hide your laugh.

Time moves differently at the TVA, so it’s hard to say how long Mobius has been working on this case when he makes a breakthrough, but it’s not terribly long after your conversation about Loki. A campaign button had been found in an apartment that Berlitz rented for two years in the French Quarter. That particular campaign button could only have existed in one specific timeline and its distribution was limited. You aren’t entirely clear on all of the details, but Mobius seems to have a plan.

And unfortunately, that plan involves you giving up most of your weekend to work.

It’s near quitting time on what passes for a Friday at the TVA. Loki has been in today and you can hear him starting to pack up. Technically, he’s got twenty minutes of work left, but you’re not about to tell him that.

You doodle absently on your notepad. Technically, you’ve also got twenty minutes of work left, but realistically: nothing is happening.

“Oh, great, you’re both still here.”

In general, this phrase has never meant good news for you and when you look up, you see Mobius with a sizable armful of files.

Also not a great sign.

Mobius plunks the stack of files directly on your desk. “There’s been a development with Berlitz. I need you both to review these now.”

“It’s Friday,” says Loki, affronted. “Surely it can wait until Monday.”

“No can do. I need this done by Sunday at the latest,” says Mobius. “This is an all hands on deck situation.”

Loki glances pointedly at the office around you, which has already started emptying out for the weekend.

“All hands on deck, but most hands are already in the field,” Mobius concedes. “Which is why I need the two of you—” He points to you. “You because you’re good—” He gestures to Loki. “And you because you’ve got desk duty.”

“I beg your pardon—” begins Loki.

“He’s grounded,” Mobius says to you in an exaggerated stage whisper.

This is not surprising to you: you had heard a rumor last week about an incident that had occurred on a mission to the inauguration of Richard Nixon and you suspect that these two events are likely connected.

You look at the pile of paperwork on your desk. You could probably get through it on your own in a couple of hours, but if Loki’s helping, maybe you still have a shot at having Saturday to yourself. You bite back a sigh. “What do you need me to find?”

“Anything that mentions anyone from the Lucchese crime family or Nero Variant N2815,” says Mobius. “I’ll go get the rest.”

Your heart sinks. Farewell, Saturday. “There’s more?” you say.

“It’ll be triple overtime, I already got it approved!” he calls over his shoulder

You sigh and glance at Loki who is scowling at the pile of files as though they’d wronged him personally.

There’s a long moment of silence before you speak. “Is there any truth to the rumor I’ve been hearing about the Nixon inauguration?” you ask.

“If it involved a hot air balloon, then yes,” he says rather tonelessly.

“Well.” You pause as you stare at the pile of papers. “At least it was worth it.”

That at least earns you a hint of a smile.

*

Several hours later, your stomach is growling and you’ve developed a rather impressive crick in your neck.

You lean back in your chair, stretching your neck to the side and rubbing the knot that is pulsing in your upper trapezius. Office work has done nothing positive for your posture in general, but tonight’s work has you hunched over more than usual and your neck is aching.

You and Loki have made good progress, but your pile of finished and sorted files is scarcely comparable to the full cart that Mobius had brought in. Back when the evening was new and you weren’t quite so tired, you’d been optimistic about possibly having half a Saturday free from work; that hope has slipped away the longer the evening has dragged on. Now you’re hoping that you’ll still have a bit of Sunday to yourself and even that feels unlikely.

Your stomach growls again. You should probably eat something—you’d worked through your regular dinner hour in a fit of misplaced optimism. The cafeteria is closed this time of night, but there’s a vending machine not far from your office that has shitty coffee and mostly edible sandwiches.

You stand and stretch, stifling a yawn as you turn around. “I’m gonna grab a coffee and some dinner,” you say. “Do you want anything?”

Loki looks up at you from the file in front of him, blinking somewhat dazedly and running a hand through his messy curls. “I’d like to stretch my legs a bit, if you don’t mind the company.”

You honestly didn’t expect him to want to join you. It’s a pleasant surprise, certainly, but also a little nerve wracking in the way that interacting with Loki always is. He’s so handsome and aloof and you’re not quite sure how to talk to him without acting like a total fool.

But you’re also not about to say no, either.

“Of course,” you say, “I don’t mind at all.”

The TVA is unusually quiet at this time of night—the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the murmur of distant voices is all that accompanies the tap of your shoes on the linoleum. It only heightens the jittery, nervous feeling you get from Loki—like your stomach is filled with drunk, lightning struck butterflies.

“Are you finding much?” asks Loki as you enter the hallway together.

You shrug. “A bit. Mostly on the Nero variant. I’m not having as much luck with the Luccheses.”

“I’ve got all of their property transfers, I think,” he says. “Renato Lucchese never met a vineyard he didn’t like.”

“Or racehorses, from what I understand,” you say. “I think that’s how he lost most of his money.”

You arrive at the vending machines. Loki looks at the vending machines and then back at you, a somewhat puzzled and troubled expression on his face.

“This is what you meant when you said you were going to get coffee and dinner?”  he says.

You shrug. “Yeah, what’s wrong with this?”

He points at the coffee machine. “Mobius calls that machine Satan’s coffeemaker, does he not?”

“Yes, but I know how to trick it into giving me something that’s almost palatable,” you say.

Loki gives you a rather dry look. “Something that’s almost palatable?”

“I mean, I’m just trying to manage your expectations. It’s still pretty shitty coffee, it just tastes less burned.”

He looks at you for a long moment before tilting his head toward the hallway. “Come on, let’s go.”

It’s your turn to look skeptical. “What are we doing?”

“We’re going out for dinner.”

*

He takes you to a twenty-four hour diner called Frank’s that’s maybe a five minute walk from the TVA. It’s one of those places with yellowing Formica tables and big booths covered in red faux leather patched with the occasional square of duct tape. It smells like coffee and grease with a faint odor of cigarette smoke despite the prominent no smoking signs.

“I wouldn’t have thought this kind of place was your style,” you say as you sit down in a booth next to the window.

“I’ve expanded my horizons,” he says, sliding into the seat across from you.

An older woman with greying blonde hair approaches your booth. She wears a nametag reading “Connie” in big capital letters, a sticker of a pink cat stuck on the space next to her name.

“How y’all doin’ tonight?” she says as she hands you each a laminated menu. She looks at Loki. “You want your usual?”

“Please,” he says.

“You got it.” She turns to you. “How ‘bout you, hon, can I get ya started with something to drink?”

“Coffee would be great.”

“All right, I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

You raise your eyebrows at Loki as she walks away. “You eat at diners and you have a usual order. My expectations are being completely upended.”

He returns your pleasantly amused expression. “And you have vending machine coffee for dinner. It’s a revealing night.”

“I mean, I don’t actively seek it out,” you say. “It’s a convenient option that I exercise only when I have no other choice.”

“No other choice?” A sly smile curls at his lips. “Do you not have the entire array of space and time at your fingertips?”

“Well, first of all, we aren’t supposed to use TemPads for personal errands without a supervisor’s approval.”

“Technically.”

“No, actually. It’s in the personnel manual. Like verbatim.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You would put yourself through the egregious physical suffering of vending machine coffee simply to appease the capricious whims of our cruel overseer Miss Minutes?”

You bite back a laugh. “You know she’s not actually our boss, right?”

“I can’t discount that possibility. She wields a concerning amount of power within the organization.”

Connie is back with your drinks—coffee for you and tea for Loki. “Sunday Special?” she asks Loki as she sets a metal teapot and empty mug in front of him.

“Please,” he says.

“You got it.” She looks at you. “Didya get a chance to look at the menu or do you need a minute?”

You’re feeling a little daring. “I’ll try the Sunday Special as well.”

“All right, two Sunday Specials comin’ right up,” she says, collecting your menus.

“So, what’s in a Sunday Special?” you ask Loki as you take a sip of your coffee.

“Boiled fish eggs, mainly,” he says, pouring the hot water into his tea mug.

“Liar,” you say promptly.

He raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t even look at the menu, how could you know?”

“Places like this don’t serve fish eggs,” you say. “Way too unusual and definitely the wrong price point.”

“I suppose you’ll just have to see,” he says with a playful glint in his eyes. The easy charm that you’ve seen him use with the others is on full display and it’s enough to make you giddy. Maybe he doesn’t dislike you after all.

“Well, if it’s fish eggs, you’re picking up the bill,” you say, “and I’ll be getting something else instead.”

“You’d really hold me responsible for your impulsive dinner selections?”

“Yep. And I don’t even feel bad about it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you could be so unforgiving.”

“Well, you don’t know me all that well.”

“To be fair, you keep to yourself quite a bit.”

“A little bit,” you say. “But also to be fair, you haven’t really asked.”

“On work time?” he says, widening his eyes in mock horror. “That would mean write ups for both of us, I couldn’t let that happen.”

“I think I know enough about you to know that getting in trouble is not one of your primary concerns.”

He gives you a sly smile, like you’ve caught him out and he likes it. “That’s a diplomatic way to put it.” He takes a sugar packet from the dispenser on the table and tears it open before pouring it into his mug. “Well, we’re on break now, so you can safely tell me something about yourself.”

You drum your fingers on your coffee mug. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, this can’t be the only part of your life. Who are you outside the TVA? What did you do before this?”

That giddy feeling comes to a screeching halt and you take in a long, slow breath. It’s a simple question, one that most people can answer to some degree. For you, though, it’s a bit more complicated.

“Well,” you say. You take a sip of your coffee, mostly to give your hands something to do. “I don’t actually know—I chose not to remember when they gave me the option.”

You’re surprised by how gentle his eyes are when you look up. “My apologies,” he says, “I didn’t realize.”

“It’s okay,” you say and you really do mean it. “You couldn’t have known.”

Usually, you say something like this and then gently redirect the conversation, but something about the way he’s looking at you makes you want to continue. Like maybe he understands difficult things and doesn’t mind hearing about something that others would shy away from.

“When they told us everything and said they could fix our memories…” You clear your throat and focus your gaze just above his shoulder. “It’s weird, but I just had a feeling that it wouldn’t be good for me to know…that something really bad had happened. So I asked Mobius to check for me, just to be sure…” You swallow, blinking hard.

You remember how sad Mobius’ eyes were, how he’d gently placed a hand on your shoulder and said, “I think you’re making the right call, kid.”

“It’s not really okay, is it?” Loki says softly.

You shrug. “I mean, it’s…it is what it is.”

“You’re a terrible liar, you know.”

“It’s not a lie—”

He raises a skeptical eyebrow and you remember that he is, in fact, the god of lies.

“It’s more like…I can’t really miss what I don’t know, but at the same time, the reality of that absence hurts a little. So maybe not exactly okay, but not exactly not okay, either.”

There’s a lot of kindness in his gaze and you have to look away because it makes your head spin and your breath catch in your throat. “I’m not really sure if that makes sense,” you say.

“It does.”

There’s a silence between you, but it’s not uncomfortable.

“Do you…do you think you’d want to forget if you had that option?” You’re not entirely sure what prompts the question and you regret it almost as soon as it leaves your mouth. “I’m sorry, that’s probably too personal.”

He shakes his head and there’s a warmth in his eyes that you don’t expect. “I rather think I owe you one.” He pauses, running a finger around the rim of his mug. “Sometimes I do,” he says finally. “It can be quite painful remembering.” He worries his lip between his teeth. “But I’m not sure who I would be without the knowledge of my past, either.” His gaze flicks back to you. “What’s it like for you? Do you feel like you know who you are without those memories?”

It’s a good question—one you’ve never been asked. “I mean, it’s hard to say for sure. I think I do,” you say. “Sometimes I wonder if I was different in my timeline. Maybe I was kinder because I had different experiences that made me more empathetic. Maybe I wasn’t—maybe I was worse. Maybe I had a villain arc.”

He chuckles. “That doesn’t seem likely.”

“I dunno, maybe it explains the vending machine coffee and my fish egg related threats,” you say and you feel almost giddy when he returns your smile. “Or maybe I’m the same and all those experiences that shaped me are just scars I can’t see.” You shrug and take a sip of your coffee. “At the end of the day, though, that timeline is gone. I’m all that’s left. It’s sad, but it’s also freeing, in a way.”

He nods. “Mobius has said much the same.”

You smile slightly. “Our philosophies are similar, I suppose, though I think there are probably more bits of his past self in his present self than he realizes.”

Loki grins. “It’s the jet skis, isn’t it?”

“I mean, I just don’t think most normal people spend that much time expounding on the reliability of the Yamaha engine versus the pure, raw power of the Kawasaki.”

Loki holds up a finger. “But have you gotten the lecture about Yamaha’s braking system?”

“I think I have that memorized at this point.”

“‘The perfect choice for families.’”

“‘You just tap the brakes. Just tap them. Perfectly smooth stop every time.’”

“‘Reliability meets affordability.’”

“‘You can’t say no to that.’”

You think you probably could have riffed on this for a bit, but you’re interrupted by the arrival of Connie with your dinner.

The Sunday Special turns out to be a fairly traditional breakfast—eggs, hash browns, two fluffy pancakes, sausage, toast, a little bowl of strawberries.

“Definitely lots of fish eggs in this meal,” you say to Loki after Connie leaves.

His smile is small, but genuine. “You haven’t looked under the pancakes yet.”

You feel it then, but you don’t fully understand until later that this dinner has unlocked something important between the two of you. After months of awkward, stilted conversation, it’s like you finally understand how to talk to each other. And you’re surprised to find that even outside of your big stupid crush, you actually like Loki. You like his sly smiles and his dry humor and how easily the two of you fall into a routine of playful banter. You click in a way that surprises you, in a way that makes you mourn the lost potential of all those awkward, stilted months and feel giddy about the possibilities ahead.

Dinner is over too soon and you walk back to the TVA feeling revived from the coffee and the conversation. 

Disaster awaits you back at the office, though: you’d left a stack of the Nero variant files on your desk and evidently the construction was too precarious, as the entire pile had tipped off your desk and spilled to the floor, contents scattered everywhere.

“Fucking hell,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair. You’re not sure whether you want to laugh, cry, or scream. Possibly, it’s all three.

“Here.” Loki is bending down on the floor to gather the files. You studiously try to not ogle his ass or thighs. Or at least not obviously. “Clear off some space on your desk—I’ll help.”

Twenty minutes later, you’ve set up an entirely new system—Loki has dragged his chair over to your desk and the cart of unsorted files sits between you, like a surly metallic chaperone. And even later when you’ve sorted out all of the files from the floor, he remains parked at the end of your desk, a stack of new, unsorted files in front of him. Admittedly, it’s a lot more efficient for you to work like this: privately, though, it gives you a warm glow that has nothing to do with workplace efficiency.

“I’ve invented a new game,” he says some time later. 

“What’s that?”

“Every time either one of us finds documentation showing Renato Lucchese losing money on a racehorse he was told was not a good investment, I get to have a drink.”

You look up at him. “Look, I know you’re a god and everything, but I am pretty sure that will kill you.”

He sighs and tosses the file into the Lucchese pile. “I think it would add a little excitement to the evening, don’t you?”

You raise your eyebrows and look back at the file in front of you. “You mean this isn’t your idea of a fun Friday night?”

“My idea of a fun Friday night includes far fewer files and a lot more debauchery,” he says, taking a new file from the cart.

You glance at the clock. “Well, it’s only eleven. I don’t usually start body shots until after midnight.”

“What are body shots?”

For one horrifying moment, you think that you’re going to actually have to explain this to him, but then you get a good look at his expression.

He’s teasing you.

“You’re an ass,” you say, swatting him on the shoulder with the file you’re holding.

He wags a finger at you. “That’s workplace violence. I’m going to have to report that.”

You lean back in your chair and return to your file. “I’m pretty confident that you’ll be put off by the amount of paperwork that process requires.”

He shakes his head as he returns to his own file. “Uncontrolled bureaucracy is how bad actors escape accountability.” There’s a brief pause. “And…there’s another racehorse.”

You continue on like this for the rest of the evening, occasionally chatting and Loki proving definitively that the Renato Lucchese racehorse drinking game could not be played without resulting in a fatality. It’s nice, though. Yes, it’s sorting files and yes, it’s not the most intellectually riveting task you’ve ever done, but spending time with Loki is nice. It’s because of this that you find yourself trying to stay awake, pushing past your looming exhaustion.

But around two, you can’t quite fight the heaviness of your eyelids any longer and you doze off in the middle of a report on the sinking of the Lusitania.

“Hey.” Loki is gently shaking your shoulder. The way he says your name in that deliciously deep voice makes you want to swoon and you’re glad that you have the ready made excuse of sleepiness to explain any embarrassing behavior on your end.

“I think you’d better call it a night,” he says gently. “Get some sleep and come back with fresh eyes.”

“What about you?” you say. “Are you going to do the same, or are you just all talk?”

He smiles at you and it warms you to the very tips of your toes. You could bask in that smile like a cat in a sunbeam.

“I’m starting to fade a bit myself,” he says

“Very convenient,” you say and he grins at you.

“Come on, I’ll see you back home.”

Part of you wants to protest—there’s really no need for him to walk you home—but a larger, louder part of you wants to let it be, prolong the magic of tonight for just a little longer.

There’s a comfortable silence between the two of you as you walk out of the office together. 

“What time do you think you’re going to come in tomorrow?” he asks as you approach the residential wing. “It’s probably sensible to coordinate our efforts a bit.”

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” you say. “I was thinking nine, but that will be dependent on how much coffee I have.”

“Yes, about that,” he says. “I cannot stand idly by and watch you torture yourself with vending machine coffee.”

“Well, the cafeteria will be open, so I was going to torture myself with cafeteria coffee, which is at least thirty percent less over brewed.”

He clicks his tongue. “You’re not making a compelling case for yourself.”

“To be fair, it’s quite late and I’ve been staring at files for hours.”

“All the more reason to get decent coffee,” he says. “We’re going out for breakfast.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh, we are?”

“Consider it an intervention,” he says. “I’ll come collect you at eight.”

You’re not quite sure if this is just his natural confidence and swagger coming through or if he’s flirting with you and this counts as a date.

“Where are we going?”

“I know a place.”

*

The place in question turns out to be a food cart in Central Park in 1998.

“Should I even bother asking if you have supervisor approval for this?” you say, looking skeptically at the time door glimmering before you.

Loki scoffs. “I don’t have a supervisor.”

“You do. It’s Mobius.”

“That can’t be right, we’re peers.”

“You’re absolutely not. Did you read any of the onboarding materials?”

He ignores your question. “I don’t see why I’d even need a supervisor, honestly.”

You snort. “Need I remind you of what happened at the Nixon inauguration?”

He spreads his hands in front of him. “It’s not my fault that I’m the only one with a sense of humor.”

“I’m not entirely sure that was the problem,” you say. “Gerald Ford is never going to be the same, from what I understand.”

Loki waves a dismissive hand. “He’ll be fine, the tail isn’t permanent. Now, are you coming or not?”

You roll your eyes at him and make a halfhearted complaint about proper protocol, but you know that you’re walking through that time door and not looking back. You knew that before he even posed the question.

The food cart is owned by a man named Samir who has a wide smile and booming laugh. He talks to Loki like he’s a friend and he tells you that you have the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen. You are fairly certain he’s exaggerating, but you stuff a few extra bills into the tip jar anyway.

“I can’t believe you fell for that,” says Loki as you walk away, each carrying a coffee and a brown paper bag with a breakfast sandwich.

“Fell for what?” you say, batting your eyes at him. “I do have beautiful eyes.”

“I’ve heard him say that on at least thirty separate occasions.”

“Yeah, but this time he really meant it. I could tell.”

He rolls his eyes and leads you to a park bench overlooking a wide, grassy field. The leaves are just starting to change and the air has a little bit of a bite to it. 

You sit down on the bench and take a sip of your coffee.

“It is good coffee, I’ll give you that,” you say.

“See,” says Loki, “you can’t go back to that vending machine sludge after this.”

“I mean, if it’s eleven o’clock at night and I’m on a deadline, I can.”

“Darling. You have a TemPad.”

“Loki. Read the personnel manual.”

He wrinkles his nose. “It’s not really my genre.”

You roll your eyes and take out your breakfast sandwich. “What is your genre?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that a serious question?”

“Of course it is,” you say. “I love talking about books.”

He gives you a slight smile and takes a sip of his coffee. “A little bit of everything, honestly,” he says. “Philosophy. Magical theory. History. Politics. Anything from Asgard, really, though it can be a bit more challenging getting some of those titles.”

“I’ve had pretty good luck with the Library of the Sacred Timeline—have you checked there yet?”

He frowns. “I’m not familiar.”

“Oh, you’d like it—it’s on the eighteenth floor. It’s intended to be a collection of the greatest works of literature from as many branches of the timeline as possible,” you say. “It started as a research project, but people liked it and it just kind of evolved into this huge collection. They’ve actually got a pretty sizeable collection of books from Asgard.”

It’s like you’ve told him that his personal paradise had been located on the eighteenth floor this entire time. “Will you show me?”

He is practically vibrating with the sort of anticipatory, manic energy that you typically would associate with Christmas morning right before you tear into presents. It’s sweetly endearing.

“Of course.”

Ten minutes later, you’re leading him through the winding hallways on the eighteenth floor. You’re not surprised he hasn’t heard about the library—it’s a bit out of the way and the eighteenth floor is so poorly designed that it’s not terribly easy to find.

The design of the library is a sharp departure from the rest of the TVA. The shelves and floors are made of the kind of dark mahogany that you typically see in the kind of estates that look like something directly out of a Jane Austen novel. Worn oriental rugs muffle your footsteps on the creaky wood floors and the air smells faintly of dust and paper.

There’s a subtle change in Loki when you walk through the doors—almost like a muscle in his shoulders finally relaxes and he seems truly at home for the first time since he arrived.

You touch his hand. “This way.”

You lead him into the stacks, back to the far corner, right after the books from Alfheim.

“You can borrow whichever ones you like,” you say softly. “There’s a sign out sheet at the front desk.”

He nods, though you don’t think he really hears you—he only has eyes for the shelves, his gaze sweeping across the spines like they’re old friends. You’re about to excuse yourself to give him a little privacy when his brow furrows and he exhales sharply. “Oh, you can’t be serious.”

“What is it?”

They have the entirety of the finest Asgardian literature at their disposal. Untold centuries of the writings of our greatest minds—” he plucks a book off the shelf, “—and they choose to include this?”

The title looks fairly innocuous—a red, leather bound book with the title The Cloistered Heart embossed in gold script on the front. You take the book from him and open it. “What’s the problem with this?”

“It’s inconsequential fluff, literary pablum of the highest order.”

This is the Loki that you’re more familiar with and a smile curls at your lips. Almost on cue, you flip the book open to a chapter titled “The Wedding and Bedding of Aloisa.”

You bite back a laugh and look up at him. “It’s a romance novel.”

“Precisely my point,” he says. “To think that this is on the same shelf as Nielsen and Auber.”

“That’s kind of how libraries work,” you say, flipping further into the book. The phrases “throbbing length” and “eager moans” draw your eye and you have to tamp down another laugh. “Oh, and it’s a sexy romance novel.”

“It appeals to the lowest common denominator, yes.”

“What, so you’re too good for a bodice ripper?”

He scoffs. “I prefer to do the bodice ripping myself, not read some overwrought description of it.”

You are glad you’re looking at the book because you’re pretty sure you’d disintegrate if you had to make eye contact with him while he delivered that line. “Oh spare me,” you say lightly, snapping the book shut and drawing it to your chest. “I’m gonna read this.”

He blows out a puff of air. “It’s a waste of your time.”

“I’ve got lots of time, I can afford to waste it,” you say cheekily. “Besides, I’m curious to see what kind of book turns the god of mischief into a pearl clutching prude.”

Loki sputters. “Prude? Darling, let me assure you, I’m no prude—”

“I’ll leave you to browse,” you say with a grin as you turn away from him. “Come find me at the front when you’re ready to go.”

You’re a few chapters into the book when Loki rejoins you at the front of the library, a small stack of books tucked under his arm.

You close your book with a snap. “This book is a delight. I think your real issue is just that you’re no fun.”

He scoffs. “I’m very fun.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You bicker playfully back and forth as you check out your books and leave the library. A quick glance at your watch tells you that you spent much more time there than you’d planned. You can’t quite bring yourself to worry about that, though, not with the memory of Loki’s wonderstruck expression burning so bright in your mind.

There’s a bit of a lull in the conversation as you wait for the elevator.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“For what?”

“For showing me that.”

“Of course. I’m sorry you didn’t know about it sooner.”

He looks at you, lips parting slightly like he’s about to say something. His tongue swipes briefly over his bottom lip and you would swear that his gaze drops to your mouth for just a second.

For just a second—one heady, slightly irrational second—you think he might be about to kiss you.

The ding of the elevator arriving breaks the spell, startling you just a little. You run a hand through your hair, trying to give off the impression of composure even as your heart beats wildly in your chest.

Loki gestures to the elevator doors. “After you.”

There is a group of analysts in the elevator already, chatting animatedly and completely obliterating any chance you may have had at recapturing that moment.

You try not to dwell too much in contemplating what ifs or timeline branches—often, it feels too much like work, something Mobius might assign you.

But you know that the possibility of that moment—what if the elevator had been a hair slower, what if those analysts had taken a different route, what if you were braver—you know that’s something that’s going to haunt you for a while.

*

You wouldn’t give up that time in the library for anything—it’s one of those moments that feels formative, something that you’ll return to again and again for one reason or another.

But it’s also true that it’s time that you probably could have used for sorting files and as Saturday ticks on, you can’t help but wish you had a way to pull another hour out of somewhere.

“We’re not going to be able to make this deadline, are we?” you say with a sigh.

It’s getting late into the evening and the cart of files still to be sorted still remains depressingly full, despite the fact that you’d brought both lunch and dinner back to your desk so you could continue working.

Loki eyes the remaining files. “I think we might. We made good progress today.”

You rub your eyes. “My brain feels like it’s about to leak out my ears.”

Loki takes the file you are working on and sets it back in the stack of unsorted files. “I think that might be a sign it’s time to turn in,” he says.

“There’s still so much left.”

“There’s still tomorrow.”

You reach for the file. “Well, let me just—”

He pulls your hand away from the pile. “You can come back to it in the morning. Besides, if you’re this tired, you’re not going to do good work anyway.”

He squeezes your hand and drops it. It’s brief enough to still be friendly, but unusual enough to make you wonder and send your mind racing back to that moment by the elevator.

You shake the thought away. It’s late and you’re tired.

You heave a world weary sigh and slump back in your chair. “I hate it when you’re right.”

To his credit, he only smirks a little. “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

Once again, there’s no reason for him to do this, but once again, you’re inclined to let him.

You pack up for the evening and walk out of the office side by side. You’re trying very hard not to think about the fact that this is likely the last night that you’ll do this, that tomorrow the assignment will be over.

As you near the residential wing, you start to hear distant shouts. If you inhale deeply, you catch a very faint whiff of explosives—you’re not sure what kind.

“I think someone brought work home,” you say with a sigh. 

This happens from time to time—things get out of hand in the field or something happens when retrieving an asset or a target and all hell breaks loose at the TVA. Mobius had once referred to it as “bringing work home” and the name had stuck.

“Wasn’t there an incident in this wing not long ago?” asks Loki.

“Yes.” You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I had to call off the next day—I got no sleep that night.” You listen carefully, trying to determine the source of the noise and the status of the problem. “But maybe it’s almost over,” you say with an optimism you don’t fully feel. “Sometimes these things are resolved really quick.”

Your heart continues to sink the closer you come to your home. The acrid burn of explosives only increases and you think you catch the low, dull roar of something not quite human.

And indeed, when you turn the final corner, you are immediately stopped by an electric blue barrier being monitored by a hunter. G-21–you’ve worked with her on a couple of missions before.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” slips out of your mouth before you can stop yourself.

“There’s an ongoing incident in this area,” says G-21 and you almost want to laugh because no shit. 

“How long do you think it’s gonna be closed off?” you ask.

She shrugs. “We’re at a code 54 right now, but it’s probably gonna escalate.”

With pitch perfect timing and before you can even try to remember what a code 54 means, there’s an almighty crash and a low bellow.

“Go!” she yells before running toward the commotion amid frantic calls for backup.

Loki is grabbing your wrist and pulling you into a run.

Your standard issue work shoes are comfortable enough on a day to day basis, but you certainly want to have words with whoever decided that leather soled shoes with absolutely no grips were a good choice for a building floored almost entirely in linoleum. In a low stakes situation, it’s meant occasionally you wipe out in the cafeteria and hurt nothing but your pride. In this situation, it means that Loki’s firm grip on your hand is the only thing keeping you upright.

But there’s a small mercy in that while you can still hear distant crashes and shrieks, whatever is happening down that hallway doesn’t seem to be following you and eventually, you both slow to a brisk walk and Loki drops your hand.

You haven’t even had a chance to consider where you are going to sleep tonight. You could probably curl up on that terrible couch in the office and just plan on getting up early enough to run back to your place for a quick shower and a change of clothes…assuming the incident resolves by then—

“You can stay with me,” says Loki, as though he can hear you trying to sort this out.

“Oh, that’s okay, I’ll just—”

“If you say you’re going to sleep on that terrible couch in the office, I will personally take you to the most boring governmental proceeding I can find and leave you there until you come to your senses.”

“Sounds like a great place to fall asleep,” you say.

His eyes glint, but his tone brooks no arguments. “You’re staying with me tonight.”

You sigh, but you can’t think of a counterpoint. “When did you get so bossy?”

“Darling, I’m a prince,” he says with a bit of a wry smirk. “It’s my birthright.”

Loki lives on the opposite end of the residential wing and his place looks quite a bit like yours—he’s got an extra window in the kitchen but the floor plan is otherwise the same. A lot of his furniture is standard issue, but there are little details that make it seem more personal: an area rug with a bit of fraying on the edges, a painting of what you think is an Asgardian landscape, a vase filled with dried flowers so delicate they look like they might disintegrate if you were to touch them. And books—so many books. Books on shelves, stacked on the coffee table, tucked into the little rack that you know is meant to hold magazines. Hardbacks, paperbacks, leather bound, dog-eared, well-worn and brand new. It’s no wonder he was so excited about the library.

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the couch. “I’ll get some things for you.”

You sit down and he disappears down the hall. You idly examine the books stacked on the end table next to you. Many are quite clearly from Asgard and it sparks a pang of sympathy—it’s like his homesickness is on full display in his living room and there’s something sweet and sad about seeing that vulnerability laid so bare.

He returns a few minutes later with a pair of pajamas, a toothbrush, and a hand towel.

“Here,” he says, handing you the pile. “Bathroom’s just down the hall. I’ll make up a bed for you.”

“Thanks.”

In the bathroom, you realize that the pajamas he’s given you aren’t the standard set you can order from the TVA. These are made of a dark emerald silk that ripples over your skin like water, and somehow, that makes it feel a thousand times more personal than if he’d loaned you a standard set. They don’t fit quite right on you, but they’ll work well enough for tonight.

You brush your teeth and attempt to get through as much of your evening routine as you can before collecting your clothes and exiting the bathroom.

When you return to the living room, you expect to find that he’s made up a bed for you on the couch. These living units only have one bedroom—it would be quite reasonable to have you sleep on the couch.

You do not expect to find a pajama clad Loki stretched out reading on the couch, a blanket over his lap and his head propped up on a pillow like he intends to sleep there.

You exhale slowly. “Please tell me you are not giving up your bed.”

“Don’t be absurd, of course I am,” he says without even looking up from his book. “The point of this was to prevent you from sleeping on a couch, not simply put you on a couch in a different location.”

You wish you had something to throw at him. “You don’t even fit on that couch.”

“Luckily, my knees bend. Besides, you’re a guest,” he says, as though that settles it.

You roll your eyes and plunk yourself down in the armchair across from the couch, setting your pile of clothes on the floor. “I’m not moving until you give up the couch.”

He finally looks up from his book. “You’re really going to do this?”

You examine your fingernails, flicking away an invisible speck of dust. “I’m not the one being unreasonable. I’m simply meeting you at your level.”

“If you think that I’m being unreasonable and you’re also saying you’re meeting me at my level, does that not mean you are admitting that you are being unreasonable?”

“It’s nearly one o’clock in the morning. I’m not arguing semantics with you.”

“Fine.” His eyes glimmer as he sets his book down and slowly rises to his feet. “But you’re still not sleeping on the couch.”

“Oh, you’re going to be so disappointed when you realize how wrong you are,” you say. You think you see your opening and you try to play it cool.

He’s walking toward you, leaving your path to the couch wide open. In your head, you can see exactly how this works: you’ll spring from your chair and dart around the coffee table before diving onto the couch like a baseball player sliding into home plate, soundly defeating Loki. Easy peasy.

Instead, what happens is that you spring to your feet and Loki moves with inhuman speed, grabbing you around your waist and pinning you to the front of his chest, stopping you in your tracks almost immediately.

“I suppose I should have expected that,” he says. Your back is facing him, but you can almost hear the dry, sardonic look he’s giving you.

“Probably,” you say. “God of mischief and all.” You struggle fruitlessly against his iron grip. “You can let me go now.”

He laughs. “I’m afraid I can’t. It was clearly a mistake to trust you. I won’t be making that error again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, trying again to squirm away from him. “Let me go.”

“The interesting thing about all of this is that you’ve made a rather substantial tactical error,” he says, continuing as though he can’t hear you.

“You’re bluffing,” you say with more confidence than you feel.

“Fascinating theory,” he says, “but I don’t think it’s going to work out for you.”

With that same ridiculous speed, he’s suddenly spinning you around and lifting you, tossing you easily over his shoulder.

“Hey!” you shout in protest.

“I warned you,” he says, his voice full of mirth as he carries you toward the bedroom.

This is not exactly how you’ve imagined being carried off to bed by Loki.

Though, admittedly, you do have a nice view of his ass.

“This is ridiculous,” you say.

“You brought this upon yourself.” He’s walking into the bedroom and a moment later, he’s lifting you from his shoulder and tossing you unceremoniously onto his bed.

You scramble to your feet and try to lunge toward the door, but he’s clearly expecting that. Before your feet even hit the floor, he catches you around the waist and hauls you back to the bed. Your back hits the mattress and you try to leverage the momentum to propel yourself back onto your feet.

He catches you immediately and you find yourself back on the bed again.

“I don’t mean to be patronizing,” he says, failing to bite back a laugh, “but it’s adorable that you think you can outmaneuver me.”

That is deeply offensive and the only way you can earn my forgiveness is by letting me take my rightful place on the couch.” You can’t quite keep the laugh from your voice.

He grins. “Not a chance.”

You attempt to dive off the opposite side of the bed, only to have him grab you by the ankles and pull you back. You manage to dislodge him and lunge in the opposite direction, only to be immediately thwarted.

It becomes increasingly hilarious the longer it goes on and soon your sides are aching from laughter. Loki is laughing too, but it doesn’t seem to affect his strength or speed at all.

Eventually, he wrestles you back down onto the bed and you are fairly certain there’s no way out of this one—he’s got your wrists pinned above your head and his legs locked around yours. You’re both a little out of breath.

“Yield,” he says.

You shake your head. “Never.”

His gaze flicks to your lips and back to your eyes. “Yield.”

“No.”

Something has changed. There’s an electricity and intensity that crackles in the air between you, possibilities blooming in both of your gazes. It feels a little like that moment by the elevator, but you’re afraid to hope, afraid to even wish because the idea of him wanting you still feels as impossible as capturing smoke with a net. 

But the way he’s looking at you, the way his gaze keeps drifting between your eyes and your lips…that’s not nothing.

“Yield.”

You lick your lips, your heart beating wildly. “No.”

Is it just your imagination, or did his breath hitch when you licked your lips?

“Yield.”

God, he’s so close and you want him so badly. 

“No.”

He looks again at your lips and this time, he closes the distance between you.

They call him Silvertongue—you’ve heard the jokes, you’ve rolled your eyes at all of them. But as he kisses you, you realize that there’s an element of truth there because only seconds in and you’re ready to sign away your soul to live under the power of Loki’s tongue. The slow, warm slide of it against yours, the way he guides your mouth against his, the way he lets out a soft sigh as he tastes you—you would give up everything if it meant you could stay like this.

“Yield,” he breathes against your lips.

“No,” you say.

He deepens the kiss, catching your lower lip between his teeth and gently tugging until you whimper and arch against him.

He still has your hands pinned against the bed, his grip unyielding when you try to wrestle them away.

“Let me touch you,” you say when he draws back. You want to touch him everywhere—run your hands along every muscle you’ve admired from afar. 

“Then yield,” he says with a grin, his eyes flashing with devilish intent.

You consider this for a moment. You could give in—there aren’t really any stakes at this point and you’re pretty sure you’re both going to end up sleeping in his bed tonight anyway. But that glint of mischief in his eyes also promises some intriguing possibilities if you stand firm.

“No,” you say.

“Such a pity,” says Loki, though his expression is one of hungry delight.

His hands slip free of your wrists then, but they stay pinned to the bed by some invisible force.

“Cheater,” you say. 

“I think this is only fair,” he says, his hands sliding to your hips. “I’m clearly the victor, am I not entitled to my prize?”

You shiver. “Your prize?”

“Yes.” He kisses down the column of your throat. “My lovely, lovely prize.”

“How can I be your prize if I’m also your competitor?”

“You think too much,” he mumbles against your neck.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Generally, it’s not.” He sits back on his heels between your legs, looking you over with satisfaction. “But in this case, it’s distracting you from more pressing matters.” His hands creep under the hem of your shirt, stroking the small of your back, thumbs tracing teasingly along the waistband of your pajama pants. 

“Have I mentioned how much I enjoy seeing you in my clothes?” he asks. There’s a husky depth to his voice and a hunger in his eyes that sends a flood of arousal to your cunt.

“You have not,” you say.

“A casualty of too much thinking,” he says solemnly, his thumbs gently grazing the skin at your hipbones. “You look utterly delectable. I almost want to leave them on.” His eyes glitter with mischief. “Almost.” His hand strays to the bottom button on your pajama top. “May I?”

You nod. “Yes.”

He slips the button free and slowly makes his way up until your shirt is open. He carefully pushes the fabric aside, baring your breasts to his sight and touch.

You’ve never felt more beautiful seeing Loki stare at you, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and hungry. He trails one hand up your stomach and rib cage and slowly brushes a thumb over your nipple. You gasp and the sensitive skin puckers and stiffens as he palms your breast, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs as he lowers his mouth to your breast, his tongue and lips taking up the role of his hand, while his other hand moves to cup your other breast. You whimper, wishing you could run your hands through his hair. “That’s it,” he purrs, “I want to hear all the sounds you can make, my love.”

You rock your hips forward and arch your back as he lavishes attention on your breasts. It’s the most delicious kind of torture, having him so close, but not being able to touch him.

He’s taking his time, which you both love and hate. He feels so good, but you need him to touch you, you need to touch him, you need him inside of you. You wait until you can’t take it any more and breathe his name like it’s a prayer.

You wonder if this is what he was waiting for because with little more than a brief smirk and a wicked look, he starts kissing his way back up your chest and neck. You whimper when his lips meet yours and you can feel him grin as he kisses you. He fits his hips against yours, angling himself so that his cock rubs up against your clit just right and you moan into his mouth. You can tell that he’s big and part of you wants to savor the anticipation even though you feel like you might go mad if he doesn’t fuck you now. You rock your hips against him, trying to feel that friction.

His large hands frame your face, one hand sliding to cradle the back of your head so he can draw you deeper, the other trailing from your cheek to your throat.

Both hands soon stroke down your sides, lingering teasingly at the waistband of your pajama pants. He hooks his thumbs underneath the waistband and you lift your hips. He slides your pants down maybe an inch and you can feel him smiling as he kisses you. You lift your hips again and your waistband creeps down another inch.

“Loki.” His name falls from your lips with a sigh.

“What is it, my love?”

“Touch me,” you breathe. “Please.”

You lift your hips again and this time, he pulls the fabric fully down and off your legs. He guides your legs apart and stares appreciatively at your bare cunt, his teasing expression replaced by a rapt awe.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. 

You believe him.

His hands stroke your thighs, seemingly in no hurry, despite your pleading whimpers and the way you arch against the mattress. He draws his thumb gently along your slit, barely grazing your clit.

“Do you know what an utter distraction it’s been sitting behind you?” he asks, tracing your clit in the slowest, lightest circle.

You arch upward, hands still bound by his magic. “Tell me,” you breathe, your hips rising to chase his hand.

“Every time you stood up, I could only think about bending you over the desk.”

You manage a sly smirk. “And here I thought you didn’t like me much at all.”

His thumb presses a little more against your clit and you moan.

“I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you,” he says, rolling his thumb in a slow circle. “I kept you at arm’s length partly as a matter of protection.”

For who?”

“You,” he says. “I’m not fully redeemed in some eyes and you being involved with a dangerous variant—”

“You’re not,” you say.

“Some would disagree.”

“Well, they’re wrong,” you say. “You’re not a dangerous variant. You’re Loki Laufeyson and I want you just as you are.”

There’s something unreadable in his expression and it makes you wonder how many people have told him that he can just be himself.

“You should be careful saying such lovely things to me, you know,” he says solemnly.

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh really? And why is that?”

“Because it makes me want to do very wicked things to you.”

You’re surprised you’re not shaking, you want him so badly. “What kinds of wicked things?”

“Oh, all manner of wicked things.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, his tongue swiping briefly against your skin. “Things with my mouth...” His thumb rolls over your clit again, his index finger teasing your entrance before retreating. “…my hands…” He drags his gaze over your naked form before locking eyes with you. “My cock.”

A shiver works its way up your spine. “So if I talk about how I think you’re really clever and funny and I find it unbelievably sexy, what sort of wicked thing would that merit?”

The intensity of his gaze makes you shiver again. He crouches down and presses another kiss against the inside of your knee, slowly moving upward. “If you keep talking like that, I’m not going to let you leave my bed for days.”

“You know that’s not a disincentive, right?” you say, sucking in a sharp breath as he nips at the soft skin of your inner thigh. “I’ve wanted you for such a long time, Loki.”

“I’ll make it weeks if you’re not careful.”

“Again, not a disincentive.” You gently tug at your bound wrists and find that they’re still firmly secured. It’s exhilarating, even though you really wish you could run your hands through his hair, especially if he ends up where you think he’s going.

“What else should I tell you?” you muse as he continues his agonizingly slow path along your thigh. “You know, half the reason I kept to myself was that I wanted you so much I was certain that I’d make a fool of myself.”

That earns you a few circles of your clit with his thumb, but his progress up your thigh remains slow. You have a theory about what might move the needle, though.

“I know you like to act like you’re this sort of barely reformed villain, but I think there’s more good in you than you’d like people to believe.”

This time, he moves up to the crease where your thigh joins your hip, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath ghosting along your labia. His tongue traces a line along your skin and you briefly wonder if you’ll be able to hold it together enough to deliver the last part.

“And,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, “yesterday and today made me want you even more because I feel like I finally saw who you really are and you’re even more wond—”

Your words abruptly give way to a breathy moan because his perfect, skilled tongue has finally found its way to your clit.

You had a plan from here, but whatever it was has dissolved into nothing under the skilled caress of Loki’s tongue. You suspected he would be good at this from the way that he’d kissed you earlier, but you could not have imagined that it would feel like this.

“Oh my god, Loki.” Your thighs are already quaking. You tug again at the invisible bonds on your wrists, but they hold fast. Something about the way the bonds are keeping you gently stretched along the bed combined with how his large hands have your thighs spread open seems to heighten every sensation. There’s no wiggling away from him or adjusting yourself so that you feel more or less of the onslaught of his tongue on your cunt. You are completely at his mercy and you’re not entirely surprised that you fucking love it.

He slides a finger into your aching channel and your cunt shudders around the thick intrusion. The warm, roiling center of your orgasm starts builds in your hips with every stroke of his tongue, spinning faster and faster, like ocean winds whipping up into a hurricane. Your back arches and his tongue presses flat against your clit, and suddenly you know that this is going to be what takes you over the edge.

Loki seems to know it too, at least from the way that he presses his tongue more firmly against you, one arm slung across your hips to hold you in place. His other hand slides two fingers inside you, rocking and curling against that aching, tender spot.

You whimper, your hips bucking wildly. It’s so good and so much and you are almost there.

You look down at him then, his hair wild, hollowed cheeks flushed pink as his tongue works you over, his eyes closed like he couldn’t imagine anything more blissful than being in between your legs while you come undone.

This is ultimately what tips you over the edge. The storm that has been forming inside you is finally let loose and you arch your back and cry out in a wordless scream as your climax crashes into you.

Only then do the bonds around your wrists release and your hands fly down to grab his hair as your body shakes with pleasure.

It takes a moment for you to get your breath back and reacquaint yourself with the concept of speech, but when you do, you find Loki looking up at you, his expression pure mischief.

“And to think you wanted to sleep on the couch.”

“It wasn’t that I wanted to sleep on the couch, it’s that—” Your voice cuts off as his tongue starts stroking your clit again.

“It’s what?” he asks in between strokes, his smirk obvious in his voice. The lingering ripples of your orgasm are coalescing around the path of his tongue, tightening that coil in your belly again.

“Fuck—you’re not playing fair, you can’t just—” You lose your sentence to a low moan that rises up from your chest. “You can’t just—fuck, yes—you can’t…oh god, yes, just like that.”

His laughter rumbles against you as your hips start rocking against his mouth. How are you already so close?

“You can’t just—fuck—win an argument by—”

You’re trying to say that he can’t expect to win an argument by making you come and you think he might understand this based on how determined he seems to be to prove you wrong. His fingers curl again until he finds that soft, tender spot that is so often the key to your unraveling.

You have stopped trying to complete that sentence—you moan, your hands tangling in his hair, urging him on as the swell of your climax rushes up, inevitable as a tidal wave looming over a seaside village.

You cry out as it crests and breaks, falling down over you in a rush of tingling pleasure that feels like champagne and fireworks all at once.

“Now, what was it you were saying, my love?” he asks as he releases your clit a moment later. “Something about how I can’t just win an argument by making you come? I couldn’t quite hear you over the sound of you coming completely undone on my tongue.”

“Oh, you think you’re so smart,” you say, giving him a stern look as he crawls up your body.

“You know what I think?” he says, settling himself on his side next to you. “I think you liked submitting to me.”

You shiver before you can even think about hiding it and his smile turns decidedly vulpine. 

“You did, didn’t you? You liked having your hands bound and being completely at my mercy while I licked your pretty cunt until you came undone in my mouth.”

“You are enjoying this far too much,” you say.

“I am enjoying it the correct amount.”

You realize your hands are now free to explore his body and you tug at his pajama shirt. “I think you’re wearing too many clothes,” you say.

He gives you a wicked grin as he lets you pull his shirt over his head. “Yes, perhaps it’s time we even things up.”

You pull the shirt away and rake your eyes over him greedily, your hands following the path of your gaze. He is as perfect as you imagined, unfairly beautiful in the dim light of the bedroom.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband of his pajama pants and lower them an inch, a cheeky parallel of how he teased you earlier. His lips curl into a sharp smile when he realizes what you’re doing.

“Interesting strategy.” There’s a bit of a growl in his voice, a rough desperation that makes your cunt clench. “But I think you forgot that I have the upper hand here.”

He raises his hand and with a twist of his wrist, his remaining clothes dissolve in a shimmer of green and he is bare before you.

Your breath catches in your throat. His cock commands your immediate attention, nudging up against your thigh—he’s big, as you suspected, but completely bare and rock hard, he somehow seems longer and thicker than he had when he was grinding against you.

He pulls you into a slow kiss as you reach for his cock. You wrap your hand around him, delighting in the silky hardness of him, the way he throbs in your hand and the low groan he makes as your hand moves from base to tip and back, the way his hips thrust along with you. Your cunt clenches in anticipation.

After a moment, though, he places his hand over yours, slowing your movements.

“I need to be inside you,” he rasps.

“Yes,” you breathe.

He rolls on top of you  and you’re not sure that you’ve ever felt anything quite as wonderful as the heat of his bare skin and yours pressed together. This feeling means intimacy, a closeness that you’d longed for but never expected even in your wildest daydreams.

He pulls you into a kiss, slow, soft, and languid, like you have all the time in the world and he intends to take it. It’s decadent and dreamy and perfect.

But the heavy weight of his bare cock resting against your stomach combined with the ache between your legs—an ache that would be so perfectly soothed by the hard column of flesh currently throbbing against you—proves to be a force too powerful to resist for very long.

You cant your hips against him, snaking one leg around his waist, hoping he’ll get the hint.

He does.

He braces himself on one hand, the other sliding between your bodies to rub his cock along your slick folds. He positions himself at your entrance, waiting for your breathy plea to begin to ease himself slowly into you.

He fills and stretches you in the most wonderful way, but even more than that, he feels like home. The thought strikes you quite suddenly and you’re not entirely sure about everything it means, but you know it’s good and right.

He pauses for just a moment, seeming to savor the feeling.

“You feel better than I ever imagined,” he says.

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “You imagined?”

He gives you a hungry smile as he leans in to kiss you. “Like I said: it has been an utter distraction sitting behind you.”

His rhythm is slow and easy, like he wants to take his time learning every inch of you and memorizing how you react to his touch. His mouth moves over yours in a slow kiss that’s somehow both languid and demanding, his tongue gliding in and out of your mouth in the same rhythm of his hips rocking into you. His cock bumps up against that sweet spot inside of you that his fingers had teased earlier, each stroke inching you closer to bliss.

He shifts the angle of his hips so that his pubic bone grinds against your clit and it feels so good you almost see stars. You can feel your orgasm building, your cunt growing slicker and tensing around his thrusting cock.

He draws back to look at you, eyes hazy with a loose, dreamy kind of pleasure.

“Do you have any idea how good you feel?” he breathes.

You are shaking. “Loki, I’m gonna come.”

“I know you are,” he purrs. “Let go for me, let me feel you, my love.”

With two more thrusts of his hips, you unravel.

He groans as you tremble around him, but mostly, he watches your face, rapt by the way you throw your head back against the bed and gasp his name like it’s the only thing that will save you.

“You’re beautiful when you come,” he breathes. “Absolutely stunning.”

He waits until you catch your breath before he kisses you again, slow and sensual. His hips are still rocking in that beautifully slow rhythm and you don’t know how it can still feel so good.

He keeps moving against you, his touch and his low murmurs of praise invoking a symphony of sensations. He presses deeper and your body sings with every thrust, your muscles tensing and tightening around him like you never want him to leave. Your climax swells again and you come with a whimper, your whole body shaking as he fucks you through it.

You want him to come, want to hear the sounds he makes and feel his sweet, hot release burning inside of you.

“I want you to come for me,” you breathe.

He grins at you. “Oh, I will, but not yet. You’re not done yet.”

You whimper. “Loki—”

“Two more, my love, two more and then I’ll come for you.”

Somehow, you give him three. By the second one, he’s panting and his words have become rough, his voice a growl as he utters some of the filthiest praise you’ve ever heard. The third builds quickly after that and you know instinctively that you’re going to take him over the edge with you this time.

You fight to keep your eyes open against the tidal wave of pleasure blooming again in your hips. You need to see him come undone.

As in everything else he does, he’s unfairly beautiful—he throws his head back, letting out a low groan that you can feel all the way to the tips of your toes. His cheeks are flushed, a few ink dark curls plastered to the light sheen of sweat on his forehead. You can feel him emptying himself inside you, his release hot and hard won.

It seems to last a long time and it’s another minute before his hips slow to a halt. He kisses you, so soft and sweet it would almost seem chaste were it not for the fact that his cock is still throbbing inside of you.

After a moment, he slowly eases out of you, rolling over onto his back, his arm snaking around your waist and pulling you to him like he can’t bear to be parted from you even for a moment.

You curl up against his side, your legs tangling with his. He takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours before resting your clasped hands on his heart.

You could fall in love like this, you think sleepily to yourself.

You don’t know it then, but you’re right.

*

Time moves differently at the TVA, but a couple years later, there’s a ring in a box on your desk.

Loki likes a spectacle and you’d daydreamed about a traditional wedding, but when you talk it over, you both agree that you want to do something different, something quiet, something just for the two of you.

“I do think we should tell Mobius beforehand,” you say to Loki.

“Isn’t the point of eloping that no one knows until after it’s done?” says Loki.

“Yes, but I feel like we could make one exception,” you say. “If we’d done a full wedding, I would have asked him to give me away.”

Loki’s gaze softens a bit then and he pulls you close. “All right. But we only tell him right before we leave. The man can’t keep a secret.”

But Mobius doesn’t seem terribly surprised when you tell him—in fact, he seems far more concerned about your wedding gift.

“I didn’t have a chance to wrap it yet,” he says. He’s retrieved a large picture frame that had been propped against his desk, though he keeps it turned away from you. “So…this also requires a bit of an overdue confession for context.”

You raise your eyebrows. “A confession?”

“A confession,” says Mobius.

“Will I be angry about this?” asks Loki at the same time you say, “Is this like a go to jail confession or a misdemeanor confession?”

Mobius gives a good natured chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “God, the two of you. Always so dramatic. No wonder you ended up together.” He takes what feels like an unnecessarily long drink from the coffee mug on his desk. “It’s not bad, I promise.” Another sip of coffee. 

Loki sighs. “He always does this,” he says to you. “Have you noticed? Whenever he has something that you want to know, he stalls and drags it out just to torment you.”

“Okay,” you say, “but you jumping in to bicker with him probably doesn’t help.”

“I’m not bickering,” says Loki. “I’m simply pointing out that he’s stalling—”

“What was it you were saying, Mobius?” you say brightly, nudging Loki with your elbow.

Mobius’ eyes twinkle. “See,” he says to Loki, “I always liked her. It’s a good match.”

You don’t have to look at Loki to know he’s rolling his eyes, though he also makes a point of surreptitiously pinching your ass, a detail you hope Mobius doesn’t notice.

“Anyway,” says Mobius, taking a deep breath, “it was pretty clear to me from the start that you liked each other. And you also seemed absolutely determined to get in your own way.” He points to Loki. “Especially you with your whole stilted Asgardian prince thing.”

Loki frowns. “What are you talking about?”

Mobius sighs. “Anytime you like someone, it’s like your brain gets a factory reset and you get all overly polite and courtly.”

Loki scoffs. “I don’t do that at all.”

“You do. It’s deeply weird. You’re like a mannerly robot.”

Loki turns to you. “Darling, tell him he’s being absurd.”

You reach over and squeeze his hand. “You did call me ‘my lady’ a couple of times in the early days.”

Loki sighs and looks back at Mobius. “What was your point in mentioning this?”

“Well,” says Mobius, “you seemed pretty determined to get in your own way, so nothing was happening. And eventually I got sick of all of the pining, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.”

“What do you mean?”

Mobius pauses, a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “There wasn’t a breakthrough with Berlitz that weekend. What there was was a surplus in the overtime budget and a high priority indexing project for Archives.”

Your lips part as your brain slowly puts the pieces together. Mobius’ eyes twinkle.

“Wait,” you say, “you lied to us?”

“I did not lie,” says Mobius, his demeanor suddenly becoming very serious. “That would have been wrong.” He nods at Loki. “Also, it would’ve tipped him off and that would have ruined the whole thing. I simply failed to mention that the cart of files that I gave you needed to be sorted for indexing for the Archives department and I peppered in a couple of unrelated things about Berlitz.”

“But the office was empty that weekend,” says Loki.

Mobius snaps his fingers. “Right. I did make some adjustments to the schedule that weekend.”

“And the disturbance that prevented her from returning home on Saturday night?”

Mobius spreads his hands wide and grins. “All me, buddy. Paid G-21 five hundred bucks for that one.”

Loki pauses for a moment and then looks at you. “I don’t think I can be mad about this. I’m genuinely impressed.”

“I mean, I can’t argue with the results, but Jesus, Mobius, you could’ve just set us up on a blind date,” you say.

“Ah, but that’s not as fun,” Mobius says. “Plus, it wouldn’t have made for as good a wedding gift.” He turns the frame around and hands it to you both.

It’s both your timecards from that pay period, neatly framed side by side. Your eyes well with tears and Mobius smiles.

“Honestly, I’m just relieved it’s not a jet ski,” says Loki.

“He's deflecting,” you say to Mobius in an exaggerated whisper.

“I know,” he whispers back.

But you can’t help but notice that Loki’s eyes are brighter than normal.

“Okay, now get out of here,” says Mobius. “You’ve got a wedding to get to.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re wearing a simple white dress and standing with Loki in front of a time door, your hand clasped in his.

“Technically, we don’t have a supervisor’s approval for this,” you say with a wry smile.

He looks at you, eyes dancing with mirth. “I had Mobius sign off on the paperwork while you were getting ready.”

Your heart swells and your smile is so wide that you feel like your face might split in two. “Then hurry up and marry me, Laufeyson.”

He grins and tugs you through the time door.

-------

But wait! There's more: I don't have a masterlist for this, but if you enjoy these idiots, check out Daylight, a sort of sequel.

[bpmiranda]

Can I request lumberjack Logan and Farmer’s daughter reader sneaking into the barn with Logan. 🙈

Like Animals (Logan Howlett) nsfw

A/N: lumberjack!logan x farmer’s daughter!reader, age gap, gagging, semi-public sex, unprotected sex, reader is 18+

Helping to tend a farm was easy when there was a routine to follow. Routines were good, they made you feel confident and in control. Never stray from your routine, and everything will work out as it usually does. That’s what you lived by, until your dad hired a lumberjack to help him build a new smokehouse.

His name was Logan and he was so very attractive. You couldn’t possibly focus on your tasks with him wielding that ax, the sunlight catching off his toned, rippled body. You and your friends would hurry back to the farm after class just to giggle and watch him from afar as he cut down the lumber, most of the times while he was shirtless. “Good Lord,” Your friend sighed dreamily as you were watching from the porch drinking lemonade. “You’re so lucky.”

“Aren’t I?” You beam, biting your lip as you see him stand and stretch out to take a break. “Wait right here, I’ll be back.” You say quickly as you refill your glass with lemonade from the pitcher and your friends stifle their giggles as you walk over to the tired, sweaty lumberjack.

It’s ridiculous how the sun glistens off his sweaty muscles, making him glow like a god, and it’s hard to keep your mind focused. “Is that for me?” He asks with a charming grin as you approach him with a blush on your cheeks. You nod slowly, big eyes staring up at him as he thanks you for the lemonade and proceeds to down it. “Lord, that’s delicious. Did you make it?” He asks.

You take the glass back from him, trace the rim with your index finger, and stick it between your lips to suck softly. “I did. I use a little blueberry syrup.” You say with a smile. Logan’s watching that index finger still tracing your bottom lip and he grins, shaking his head lightly.

“You oughta get back to your friends, little lady.” He winks as he picks up his ax again and you bound happily back to your group of girls who squeal as you return and bombard you with questions.

While you know it’s inappropriate, and your father has warned you that Logan’s not to be distracted, you can’t help yourself. It’s so fun to mess around with him, make him flustered with the attention you give him because you know he doesn’t want your father to find out and fire him. You don’t want that either. And while Logan’s too much of a gentleman to come onto you, you’re not a stranger to putting in work to get what you want. The smokehouse will be done soon and he’ll move on to wherever they need him next, so you play on the wonderful trait that is your family’s Southern hospitality.

“Dad, we should invite Logan to eat dinner with us tonight. You know, as a thank you for helping us with the smokehouse.” You bring up one afternoon as you’re helping your mother prepare dinner in the kitchen.

Your dad gives you a look as your mother turns and claps her hands cheerily. “Oh, what a wonderful idea! Let’s do that, dear.” She agrees, wringing her hands on her apron as she starts collecting extra potatoes and tells you to grab an extra plate setting.

You smile sheepishly as your dad grumbles a ‘guess I’ll go invite him then’ and you’re quick to hurry to your bedroom to get ready for dinner. You knew you had been saving that little blue dress for a special occasion, and this was it. The white lace along the sweetheart neckline makes it give you a dainty look and you smooth the tulip sleeves down before stepping back into your brown boots.

Logan’s downstairs sitting at the kitchen table with your dad as your mom’s setting the food down in front of them. You smile sweetly at him as you go to help her, not interrupting their conversation although you notice the look in his eyes when they fall on your mid-thigh length dress. Dinner is as pleasant as it can be, your parents sit next to each other with your dad at the head of the table and you next to your mom. Logan sits on the other side of your dad and you keep sneaking looks at him, biting your lip when he looks at you and turning to your plate shyly, or pretending to be which he to finds amusing.

After dinner, your mom insists that Logan stay the night because it is far too late for him to drive home and your dad agrees. They have you set him up in the guest room with blankets and towels and as you’re fixing up the bed for him, he’s watching at a respectful distance from the other side of the room. “You scared of me, Logan?” You asked with a sweet smile as you stand up straight and clasp your hands in front of you. Logan smirks and shakes his head. “Why’re you so far away? I don’t have cooties.” You tease as you lightly sway in your dress.

“Because I think I know what you’re doin’, darlin’,” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck as he takes in the sight of you so sweet and dainty. “And I don’t wanna get us caught by your father who has kindly invited me into his home.”

You purse your lips in thought, taking a few steps closer to him as he’s leaning against the bureau with an easy smile, unfazed by the way you approach him. “We could sneak into the barn.” You suggest with a playful smile, biting your lip as his nostrils flare and his arms cross over the chest. “No one would hear us or see us. We’d be all alone.” You tried sweetly as you placed a hand on his forearm and Logan shook his head. With a fake, defeated sigh, you shrug. “Okay, well, I’ll be down in the barn all alone if you change your mind.”

Logan grabs your arm as you’re turning to leave and you look up at him, wide eyed and your heart beating fast. “Don’t do this.” He says in a warning tone.

“Do what?” You ask innocently, turning to him as you press your chest into his and you stand on your toes to kiss him. Logan knows he shouldn’t, but it’s so easy for him to give in when you’re moaning against his lips and touching his chest eagerly. His hands find your waist and he holds you tight against him, slipping his tongue into your mouth only to quickly pull away as he hears footsteps before you do.

You only realize he has stepped away from you and towards the bed as the bedroom door opens and your mom’s urging you to hurry up so Logan can get some sleep. You wish Logan a goodnight as you back out of the room, point to your wrist, and hold up ten fingers. Logan winks at you and you close his door.

After you wait for your parents to fall asleep, you sneak out of your room to find Logan doing the same. You grin at each other and he takes you by the hand as he quietly leads you out of the house and to the barn.

Once inside, Logan’s got you pinned up to a load bearing post, kissing you hard as he holds your face in his large hands. You tug and pull on his flannel, moaning as his hard cock is pressing against your lower belly. “Does your daddy know how sneaky his daughter is?” Logan teases after he helps you pull off his flannel and you’re undoing his belt buckle.

“You think this is my first time?” You tease back and a darkness takes over Logan’s eyes before he roughly spins you around and makes you hold onto the wooden post. You grin to yourself as he’s lifting your dress up and he kneels down behind you. Logan gives you a single hard spank and you gasp, your legs tremble lightly, and he does it again making you moan this time. “Oh, Logan,” Another spank and you cry out, “Fuck!”

“Hold on tight to that post, little lady.” He tells you as he rips your lace panties off before he’s burying his face into your warm, wet cunt. You wrap your arms around the load bearing structure, hands clutching to it tightly above you as your head rolls back from the pleasure of his tongue and teeth devouring and torturing your womanhood. His hands have your dress bunched up over the swell of your ass and he’s squeezing your cheeks hard, groaning and mumbling how good you taste into your core. The vibrations make you tremble with want of a release and he can feel it. “Not yet, darlin’,” He says as he stands up behind you suddenly and fishes his cock out of his pants. “Wanna feel that little pussy get me wet.”

Your eyes sting with hot tears as he is ruthless with how he enters you, and you realize that the way you put on your innocent charade, he very well could have put on the gentlemanly act. There’s no way a gentleman could fuck like this, but definitely a lumberjack. Logan has both hands on your hips, guiding you along his hard shaft with ease and your shaking, whimpering as he’s fucking you so languidly, grunting and humming in approval while you’re losing control. “Oh, damn it, Logan!” You cry as your thighs tremble with the force of your orgasm and he only continues, his fingers digging deeply into the flesh of your ass while he’s as still and strong as an oak tree behind you.

“Got the tightest pussy I’ve ever been in.” He growls into your ear, his firm chest pressed against your back as he’s rutting deep into you.

You can feel his cock throb warningly, your fingernails dig into the aged wood of the post you’re desperately clinging to, and you choke on your words making them tumble out between cries and moans, “I - I - uh - I’m not on - any - uh - not inside.” You cry out and he only moves you down onto the barn floor so you’re lying on your back. He’s quick to shove himself right back into your small cunt and he stuffs your mouth with your ripped lace panties, covering your lips with his hand so you can’t spit them out, and he pounds hard into you. He might not be your first, but he wants to corrupt the sweet little farmer’s daughter anyway.

“I’ll get you a pill in the mornin’,” He groans, determined to finish and determined to finish inside your warm, squelching, young pussy. “Feels too good to quit, darlin’.” Logan grunts as his head leans back and he suddenly shooting his load inside you. His chest flexes from the force of his release and you moan at the feeling of being so stuffed by him. Your eyes shut tightly as he swells inside you, milking himself of every drop before he pulls out and drops his forehead to rest against yours.

“You’re an animal.” You tease as he’s kissing your neck and your chest. Your hands caress his head and you rake your fingers through his hair slowly, enjoying the warmth and heft of his body over yours.

Logan laughs, thinking ‘if you only knew,’ before helping you up off the floor and picking loose hay out of your hair. “It’s a good thing we’re in a barn then.”

I am so happy you asked for this one! I enjoyed writing it very much:) Let me know what you think!