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freakassfemme · 2 months

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can you pls do being fwbs with abby but it's a secret and you're struggling to keep quiet 🥺

SORRY I WENT CRAZY WITH THIS SUPER ANGSTY AND SAPPY AGHHHHHH. please I could treat her so much better than Owen, she deserves everything ***not proof read, sorry*** wc: 2.6k warnings: !Owen!, f/f, fingering, smut, dubcon if u squint rly hard, cheating, comphet, abby deserves better:(, abby does no wrongs, etc.,

good luck, babe! [smut/angst] *°:⋆ₓₒ

playlist: i wanna be your girlfriend / lacy / good luck babe

"No, 's cute," Abby had said, running her finger over the felt material. "I wish someone loved me enough to make me one."

You had watched her curiously, your head tilted. She was sat on your living room couch in your apartment, cradling the stocking of your soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend with such tender and care, you had to keep your thoughts in check, remind yourself of the situation and who you were with as your instincts tried to spill over and into her arms.

"You and Owen totally could, its not hard," you said, already planning a list of materials you could loan or give to her, knowing she would have no idea, but she was already letting out a soft laugh and shaking her head.

"No, it's okay," she said, so obviously trying to keep a cheerful tone that the thickness of her tone weighed on your heart. "It's not really his thing."

You let out a small sigh, walking back over with both of your cups of hot chocolate. It was like clockwork, the way you curled up next to your longtime best friend, resting your head on her shoulder and handing her the cup.

"He's stupid," you said, like you always did when Owen acted like he was too good to even be a decent boyfriend.

Abby took the cup gratefully, sipping on it and humming. She let the taste linger on her tongue, the staleness in her mouth disappearing with the refreshing mint and chamomile of the imported tea she had bought you for your last birthday.

"I know," she said simply, frowning and leaning her head back on to yours. ''I'll get over it."

"You shouldn't have to."

"I know."

Abby may have gotten over it, but you didn't.

As the days ticked closer to Christmas, you found yourself lingering on the idea. And when your own stupid, good-for-nothing girlfriend dumped you on your porch one snowy night, you found yourself looking for distractions. After tossing out your ex's stocking, you bundled yourself up in your coat and marched yourself down to the craft store.

It was easy to pick out the decorations for Abby's stocking -- a gold velvet stocking, and you had carefully written her name on it in a cursive red-glitter glue, adding a couple snowflakes after the y. You hung a few golden bells and silver coins from the corner, curling some metallic ribbons to add a special flare to the hook.

You were already making your way over to Abby's apartment the following day when it had finally dried, as you had been for the past few weeks, just because Abby wanted to keep checking in on you after work to make sure you were okay, help pack up some of the other girl's things or give you a shoulder to cry on if you needed it.

The fresh stocking was carefully packed into a glittery gift bag that you knew Abby would sigh at, probably complain about there being sparkles in her house for the next decade. The thought made you smile, and you knocked on her door with a gentle tap and familiar pattern that had her leaping up from her kitchen barstool, dinner for one abandoned and rushing towards the door.

"Hi," she said, smiling sweetly as she always did, though she had to speak around her food as she opened the door. Her hand covered her mouth, and she gave you an apologetic look when you jokingly grimaced,

"Hi," you chirped back, fluttering inside and letting her help you out of your coat. "I brought you something."

Abby swallowed her food quickly, smacking her chest to suppress a cough as it went down the wrong side. You only rolled your eyes and smacked her back gently once, making her snort at your attempt to help.

"For me?" She repeated, eyes wide and glimmering as she followed you like a lost puppy into her living room. She watched as you picked up Owen's coat off of a barstool between two fingers, like it grossed you out. She leaned against the doorway of her kitchen, laughing softly as you flicked it away and brushed off the stool, then sat down.

"Well, definitely not for your boyfriend," you replied, giving her a teasing smile. You plopped the bag on to the counter, folding both of your hands in your lap and giving her a knowing smile. "Don't say anything about the bag except thank you, or I might actually combust, okay?"

Abby rolled her eyes, shaking her head. She pushed herself off the doorframe and shuffled over, hands raised up in a mocking defense.

"Okay, okay," she said, sitting down on the stool next to you. She tried not to pay too close attention to the way you scooted forward, facing towards her as you dramatically handed her the bag, doing a little ta-da-esque hand gesture that made her snort.

Abby's eyes watched your excited face as her hand shifted through the bag. It brushed against something soft, and her eyebrows furrowed, half-convinced you had gifted her a ridiculous hat to wear, until she pulled it out and her heart stopped.

Bits of glitter fluttered down to the ground around her, and she would've scolded you, would've said something, if she wasn't frozen in place with her breath caught in her throat.

Her eyes wandered over the neat penmanship of her name, at the coins with holes carefully hammered into them so they could be strung on the side, at the little snowflakes at the end of her name and the shiny velvet that reminded her of all the times you complimented her blonde hair, calling it more beautiful than a golden August sunset. God, she could feel her heart aching in her chest.

"Do you like it?" You asked quietly, voice timid after her long silence and lack of response.

Abby quickly wiped at her eyes, sniffling, though she still refused to meet your gaze. She nodded, letting out a pathetic chuckle.

"Yeah, yeah, of course I do," she said, though it didn't sound as confident as she wanted it to. "Of course I do, thank you."

You took her hesitance the entirely wrong way, her reaction as negative, and instantly began rambling to cover your embarrassment.

"I just remembered you saying something about wanting one, and I had the stuff -- well, I had to make a short trip to the craft store but that's okay because I never mind going there --"

The barstool squeaked as Abby pushed herself from it, rushing towards you with hungry hands and eyes and a starving mouth that wrapped warmly around yours. Her hands cradled your face, her eyes squeezing shut as she crashed into you, tears falling down her cheeks.

You let out a small squeak, frozen for a moment before melting into her touch, hands coming down from trying to push her away to pulling her closer by the hem of her shirt.

That was the first time you kissed Abby.

The second time was on New Years, when she walked you home after you got a little too tipsy and she was eager to escape from Owen.

"What are we doing?" You had murmured against her lips, shivering as cold snowflakes fell on to your intertwined bodies, and she had only shrugged, mumbling back an I don't know as you pulled her inside and began to undress her.

You had never bothered trying to clarify things after that, letting things be as they were. You tried to convince yourself that it wasn't as bad as it was -- that you were just really close with Abby, that this was more of a friends with benefits thing that was good for Abby as she tried to figure out what the fuck was going on with her and Owen. You tried to convince yourself that it was nothing more, and that this was okay.

"'S okay, baby, it's okay, I've got you sweet girl, holy shit --"

Abby babbled nonsense as you gushed around her fingers, sprawled out in her bed and panting, bare breasts shimmering in the sweat and moonlight of her apartment window.

"Fuck, oh my god, Abby," you whined, one of your legs propped over her shoulder. She desperately bucked her hips into it, her clothed clit catching deliciously between her underwear and the soft curve of your ass, and her grinding only further pushing her fingers inside of you.

"I know, I know, fuck," she hissed back, biting down on your calf to try to quiet herself.

It was late February, and you two had continued this [un]ethical affair for far longer than you were comfortable with, but you couldn't deny that despite Abby's inexperience with girls, she was an absolute gem in the bedroom, one you just couldn't turn away so soon. At least, that was the reason you convinced yourself with.

Abby and Owen had had another argument, and she had sent him out for about the millionth time, picked up her phone and called you over for about the millionth-and-first time. You always came running when she called.

While you fought yourself over the morality of it, Abby was far beyond caring at this point. The only reason she hadn't broken up with Owen wasn't because of any fleeting feelings towards him, but because she was more concerned with the prospect of dealing with what it meant to cheat on your boyfriend with another girl,and the terms that came with admitting the reality of her predicament. So, for now, it was easier to spark arguments with her piece of shit boyfriend and send him out so she could pile-drive you into her mattress and bury her thoughts deep inside of your cunt.

"Mmpf, fuck, I'm gonna cum," You squealed out, head flopping back against the mattress and eyes rolling back as you felt your body nearing that bursting point. Abby could feel your thighs shaking, and she moaned at the sight, brushing her thumb over your clit between her sweet praises.

With a loud moan, you shattered around her fingers for what had to be the fourth or fifth time that night. Salty tears slipped down your face as you came, babbling nonsense and digging your nails into her arm in a way that had her hissing and groaning.

"Fuck," she swore under her breath, the pace of her hips increasing as she watched you. The damp patch on her boxers was near dripping capacity as she slumped over you, desperately chasing her own high. "God, you're gorgeous."

"Gonna cum for me?" You whined, legs shaking uncontrollably at the overstimulation. Abby pulled her hand away and ripped her boxers off, grunting as she nodded stupidly, rubbing her clit against your puffy cunt.

"Yeah, fuck, I'm gonna -- shit -- I'm gonna c--"

The apartment walls rattled with a slam that had you jumping back some, eyes going wide. Abby's hand slapped over your mouth just as you went to scream, squeal, or whatever surprised noise was threatening to slip out and alert the drunken Owen wandering through Abby's apartment.

"Abby?" He called, just her name alone slurring so much it was barely intelligible.

"Shit," Abby groaned quietly, and both of you exchanged worried glances as Owen's voice kept growing louder, coming closer.

"Abby!" He called again, this time more clear. When his footsteps became audible, Abby's hand tightened around your mouth.

"Fuck off!" She snapped back, turning slightly so she could yell through the door.

"Come on, baby, can't we talk this out?" He slurred back through the door, coming closer.

"I swear to god, Owen, if you don't leave me the fuck alone, I'll beat your ass to a fucking pulp!" She snapped, her other hand under your knee tightening in a bruising strength.

Your stomach fluttered with panic as your eyes shifted between the unlocked bedroom door, where the shadows of Owen's feet were very much there, and the way you and Abby were tangled against each other in an extremely compromising position.

"What's your fucking problem?" He snarled back through the door, and Abby rolled her eyes.

"You are! I'm fucking serious, Owen, leave me alone!"

You knew just as much as Owen did that Abby probably would beat him if he walked in right now, though you weren't sure if it was in the hopes of short-term amnesia or just out of pure anger.

Thankfully, Owen grumbled something about Abby being a bitch (to which she scoffed) and shuffled away. There was a small thud, presumably him slumping against the couch, and then the living room TV turned on.

Abby let out a sigh of relief, turning back to you. She looked down at you, panting, and then let out a relieved chuckle.

Instinctively, you went to push her hand away, ready to pull your clothes back on and hightail it out of there, but Abby gently slapped your hand away, furrowing her eyebrows and mouthing what?

You widened your eyes in disbelief.

He's right there! You mouthed back, shaking your head as her hand snaked back down to below your thigh, resuming its previous position.

Abby only chuckled, trying to wave you off, but your eyes widened impossibly further as she began rolling her hips against you again, heavy panting filling the room. Anxiety flooded your stomach, and you tried to push her off.

"Abby!" You hissed, and she only gave you an annoyed look, like you were the one being insane right now.

"What?" She repeated, though this time it was in a much more mocking tone. Of course, she knew exactly why you were freaking out, but she couldn't help the way it further enticed her.

"He is going to hear us!" You whispered smacking her shoulder. Abby rolled her eyes, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head, holding them with such ease between just one of her hands. Her hips continued their assault against your overstimulated cunt, and you had to bite your lip to keep from letting out a broken whine.

"Not if you’re quiet," she whispered, licking her lips as she stifled her own moan.

Abby leaned over you, tucking her face into your neck as she worked herself on you, into you when her clit caught against your entrance. She chuckled when you kicked against her, squirming to escape and fighting to not make a noise, but kept herself there, grinding right into your sensitive hole until you were biting down on her shoulder to keep quiet.

"That's it, that's it," she encouraged softly, letting out a soft grunt that made you tense up, but when Owen didn't come storming into the room, screaming and threatening, you melted into her next thrust. You let out hesitant sighs of pleasure that made Abby purr against your throat.

"Shhh, just like that, baby, 'm almost done, I promise," she said, her voice breaking between the last few words. Her hand let go of your wrists, opting to grab at the mattress and use it as leverage as she pushed harder against you. The bed moved, but she was so calculated and collected about it that the headboard just barely smacked the wall, only a soft tap echoing through the room.

"I got you, I got you baby," she breathed, letting out a soft whine. Her hips stuttered as the bed rocked, and your nails dug into her back, teeth threatening to draw blood into her skin as you tried so hard not to alert the man in the living room.

"Shit, just be quiet a little longer for me, okay? Good girl, good fucking girl."

#abby anderson #smut #x reader #tlou2 #tlou part 2 #tlou #fanfiction #ao3 #the last of us #the last of us part 2 #lesbian #female reader #wow #ellie williams

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show-your-fangs · 1 year

Text

Swimming Pool ✿ Aaron Hotchner

We Shouldn't (And Yet We Do) - Part One

Pairing: DBF!Hotch x f!Reader

Words: 12.6k

CW: 18+, NSFW, mdni, smut, a little angst and so much fluff.

Summary: You return home for the summer because of your parents’ drama but luckily for you, your father’s friend, Mr. Hotchner, is there to bring you some much needed comfort.

Tags/warnings: shitty family life, age gap relationship (reader is 20, Hotch is 40), teasing, groping, perv!hotch, inappropriate thoughts and behavior, grinding, daddy kink bc fuck you, fingering (f receiving), protected piv sex (wrap it before you tap it or at least make sure you talk it over with your partner and get tested!).

a/n: Thank you so much to @canuck-eh for writing Loose Morals and reigniting my passion to write this series, and to @xladyxdreamer for putting up with my Moments angst to the point where this series is now my penance for it. Finally, to whoever started the DBF!Hotch train, you are a god and I love you.

Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND OR TO USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI. FUCK AI.

Coming back home in the middle of summer was…a lot. You’d just finished your second year away at college and you weren’t supposed to come back home until Christmas six months later, a compromise you’d agreed to only for your mother. But then she’d called out of the blue, sobbing, hysterical, and you had booked a flight back home to Virginia before she’d even hung up.

When you did finally arrive the morning after, she was much calmer, but the edge in her voice remained and you knew something was wrong. The only problem was that she refused to tell you what it was. It wasn’t until your high school friend took you out to lunch later that she finally clued you in as to what was going on.

Your father had apparently been caught getting busy with another one of the professors at the college he taught at. Someone had taken a…suggestive picture and now everything was in shambles. Well, not everything, mostly just his own marriage. From the little bits of information you were able to string together from your mother, it was clear that he was gaslighting her into believing that the picture was taken out of context and he wasn’t actually having an affair.

It had all blown up in your face about twenty minutes ago. Your house was packed with people, mostly your father’s close friends, colleagues, and their wives. He had decided to host an end of term/start of summer cocktail party to quell whatever doubts lingered amongst his social circles that whatever had or had not been taken didn’t mean anything and his marriage was still going strong. What he hadn’t accounted for, however, was you coming back to make sure your mother was alright.

You’d been holding onto the anger all afternoon as you followed your mother around, yelling and complaining and just desperately trying to reason with her. You’d never been a huge fan of your father. Sure, he’d done the bare minimum to give you life and was now paying for the part of your tuition that wasn’t covered by all the scholarships you’d gotten so that you didn’t have to graduate with massive loans. But aside from the small kindnesses he awarded you every so often, your relationship was nonexistent.

It was almost as if he’d predicted your mood because he didn’t arrive at the house until the party was minutes from starting. You had thought about leaving, about going out and getting wasted with your high school friends, but before you could even tell your mother you were going out, you found her crying in the master bedroom. And just like that you were back to seeing red.

The door swung open and you practically stormed towards it like a woman possessed.

“We need to talk,” you started. “No, let me rephrase, I need to scream at you and you’re going to listen—”

“Honey,” your father said sternly, opening the door fully. “Do not be rude to Aaron, say hello.”

Shame hit you like a bus as Mr. Hotchner came into focus behind your father. Fuck, he was good. It was eerie how clever your father could be when he didn’t want to be told off, when he knew that he’d done something wrong and instead of owning up to it he’d do everything in his power to avoid talking about it.

“Hi, Mr. Hotchner,” you managed through gritted teeth as your father walked past you and into the kitchen.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he replied, an amused smile on his lips. “I didn’t know you were coming back for summer break.”

“I’m not,” you tried to keep your voice steady. He must’ve known why you were angry, why the sudden outburst, but he didn’t reply, he simply nodded, lips in a thin line, trying to look anywhere but you.

“Well,” he broke the short silence. “I better put this on ice.”

He held out a bottle of Scotch he’d presumably brought over from his own house next door and walked after your father. You stood alone at the open door, the freedom of the night away from the exhaustion of fighting against your parents alluring. And yet you couldn’t seem to walk out, couldn’t seem to will your legs to move you in the direction of the rational choice.

Your heart was beating unbearably fast, and it wasn’t because of whatever was happening between your parents. No, it had everything to do with the FBI agent that had just walked into your home and the way he had clearly glanced down at your exposed cleavage before he had to immediately shift his gaze to anything else.

Aaron didn’t want to leave you there but he truly didn’t have a choice. You were wearing a tight black dress, so tight in fact that he could’ve sworn he saw every curve of your body. What had made it even worse was the way your breasts were practically spilling out of the garment, the trim of your lacy bra peeking around the edges. He’d felt like a teenager all over again, his crotch tightening uncomfortably as he tried his hardest to listen to the words coming out of your mouth to make sure that he responded eloquently.

Your mother had already put out ice buckets and he practically slammed the bottle into an empty one. Was it stupid to chill Scotch? He honestly couldn’t even remember anymore as he desperately wished he could’ve dunk his already hardening erection on the ice as well. He needed to get a grip, needed to calm down, needed to pretend like he hadn’t already seen your body in the many pictures you had posted online in the two years that you’d been gone.

He served himself a double, watching as you left the door wide open and retreated back upstairs. He lingered by the table for a moment, finishing his drink and calming himself down. He’d known you for a little over two years, at least on a first name, dinner at your house every month, type of way. You had just graduated high school when he started teaching part time at the college where your father also taught. The two of them had become fast friends and in the months that followed while you waited out the summer to start classes you had babysat Jack while Aaron was away on cases.

It was wrong and he definitely knew it. But there was something so captivating about you, about your kindness and curiosity and interest in not only his work but in him as a person. You loved getting to know people, getting to share secrets and discuss the root of existence and emotion and life. It was easy to forget that you were this young, your eloquence far higher than most of the adults that had just started shuffling into your home.

He’d filled his glass up once more as your father’s friends and his colleagues arrived. He plastered on a polite smile and greeted everyone as they made their way through the house. The repetitive nature of small talk for the next twenty minutes allowed him to forget about you, calm his body down enough to appear normal, collected.

He had migrated to the backyard with the rest of his colleagues after a while, the men around him engaged in mindless conversation about the break ahead, their vacation plans, and anything that wasn’t about the elephant in the room, because he knew, they all knew, that your father had clearly been caught redhanded and if they didn’t get their wives to agree that he was nothing more than a victim, they could be taken down next.

You waited until the backyard was packed with people before you emerged from your room. If your father didn’t want his friends gossiping about his affair tonight then you’d give them something else to talk about. And what better thing to gossip about than your father’s college age daughter practically displaying her body for all of his married friends and their wives.

Wearing that skimpy thing that did nothing to cover you up could only mean one thing – you were trying to get back at your father. Aaron couldn’t help but almost choke on his drink as he watched you saunter back out of the house. His ears began ringing loudly as you swayed your hips, clearly asking for attention. You walked right up to the edge of the pool and dove in without so much as a single word, the stark contrast between the cocktail party and your rebellious, summer blowout attitude jarring.

He couldn’t help but notice your father’s absence back out in the courtyard, your mother also conveniently nowhere to be seen. He could only assume that she was either consoling his poor, broken ego or sucking him off inside. Either outcome made him feel incredibly bad for you, bad that you had to come back home to rumors of your father’s infidelity and your mother’s complete denial of it.

While she was working overtime trying to fix a one sided relationship, you were determined to lash out against it in the most childish way you could possibly think of, and that unfortunately meant parading around your backyard filled with middle aged men in practically nothing.

Well, fortunate for him because he got to see the way your nipples hardened against the sheer fabric the second you stepped out into the cold night air, got to marvel at way your waist dipped into your full hips, the plush muscle begging to be squeezed tightly, got to catch the faintest glance at the outline of your pussy against the red material. It was unfortunate because he knew he wasn’t the only one staring at you and he had to bite his tongue as he began to hear the men around him murmur about your body.

He wanted to step up and use his own frame to shield you from them, to hide you away from their practically salivating stares. But instead he simply took a sip of his drink and allowed himself to watch you like a hawk, to silently guard, determined to step in if any of them actually decided to turn their thoughts into action. Because even then he couldn’t help but feel protective of you.

Your father came barrelling out of the house mere minutes later, your mother practically running to catch up and stop him. He was about to blow up, about to make a scene, one that you were eagerly waiting for when her hand landed on his chest and he seemingly remembered where he was and who he was surrounded by. He instantly relaxed his face and Aaron couldn’t help but take a step forward, tense and ready to fight him.

“Honey,” your mother spoke instead, layering the guilt on thick. “Please get out of the pool, I don’t want you catching a cold.”

Aaron set his glass down and walked over to the little hamper by the grill, expertly fishing out a large towel. He could feel everyone else start to notice that he’d moved, that he was inserting himself into something that clearly had nothing to do with him. But it didn’t matter the second that your round, hurt, expressive eyes met his. His gaze softened, just for you, to let you know that you didn’t want to make this any worse than it already was. And for the first time ever, you listened to him.

Your mother thanked him as he walked around them, towel extended in his hands for you to simply curl yourself into it. He could tell your cheeks were flushed with embarrassment, and when he draped the fabric over your shivering body, he could smell the faint, lingering scent of alcohol on your breath. He sighed deeply, just for himself and you followed suit, taking the moment to compose yourself.

“Thank you,” you whispered, delicate fingers taking the towel from him and wrapping it around yourself, terrified of what your reaction would be if you’d let him do it for you. You were back inside the house in seconds, the party resuming quickly as your parents started their rounds of greetings and small talk. He lingered by the pool for a few minutes, not wanting to be incredibly obvious about following you inside.

He told himself that he only wanted to make sure you were alright, that there was nothing wrong with being concerned for you after what had just happened. And so when the waiters began to pass out hors d'oeuvres, he took advantage of the distraction and slipped back into the house.

“Sweetheart?” he whispered loudly as he willed the wood beneath his feet not to creak loudly against the final step of the staircase. “Are you alright?”

The second floor was deserted, terrifyingly quiet and dark. He noticed the light was on in your bathroom across the hall from your room and he approached. The second his shadow landed over the wood, the door swung wide open, greedy hands grabbing a hold of his shirt and pulling him into the small room.

“I need you,” you slurred, your hands sliding down towards his belt, trembling fingers struggling with the silver buckle. He couldn’t stop the groan that erupted from his throat, the sounds spurring you on.

He was so distracted by the thrill, the shock and surprise of your neediness, of your clear desire for him that his brain short circuited for a second, lost to the sensations he’d been craving from you for years.

You’d never done anything like this before, never even flirted with each other as far as he was concerned since he made sure to watch his words around you, only allowing himself one thing, to call you sweetheart. Which could only indicate that your sudden boldness meant that you’d thought about this just as much as he had, that you’d caught him staring at you with hunger in his eyes just like he’d caught you staring at him with danger in yours.

“Sweetheart,” he said bluntly, trying to use his words before he was forced to use his hands to stop you. “You’ve had a lot to drink,” you scoffed. “You’re upset,” your hand squeezed over the outline of his cock and it took everything in him to not let out a single sound. That seemed to do the trick as your confident demeanor slipped away and the terrified girl desperately trying to hide resurfaced.

Tears laced your eyes, your chest began to shake, your hands trembled, slowly slipping away from his body. He scooped them both up in his warm, large palms, bending your arms over your chest before pressing you tightly to his. You began to sob then and it broke Aaron’s heart. Your face landed over his frantically beating heart. If you noticed through your tears you made no effort to comment on it. He held you like that for a while, not caring at all that his clothes were definitely wet now.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered to him, arms crossing over your chest in a feeble attempt to cover yourself up now that you were clearly not going to get what you’d wanted only seconds before. He crouched down and picked up the towel off the floor, this time making it a point to drape it over you and wrap you tightly in it. You felt like a child, a dumb, stupid child that had just thrown a tantrum and had been scolded. It was humiliating.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart,” he assured you, allowing himself to talk down to you just a little. His heart was still racing, his mind even more so now as he realized that the barrier that he’d put up between the two of you all those years ago had just been shattered into a million pieces. “Why don’t you take a shower and get some sleep?”

You nodded, refusing to look him in the eyes. But he would not have it. He hooked a finger under your chin, gently yet forcefully, pulling your gaze up to meet his. His thumb ghosted over your bottom lip, your mouth opening slightly without him doing anything to you.

“Good girl,” he hummed and you practically whimpered, your thighs pressing together. The side of his mouth curled into the tiniest of smirks before he removed his hand from your body completely and walked out the door, leaving you alone in your bathroom with a fire burning in your chest.

You were unsure when the decision had been made, but you’d awoken the next day to a letter from your mother on the kitchen counter, the house spotless as the cleaning crew she’d hired probably went through it the night before. Your parents were gone for the rest of the summer, apparently one of your father’s friends had a timeshare at some resort in Italy and they were able to squeeze your parents into their trip last minute.

You released a sigh you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. The memories of the events of the night before had been washing over you in powerful, drowning waves ever since you opened your eyes fifteen minutes ago. You regretted at least ninety percent of your actions, having been so wrapped up in getting back at your father that you had completely forgotten that your actions would also affect your mother. The look of disappointment, of complete and utter shame and embarrassment that had taken over her face as she spoke to you haunting, especially now in the brightness of the day.

And then there was Mr. Hotchner. Fuck, you cringed every time you remembered what you’d done, how you’d come onto him so pathetically. You couldn’t deny the rejection didn’t hurt but he had been right. You were upset, unbelievably so, and it would’ve stung even more to think of your first time with him to have been because you were trying to make your father angry, not because you actually wanted to sleep with him.

And oh boy did you want to.

As much as Freud was an idiot, you were very aware after two years of your psychology degree that your attraction to older men had everything to do with your need to seek the approval your father denied you from your romantic partners.

You’d had a very childish crush on Mr. Hotchner for years. It was silly, something that kept your pussy wet at night and made your friends giggle whenever you told them about the hot neighbor that you used to babysit for. But you knew he was unattainable. You could never have him, and sadly, that only made you want him even more.

In an act of defiance you hadn’t done what he’d told you to do the night before. Instead you took off the remaining pieces of clothing you still had on and tossed them into your shower before you walked across the hall to your room, pulled out the shitty bullet vibrator you’d left behind two years ago, and desperately tried to get yourself off. To say you’d been unsuccessful, your fingers and the weak device never even coming close to what you truly desired, what you needed.

That had only made you angrier, angrier at yourself, angrier at him. By the time you had drank your first cup of coffee all of your embarrassment had washed away into cold, seething irritation. He clearly wanted you just as much as you wanted him. You definitely hadn’t imagined the way he responded to your touch, the way he’d groaned in response. And that was the problem. He’d been holding himself back, whatever friendly relationship the two of you had built, one that you regarded as honest and sincere nothing more than a facade he’d concocted to keep you at arm’s length.

You grabbed a pair of sunglasses that your mother must’ve left on the kitchen counter and placed them over your eyes before walking back out to your backward. You were aware that there was a specific spot in front of the sliding doors that he could see from his house next door. You’d noticed it when you were babysitting one time, the thrill that he could’ve seen you in your bikini at some point that summer driving you insane.

You didn’t want to be at arm’s length anymore. You refused to let whatever fears you were holding onto because of his relationship with your father to stop you from going after what you’d wanted for so long.

You dragged a lounge chair over to that exact spot, the blaring sun perfectly over it as the excuse you needed in case he brought up your pathetic ploy. Once you were satisfied with your placement you shrugged off the robe you’d been wearing, the fabric falling off your shoulders and pooling around your feet in an instant to reveal absolutely nothing covering your body.

You’d fallen asleep at some point, completely naked and aggravated. You made sure to take your time getting into a comfortable position over the chair, chest out, legs curled suggestively, putting all of your assets on display. With the bait set, it was now a matter of waiting for him to bite.

You heard him yell your name across your house about ten minutes later. It didn’t surprise you that he had his own set of keys, your stomach already twisting in anticipation and excitement at just how easy it had been to get him exactly where you wanted him.

“Are you decent?” he asked with a smirk in his voice. He knew you weren’t. “Jack is here with me.”

You practically leapt off the chair, frantically picking up the robe and putting it on as the two of them walked out onto the backyard. Jack said your name then, chipper and excited, immediately melting away any ice left behind. You turned around just in time for the boy to wrap himself around your legs, squeezing you into a tight hug which you reciprocated, pulling him up to sit on your hip.

“Hi, angel,” you greeted the boy. “How’s summer treating you?”

“Hot,” he replied, trying to push himself away from you. You couldn’t help but laugh, setting him back down in the shade. “Can we swim in your pool?”

“Of course you can!” you replied. “Do you mind if I join you?”

The boy’s eyes practically widened out of his head in joy, turning back to his dad with just an unbelievable amount of energy.

“Not at all,” Mr. Hotchner replied for him and you shot him a smile before you excused yourself to go change into something kid appropriate.

To say that he’d seen your little display was an understatement. He’d been sitting on his desk in his home office, finalizing his weekly schedule with Jessica when he saw you step out. He knew, after much trial and error, that you couldn’t see him from this angle, and so he made no effort to move to get a better look.

And then you took off your robe and he was abruptly presented with your naked body. His mouth went dry in an instant, his pupils dilated, his heart pounded against his chest. It took him a full minute to realize that Jessica was trying to get his attention before his brain reconnected with his body and he asked her to repeat herself.

Five minutes later he was hanging up the call and rushing down the hall to ask Jack if he wanted to go swimming. The boy practically leapt to his feet, running across his room to get himself ready. They didn’t have a pool at their house, so your mother had generously let them use theirs after you went away for college. She’d even gotten them key to the house and sent him the alarm code every time they changed it just in case.

Aaron changed into his swimsuit in record time, practically tripping as he ran back and forth, all over the house, looking for the many, many toys that Jack definitely needed to stay distracted for the next few hours. As much as he wanted to walk over alone, find you naked and eager for him, fuck you on the lounge chair and then probably inside the pool to cool off, he couldn’t leave Jack behind, he wouldn’t leave Jack behind because he didn’t want you to know just how much you had affected him.

This was a power move, one that he had fallen for instantly. What he needed to do was not give in, not give you what you wanted, continue to frustrate you, to tease you until you couldn’t take it anymore, all because he wanted to remind you that he held all the cards, that he was the one calling the shots, that he would be the one on top while you writhed in pleasure beneath him.

You returned a few minutes later in a plain black one piece. To say he was disappointed was an understatement, but he admired your decorum while you were around Jack. It was like a flip had switched, eyes clouded with lust and desire clearing away to joy and excitement to spend your day with a hyperactive kid instead of lazily sunbathing your troubles away.

You handed Mr. Hotchner a bottle of sunscreen, having specifically chosen the cream kind instead of the spray so that he’d be forced to touch you when you asked, “Would you mind getting my back?”

He looked up at you with the same eyes from last night and you were surprised your knees didn’t buckle. He looked at Jack then to make sure the boy was adequately engrossed in his toys, clearly deciding which ones he was going to play with first, before he opened the bottle and squirted some of the cream into his palm.

“On my lap,” he ordered, low and just for you to hear. Your eyes immediately darkened and he smirked knowingly. You rolled your eyes then, reminding yourself that today was just playful after all.

You stepped forward towards his opened legs and prettily sat yourself down on his thigh, your back to him. You’d already put your hair up so he went right in. His warm, sticky palms landed on the sides of your neck first, slowly sliding down your shoulders before they returned to the center and then slid down your exposed back. While you couldn’t wear the skimpy, barely there suit you wanted, you’d still chosen something that gave him a subtle peek of your body.

He continued his movements, unapologetically taking his time, dragging his touches, lingering over your neck and putting pressure around it. You shivered under his hands, your ass unconsciously grinding down on his leg.

“Be a good girl and stay still,” he purred in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. You stilled immediately, his fingers squeezing around your neck softly in reward. “All done.”

Your brain processed the words and yet you made no effort to stand up, and he made no effort to make you. His hands grazed down your arms, the backs of his fingers practically leaving feather light kisses on your skin until they landed on your hips. He gave your love handles a squeeze before he let his hands settle over your lap, leaning down to rest his chin on the crook of your neck.

The gesture itself had been so casual yet unbearably intimate that you didn’t notice you’d stopped breathing until your lungs started to burn. You inhaled sharply, your entire body shivering as you tried to keep the panting at bay.

“You say the word and I’ll stop, sweetheart,” he whispered against your neck, gentle and kind, his tone meant to reassure you that you still had power. You nodded and he pressed a kiss below your ear, making you shudder once more. “So responsive for me.”

A whine escaped your lips, making Jack turn back to face the two of you. His hands were off you before you could even register, your own body reacting instinctively as you shot up to your feet.

“Ready to get in the water?” you managed, flashing the boy a bright smile. He nodded enthusiastically, picking up a few of his diving toys in one hand before taking your outstretched hand with his other one. He diligently led you to the shallow end of the pool and Aaron watched as you both threw the little fishes into the deep end, giggling as Jack tried to toss them farther than you.

He took a moment to compose himself, a moment to shift the material of his swim suit to try and hide the evidence of his arousal. He hated how easy it was for him to come undone around you, how you had him wrapped around your finger and could get him hard by simply existing. It made him feel young again, his libido higher than it’d been in years, and it was all because of you.

He was brought out of his thoughts when he heard you and Jack splash against the water. Jack resurfaced first, already panting as he worked overtime to keep himself above water. You appeared then, like a beautiful mermaid coming above water to lure unsuspecting sailors to their deaths. And in that moment Aaron knew that he’d sink to the bottom of the ocean if it meant he could have even a taste of you.

“Daddy!” Jack yelled, getting his attention. “Come into the pool!”

“Yeah, daddy,” you teased. “What are you waiting for?”

All the playfulness drained from his face in a second, making you choke on your own saliva in response before it reappeared as if nothing had happened. Your thighs rubbed together, the knowledge of the effect your words had had on him thrilling.

“Coming buddy,” he replied to the boy, choosing to ignore you as he stood back up, kicking off his flip flops and cannonballing into the pool.

Jack’s laughter brought you back down to reality as the waves his dad had created crashed over you, cooling your overheating face. You watched him resurface at the other end of the pool, one of the fishes you’d thrown under between his fingers.

“One to zero,” he announced playfully and Jack gasped, immediately diving down to gather as many fishes as he could, giving Aaron the perfect pocket of privacy to glance back at you. His face fell into a stern look of warning, daring you to call him that again to see what you could find out.

You smirked back briefly before diving underwater, the mere mention of a challenge overshadowing whatever tension lingered between the two of you.

You grabbed three fishes, swimming across the pool towards him underwater. You made sure Jack was above water before you made your move, fingers wrapping around Mr. Hotchner’s trunks to pull yourself out of the water as you practically climbed him.

You felt him tense against your touch and that made your body flood with warmth once more. You made him feel like this, you made him react like this, you had the same effect on him that he had over you.

Your head pierced the surface and he wasted no time pulling you further out of the water, his arm hooking around your waist again and pressing your hip against his painfully hard erection.

You gasped loudly, nervously looking around and noticing that Jack had thankfully gone back underwater so at the very least he wouldn’t see the euphoric expression on your face.

“Fuck,” you moaned, your hands steadying yourself against his chest. “Mr. Hotchner,” you whined and his grip tightened.

For a second you forgot about where you were and the game you were still playing. Your eyes landed on his. They were hazy, glossed over and dangerously close to snapping.

“Address me properly,” he ordered, lifting his knee to slide between your legs and press you further into him. You swallowed a moan, your breathing ragged, your skin unbearably tight over your body.

You opened your mouth to speak but the word was screamed into existence by a voice that wasn’t yours. The two of you turned to face Jack who was eagerly swimming over to where the two of you were. You started to shift uncomfortably, trying to pull away from him, but he kept you in place as if you weren’t caught in a compromising position.

“Did you get tired of swimming?” Jack asked you like this was the most normal thing in the world and you managed a nod. “That’s okay! I get tired sometimes and daddy has to hold me too.”

Your cheeks heated up once more and you thanked every deity out there that the sun was so hot on your skin that the kid didn’t notice a change. Jack reached out and grabbed a hold of his father’s shoulder to keep himself above water before pulling out his other hand from under the water, a fistfull of the colorful fishes in his palm.

“I got six!” he told you and you finally snapped out of your daze, groaning dramatically as you showed him your own loot only being three.

“I demand a rematch!” you told the boy before tossing your fishes back into the pool. He followed your lead and held your stare, the two of you seizing the other up before he got tired of waiting and dove back into the water, his giggles getting swallowed by the water.

“Little cheater!” Aaron let you go then and you followed after the boy. You were so concerned with winning the silly game that you didn’t even notice the dopey smile across his face, one that he couldn’t hide from himself, one that almost made his heart burst with happiness.

You played with the fishies a few more times until Jack was complaining that he was starting to get hungry and the three of you got out of the pool to dry off while Mr. Hotchner ordered lunch.

You reapplied Jack’s sunscreen, placed a hat over his head and a towel over his body before you walked into the house to make a pitcher of lemonade and get some of the fruit your mother had bought a few days ago so that you could snack on it while you waited for the pizza to get there.

You’d cut the lemons and had started squeezing them into the pitcher when his hands wrapped around your waist again, his front pressing against your back forcefully. You ground your ass back into him, never once stopping your task.

“Hi,” he whispered in your ear.

“Hello,” you replied, squeezing a half of a lemon with your hand, too lazy to get something else dirty.

“Thank you for today,” he continued, his hands now slowly running up and down your sides, begging to elicit a reaction from you. “I know it’s not exactly what you planned but Jack is having a lot of fun.”

You hummed in agreement. “I’m having a lot of fun too.”

“Oh, yeah?” he stepped forward, locking you in place between the counter and his chest. “I’m having a lot of fun three.”

You snorted at the insinuation and the terrible joke, and he laughed in return, the two of you devolving into a fit of giggles like you’ve known each other intimately for years. And in a weird, almost strange way, you had. You’ve always had this rapport with him, this deep understanding of each other, mostly because you were both so into the other that you’d actually spent many nights asking questions, eager to know more.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked you once the laughter subsided and your heart started beating rapidly once more.

You immediately twisted around in his grip, holding your hands up and away from him as the juices from the lemons ran down your arms.

“Yes,” you heaved and he didn’t waste another second as he pressed his lips to yours. They were so soft and still warm from the sun still lingering over them, lulling you into a sense of safety. You opened your lips as his hands left your waist and cupped your jaw to press you further into him. You moaned into his mouth as his tongue entered, deepening the kiss into a hungry and desperate mess.

He pulled back so you could breathe after a few more laps and your eyes blinked open, the light reflecting against them and making them shine almost ethereally. He smiled, his thumbs rubbing over your cheeks. You returned the smile, somehow already feeling warm and fuzzy from just a kiss. He leaned in again, his nose playfully tickling your own, making you giggle sweetly. He truly wanted nothing more than to make you laugh all the time.

He was about to press his lips against yours again, already craving the feeling like a man that had been left to wander the desert for days, when his phone rang loudly, interrupting the tender moment. He sighed deeply, apologetically looking at you and you immediately shook your head, letting him know not to worry about it. He picked up the phone, determined to make the conversation quick so he could return to what he truly wanted to do.

In the meantime you finished the lemonade, washed your hands with soap, and brought the pitcher, some glasses, and the bowl of cubed watermelon to the table outside. You checked in on Jack, the boy having fallen asleep, making you chuckle softly. You sat yourself at the table and waited for him to come back, already missing his lips.

It was certainly an interesting turn of events, made even more interesting by how easy it was to fit into his life. Even with your parents you always felt like the odd one out, like they were their own thing and you just sort of existed around them. But with Mr. Hotchner and Jack…you felt like you just fit right in, like you’d always been a part of their family.

When he finally exited into the backyard he bore a very different expression on his face, one of remorse and stress. The playfulness from before had left his body and all that remained was the stoic FBI agent you’d sometimes get when he returned from cases or…got called into one.

You sighed deeply, knowing that was exactly what had happened and he had to stop himself from melting at the thought that you just knew what he needed before he could even ask it.

“Do you need me to look after Jack?” you asked as he sat down on the chair across from you.

“Please,” he replied, taking your hand in his and squeezing gently. “Jessica can pick him up at school Wednesday afternoon and take him to her place.”

You nodded, returning the squeeze and trying to alleviate his guilt with an understanding smile.

“When do you leave?” he asked you then, one of the many elephants in the room finally getting addressed.

“Friday morning,” you replied and it was his turn to sigh, defeated. As much as you understood his work and just how much he needed it, he also understood your own, your life being far away from D.C., far away from him. He just wanted you all to himself, here with him all the time, and it pained him that he couldn’t have it.

After allowing himself another moment of sitting in silence, of feeling his emotions and letting them tear his heart into pieces, he stood up, pulling you to your feet with him. He crushed his lips to yours and your hands finally tangled in his hair, his own greedily squeezing your hips.

“Pizza should be here any minute,” he mumbled against your lips.

“I got it, don’t worry,” you replied, pressing a closed kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Why don’t you say goodbye to Jack?”

He nodded, reluctantly letting you go as he knelt down beside the lounge chair and woke the boy up. You watched as they said their goodbyes, your fingers coming up to trace your lips where he’d just kissed you, all the conflicting things you were feeling crashing over you at once.

The first phone call came that same night. It was late, you were already asleep when your phone vibrated on the nightstand next to you. You were honestly surprised that you’d heard it, annoyed more so than surprised as your eyes blinked open painfully.

“Hello?” your voice was deep, hoarse and clearly exhausted.

“Hi, sweetheart,” his on the other hand was soft and awake.

“Hi,” you replied, settling back on the soft pillow and closing your eyes.

“Did I wake you?”

“Mhmm,” you whined and it broke his heart.

“I’m sorry,” to his credit, he did sound sorry.

“It’s okay,” you mumbled.

“I just wanted to say goodnight to Jack.” And to you.

“He fell asleep immediately…” You tried to stay awake, desperately, but sleep was pulling you down, the heat from spending the entire day under the sun had seeped deep into your bones, making them heavy. The current had sinked your boat and you were peacefully sinking under the waves with it. You didn’t even register him calling your name, realizing that you were probably out of it, and finally telling you that he’d call you another time.

You woke up bright and early the next morning, your senses overwhelmed by just how much his bed smelled like him.

It was honestly a stupid thought, that the things that were his carried him with them, but it didn’t matter how many times you’d slept here in the past, there was something so all consuming about them now.

Your three days with Jack went by quickly. You had forgotten how much of a perfect kid he was, how attentive and kind and easy it was to take care of him. Getting him ready for school was a breeze, breakfasts were filled with laughter and him rambling on about the dream he’d had the night before. Once you dropped him off at school, you found yourself missing him more than you ever had, and so you spent your days wandering aimlessly.

On Monday you cleaned the entire house, top to bottom. You put on one of Mr. Hotchner’s records on and drowned the house in music, your voice booming just as loudly as the singer’s, wanting nothing more than to distract yourself from the ache in your chest.

On Tuesday there was a lice outbreak and luckily, Jack was not affected. They still had to shut down the school for the day, so Jack had gotten a half day. You took him to the store to buy enough baking supplies to start your own bakery, and spent the rest of the afternoon making cookies and cupcakes.

It was around six that your phone rang. You were in the kitchen, cooking dinner for the two of you. Saucepan forgotten, you immediately crossed the room, fingers fumbling to answer the phone.

“Hey, give me one second,” you cut him off, putting him on speaker before you stepped out into the hall. “Jack! Your dad’s on the phone!”

“I don’t know if I should be touched or offended that you don’t want to speak with me,” he cracked and you couldn’t help but smile, making your way back to the device on his counter.

“I always want to talk to you,” you hummed. “But I also know you’re busy and—”

“Dad!” Jack ran into the kitchen, swiping the phone away from you and running right back down the hall. You laughed to yourself, returning to the stove before you burnt something.

You hadn’t been speaking, not really. Every so often you’d send him a picture of what you were up to and he’d do his best to reply, always short and sweet. He never sent any pictures of his own for obvious reasons, but it still made your heart constrict every time that you woke up the morning after to a missed call from him.

They were on the West Coast, in a small town somewhere in Oregon. At least that’s what you’d gathered from the messages here and there. By Wednesday you said goodbye to Jack at dropoff and told him you’d see him for Christmas. He was, understandably, very upset, since you’d just spent, what he kept calling, the best three days of his life with him. It broke your heart, shattered it into a million pieces, but you reminded him that you didn’t live there anymore and that you had other places to be. Obviously not cooler than spending time with him, but that it was still important.

Jessica called you that afternoon to let you know that she had Jack and you chatted for a bit. She was always so easy to talk to, her openness to their strange family dynamic almost overwhelmingly supportive. She always remembered your birthday, always sent you a card (one that you knew she’d been making Mr. Hotchner and Jack to sign every year), and always made sure to ask if you were coming back home for any major break.

She liked having you around, liked the extra support you had given them while Jack was out on his own break, liked that the boy clearly loved you and felt safe around you. And after the three days you had spent with him then, it only made sense to start thinking about actually coming back home next summer to help them out, to have an excuse to see him as often as you could.

You spent Wednesday and Thursday working on the tasks you'd been left with from your internship. They had graciously allowed you to go home after you informed them there was a family emergency, but you still had to meet the weekly quota, just like everyone else. Being in your house alone was...exhausting. It was too quiet, too empty, too devoid of Jack's infectious laugh and...and Mr. Hotchner's low and inviting voice.

You hadn't spoken to him since you let him know Jessica had picked his son up. You knew he was busy, knew that he probably didn't want to speak to you while his mind was not in the right place, while he was using most of his energy to do his job. He didn't text and so neither did you. And as much as you understood why, the silence had only made your heart clench in pain, your brain already overthinking all the possibilities.

He was supposed to arrive in a few hours, having received the only text he'd sent to tell you that they were about to take off and that he should be back home in a few hours.

You’d decided to get one last swim in before you returned to your concrete life that was Brooklyn. But if you were being honest with yourself, you just needed a distraction.

You’d been drowning, quite literally, as the finality of the distance that you were about to put between yourself and Mr. Hotchner loomed closer and closer. Sure, he traveled a lot for work, he was away at least sixty percent of the time…but you had moved away two years ago with the intention of cutting yourself loose of all the ties keeping you in D.C.

It had been easy to do so, the only one that truly hurt you every day being your mother. But now, after sitting with your overwhelming crush that has snowballed into catching actual feelings for him…was hell.

You needed to talk to him about it, needed to ask him to tell you that everything was going to be okay, that you could make this work, whatever this was. But you also didn’t want to pressure him, didn’t want to pressure yourself to get tied down to something that could very easily not work out.

You were floating on your back, simply allowing the water to gently rock you around the pool when you saw a pair of slacked legs walking towards the edge of the pool.

“There you are, sweetheart,” he hummed. “I’ve been calling for a whole minute and you didn’t answer.”

You stood yourself up, shooting him an apologetic smile as you walked towards him.

“'m sorry,” you murmured, the tightening on your heart only squeezing harder now that he was really here. He shot you a smile in response but he looked tired, defeated almost. You could only imagine what it must feel like to walk around with all of that weight, with the burden of the atrocious things they dealt with every day.

He squatted down next to the edge and you propped yourself up on the space between his legs to pull yourself high enough for his lips to reach yours. The kiss was short and soft, domestic almost, as if you did this every time he came back home from a long case.

You slid back into the water, unable to hold yourself up any longer as an excuse to put some distance between the two of you. You were certain that if he stared at you for even a second longer, he would definitely know there was something wrong, that somehow he’d be able to see into your body and realize just how contorted your heart was.

“Join me?” you asked, trying to change the subject before it was even brought up.

He sighed, conflicted. “I don’t think we should, sweetheart.”

“Please,” you whined. “I promise I’ll behave.”

He chuckled at that, knowing fully well that you most definitely would not, because he would most certainly not. But he found himself standing back up, quickly shrugging off his button down, the white wife pleaser underneath, his shoes, socks, and pants. You watched him in awe, mouth hanging slightly open as you began to salivate, your desire quickly making you forget all about your painful feelings.

He smirked at you as he sat down on the edge of the pool and slowly lowered himself into it. You hadn’t realized until he stretched his hand out to you that you’d drifted away to the other side of the pool. You took a small, steadying breath, trying to appear as normal as possible before you walked back to him.

His hands wrapped around you instantly, bringing you into him tightly. It was almost as if he relaxed into you, his breathing deep and steady, a drastic contrast to your rapidly beating heart. You tried so hard to copy his rhythm, to blend into it in a feeble attempt to not raise suspicion, to show him that you were happy he was back.

And it worked...for almost a second.

“Thank you for taking care of Jack,” he said.

“It was my pleasure,” you replied almost too quickly.

“Alright, what’s wrong?” he pulled back, his gaze desperately trying to meet yours.

You hated him so much, hated how good he was at his job, hated how he could read you like it was the easiest thing in the world. Meanwhile, you were having to use all of your knowledge to just guess how he was feeling.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you lied, your fingers subconsciously fiddling with his hair. He sighed, shifting your core away from his as his hand snaked down to pull your swimsuit bottoms out of the way. Your eyes widened in shock and confusion, finally snapping up to meet his but his attention was no longer on your face.

Before you could question the sudden advance, he plunged his middle finger into you, making you moan loudly, your walls clenching around him.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he ordered, his finger curling upwards to hook against the spot that he somehow knew instinctively would make you come undone.

You whined, holding onto him tighter. “I’m scared!”

“Of what?”

“This–” he curled his finger again, another moan erupting. “Us– fuck, I’m scared that I won’t be able to see you every day and it’ll mess up whatever this is,” you practically screamed.

His movements stilled and you decided to foolishly allow yourself to meet his eyes. He was staring at you with what you could only describe as relief?

You blinked, realizing that he was allowing you to read him like he could read you. You’d said exactly what he was thinking, what he was also holding in, what the heaviness that he carried had been about.

He pressed further into you. “Do you want to be mine?”

“Yes,” you moaned. “I want to be yours, all yours.”

“That’s good,” he groaned. “Because I want to be all yours too, sweetheart.”

You whined at his words, the tight grip fear had on your heart releasing just enough to let you breathe again.

“I thought…” you trailed off, afraid that if you said what you’d thought aloud that he’d hate you. Instead he just waited patiently for you to muster the courage to say what you’d been holding in. “I thought you might only want to fuck me and nothing else.”

He shoved another finger into you at that, as if you say how dare you think that. You moaned again, your body tensing up, your walls pulsing around his fingers, practically keeping them hostage inside of you.

“So tight,” he mumbled, clearly needing a moment to regain his composure before he spoke again. “I’ve wanted you– to be with you for a while, sweetheart. I was just…afraid of how it could destroy your relationship with your parents.”

The second elephant in the room reappeared and you couldn’t help but get another one of your fears off your chest.

“Did you know he was…” you trail off before you can finish your sentence but Aaron knew exactly what you wanted to ask him.

“No, I didn’t,” he shook his head, intensely observing your reaction. When you tensed under his touch he wasted no time to press a soft kiss to your temple. If you didn’t know but now you do then why are you still hanging around with him? That was the second part of your question, of your uneasiness, of your tensing body.

“To see you,” he murmured against your skin and you pulled back from his touch, far enough to look him in the eyes. “I kept coming back to see you.”

The confession made your stomach flip. You didn’t know how to respond, how to tell him that you’d felt the same way in a way that didn’t make you come across as insane or clingy or immature. So instead you smiled softly, leaning forward to press your lips to his once more. His grip on your body tightened, his lips on yours opened, pulling you further into him. You may not have tomorrow, but you definitely had tonight.

“I am more than happy and willing to take this slow, to just see where it goes,” he makes it crystal clear, no way to misinterpret his words, no way for you to twist them until you’ve convinced yourself that you’re crazy. Instead you just let your mind free.

“Please fuck me,” you begged and a groan loudly erupted from his throat. His fingers resumed their fast pace but you whined in response, trying to stop him. “No, I need your cock in me, please.”

He shushed you then, kissing your temple gently as he only doubled down in his forcefulness.

“Let me make you cum first,” he replied. “I gotta stretch you out, you’re so tight.”

You whimpered then, a symphony of breathy moans as you remembered just how big he’d felt through his pants. If he was telling you he needed to work you up before he could slide inside of you then you would obey. Fuck, the anticipation alone was going to be the death of you.

The water began to splash over the edge, the constant crashing of waves somehow in perfect synchronicity to the pace he’d set. It quickly became overwhelming, as if your pleasure was so intense it was actually transcending your body and manipulating the world around you.

You moaned into his ear, your hands desperately digging into his back, trying to anchor yourself to him, afraid that you could slip away at any moment. He began peppering kisses along your jaw, each one lower and lower until he was physically unable to reach any more of your skin due to the water level.

You were so close, so, so, close and he could feel it. Your body had tensed, your toes curled against his lower back, pulling him closer to you. And with one final thrust against the spot inside of you that made you see stars, the band snapped and you were screaming, not caring if the neighbors could hear you.

He worked you through your orgasm, his fingers slowing down to a bearable pace as you rested your forehead against his chest.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” he asked, clearly concerned that you hadn’t said something for a couple of minutes. You nodded against his body, slowly pushing against his chest to face him.

“Never better,” you replied and his eyebrows shot up in provocation.

“Do you want to make them a little better?” he teased and you couldn’t help the smile that took over.

“Yes.”

He pulled his hand out of you and you whined at the loss of contact.

“Such a greedy girl,” he mocked. “You’re about to be stuffed with my cock and you’re whining about missing my fingers.”

You shivered, eyes darkening as he grabbed a hold of your hand and led you back to the shallow end of the pool. He helped you out of the water, his hands attentive, possessive, never once letting you take a step without being on you.

Once you were out of the water he pulled you into him swiftly, lips back on yours with abandon. You practically melted into his touch, into his embrace, into him. Every thought in your brain was about him, about how soft his lips were, about how he smelled like a warm fire in a forest, about how his rough hands felt on your body, about how desperate he was for you.

You didn’t even register as he undid the knots of your bathing suit, only felt the cold air against your nipples, making them immediately perk up. The back of his hands accidentally brushed one as he shuffled to discard your top and you moaned into his mouth. The noise that reverberated from him in response was addictive. His eyes snapped open and he pulled back, your own lips chasing his in protest.

But he didn’t give you a second to figure him out as he arched your back with his hands, his mouth latching onto the nipple he’d just touched. It was your turn to mewl, eyes glossy and hands hungry to dig into him.

“Aaron,” you whimpered and he froze, ice cold, fully stopping his movements. His mouth softly unlatched from your breast, a thin string of saliva connecting him to you. Your face heated up immediately, the mere thought that you did something to upset him filled your eyes with tears.

“What did you say?” he asked, softly, as if he knew you were feeling like a small little animal and he needed to be careful not to spook you.

“A-Aaron?” you mumble, not even once fully comprehending what you had just done.

“You’ve never called me Aaron before,” he explained, taking pity on how much your brain was clearly not working at the moment.

You blinked in confusion, a tear accidentally falling down your cheek. He immediately wiped it away, looking down at you with eyes filled with nothing but adoration.

“I’m sorry—” you started, unsure exactly what you’re apologizing for. And he shuts you up with a kiss immediately.

“Say it again,” he groaned against your lips.

“Aaron,” you repeated, his name finally feeling heavy and important on your tongue.

He places a kiss on the corner of your mouth. “Again.”

“Aaron.”

Another kiss, this one on your neck. “Again.”

“Aaron,” he licked down to the base of your neck, his teeth greedily sinking into your soft skin as his lips suck. “Fuck, Aaron, please.”

You whined again, the sting of his mouth marking your body absolutely making you lose it. Whatever wits remained evaporated in an instant. When he pulled back, eyes practically raven, face flushed, lips plump and swollen, you couldn’t help the need to reward him.

Your hands landed on the pronounced outline of his cock against his still wet, black boxers. He wasn’t quick enough to stop you as you wasted no time pulling the fabric off him. Your eyes widened, your breathing hitched in your throat, your hand trembled slightly as you abandoned your efforts to get his boxers down his thighs and instead tentatively returned your hand to hover over his length.

He was so hard, the vein running along the underside practically pulsating. You tentatively traced it with your nail and he hissed. You smiled to yourself, your full palm replacing your finger as you wrapped your hand around him, slowly pumping him.

His own hand curled around your wrist, demanding you to stop. Your eyes shot up to finally see him, to see just how clenched his jaw was, just how deep his breathing had become.

“No, sweetheart,” he huffed. “I need you.”

As if you could both finally read each other’s minds, you untangled yourselves from each other, discarding the clothing that remained on your bodies and tossed it away before his eyes landed on you, on your naked frame, now right in front of him and not far away, separated from him by the haziness of glass.

His eyes raked lower to your pussy and his brows knitted in surprise.

“You have a tattoo,” the question blended into a statement as his hand gripped your hip, pulling you forward so that he could see it better. You bit your lip, amused by just how mesmerized he looked.

“A friend of mine gave it to me first semester,” you explained, omitting the many health code violations, how you’d been high and couldn’t remember actually getting it, or the fact that you had been sleeping with your friend when he did.

He traced his thumb over it, the placement was lower than your hip, easily hidden by your underwear and small enough that he’d never been able to make it out at a distance. His thumb dug into the center of the shitty heart then, anchoring his grip as he pulled you back to him. You moaned at the sting and it only spurred him on, the realization that you liked it when he hurt you igniting a fire in him.

His other arm hooked under your ass, lifting you over his shoulder. You gasped loudly, your confusion quickly turning into a fit of giggles as he moved you both towards the lounge chair that you had rearranged earlier that week to face his house.

He made sure to hook his foot around the pants he’d discarded earlier, kicking them forward with his foot, making sure that they landed right against the chair. He then unlatched the backrest and quickly set you down on it, your entire body over the comfortable foam cushion your mother had bought last year just for the Hotchners.

He knelt between your legs, hands running down your body to pry them open for him. It didn’t take much as you opened yourself up to him eagerly. He grinned, the smile that graced you one that you’d never seen from him before, one that even he couldn’t remember when he’d smiled like that last.

Before he forgot, he reached over to where he’d thrown his pants, growing impatient as he struggled to pull out his wallet and procure a single silver wrapper from it. You’d been so consumed by the moment that you hadn’t even thought about protection.

You thought about telling him not to, that you were on birth control and that as far as you were concerned you were clean. But you had no idea where he’d been, not that talking about his sexual partners bothered you, but bringing it up now did not seem like the right time.

“Someone was sure of himself,” you teased, watching him roll on the sheer latex over himself with more concentration than you’d ever seen from him before, and that was saying a lot.

He retaliated by slamming his tip into you without warning. Your head fell back, a moan rocking through you and down to your core, the waves reverberating against him, causing him to take a sharp, steadying breath.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he panted, a little condescending and you swallowed the urge to fight back, to resume the game you’d started when you called him daddy. He didn’t know just how deep you were willing to go, how much fun the two of you would have.

But tonight wasn’t the night for it. You needed him, craved him, desperately demanded that he fill the ache between your legs. You nodded, your hands gripping the cushion below you.

He couldn’t help but chuckle at your need to anchor yourself, his ego boosted so high he had no idea how he was supposed to come back down. But he didn’t care, he couldn’t care, not when you were laid out in front of him like a buffet, what he’d been starving for the only thing on the menu now.

His left hand wrapped around your thigh, opening you further. You propped your other leg over the armrest, and he pushed forward. He had not been lying, fortunately for you. He stretched you painfully, practically stuffing you full.

He made it halfway into you when you hissed, one of your hands shooting up to wrap around his bicep, urging him to stop. He stilled immediately, slowly rocking his hips back to slide out of you before slowly pushing himself back in.

That’s when you fell, your arms giving out under you. An accomplished grin lit up his features. He sat himself back up on his heels to tower over you. Your hand sliding down to the one he’d wrapped around your leg, your fingers lacing with his, almost like a pinky promise as he continued his slow rhythm, never giving you too much, never forcing your body to take anything it wasn’t ready for.

You could practically feel the wetness dripping out of you, coating him more and more with every thrust. He could clearly feel it too, the slick making it easier for him to slide in and out of you each time.

He took it as an indication to keep going. He thrust back into you, pushing himself just an inch further than before. You were a mess of whines and whimpers, your back arching in response, needing him fully in you.

“Please, Aaron,” you slurred. “More.”

He pulled out of you completely, the desire to see himself slam back into you fully overwhelming. His hips pushed forward, easily sliding himself inside to the hilt, your ass slapping against his hips beautifully. He moaned then, his hands flying to your hips, locking you in place. You whimpered, your head craning up enough to see there was no space left between the two of you.

“Fuck,” you mumbled, your walls clenching around him unconsciously.

His eyes shut close in pleasure at your movement, jaw clenching, fingers digging into your skin deeper. You took him in, on the verge of coming undone, on the verge of cumming in seconds like a teenage boy that didn’t know how to stop himself.

You giggled, your warm laughter bringing him back to you as he realized what you were laughing about. He scoffed, blush creeping over his cheeks in the most adorable way. You clenched around him again, deliberate and mean. He almost screamed then, the moan that left his lips guttural and raw.

“Sweetheart, you’re killing me,” he huffed. “I don’t want to cum yet, give me a second, alright?”

You sighed, feigning annoyance, but respected his request, unclenching your muscles to give him a moment of respite. Your hands began to draw circles over his own, nails slowly dragging up his arms and towards his chest, gentle, curious, exploring.

You took your time, diligently running your fingers over every ridge, every dip, every single one of the scars that littered his abdomen. They were smaller now and faded from what they had been when he was first attacked, but you knew they were there.

He hadn’t told you the full story, hadn’t really mentioned it aside from briefly alluding to it when he was forced to explain a comment Jack had made in passing one time, a comment about his mother. But you’d noticed them years ago, and as much as he could act like he was over it, like he was comfortable being shirtless around you, you needed him to know that he was safe, that he could trust you.

He didn’t flinch under your touch, instead he hummed, his own hands shifting their grip on you to show you how much he appreciated your touch.

“Did you catch the bad guy?” you asked suddenly. He turned to face you with a scolding expression, this is clearly not the time for this. It only made you laugh again, embarrassed. “What? Thinking about gross things helps!”

“I don’t want to ever think about that when I’m with you, got it?” he commanded.

“Yes, sir,” you replied and his eyes darkened once more, whatever fear of bursting immediately leaving his body as lustful greed flooded back in, emboldening him.

“What you called me the other day,” he started, somehow both confident in what he wanted to ask and yet boyishly shy about it. “Are you okay with that?”

“What did I call you?” you acted dumb, so dumb indeed that it got you another powerful, forceful jam of his cock. You squealed, his tip now uncomfortably pressing deeply into you. “No, daddy, ’s too much,” you whined, your voice hitching into a sweet, high pitch that made his cock twitch inside of you. “It hurts.”

“Too deep?” he asked in his normal voice, making sure to check in with you. You nodded, desperate for him to pull back, and he immediately returned to the comfortable pain. You let out a deep breath, air filling your lungs again. He was concerned, but more than anything he was turned on, the desire to ruin you too strong. “I’m going to start moving, alright?”

“Yes, daddy,” you mumbled and he groaned loudly, his cock practically taking on a life of its own and making him react in a way he’d never experienced before.

Aaron understood what desire was, he knew what it felt like, knew what to do with it, but this? This wasn’t desire. This was debilitating, allconsuming, painful almost. His brain disconnected from his body, it was as though he was floating next to his body as well as feeling everything that was happening around him, to him, because of him.

He wanted to consume you, wanted to lose himself to the perfect sounds coming out of you, wanted to feel your tightness around him all the time, wanted to drown and stay at the bottom of your waters forever.

His moans danced with yours in a delicate choir ensemble, the slapping of your bodies coming together becoming the bass keeping the pace, the rattling of the lounge chair against the concrete floor the percussion, the scrapping of the mattress against the plastic the strings – it was all too much, too good, too perfect.

“I’m close, sweetheart,” he whined. “Rub your clit for me.”

Whatever coherent thoughts were left in you forced your body to obey immediately, your shaky hand landing in between your bodies. Your fingers were met with a lewd amount of slick, your clit puffy and screaming out to be touched. You rolled your fingers over it and the sensitivity sent you into overdrive, a snap of electricity running all the way down to your opening.

He moaned in response, your core starting to tighten with each thrust, with each touch. The pressure was tight, tighter, desperately trying to force your dam to burst.

“Daddy,” you whimpered. “Daddy, please, please, please, please–”

“Cum, sweetheart, cum all over me,” he demanded and you let it break. Waves of pleasure crashed against you, your entire body shaking, thrashing, slamming against his. Your moans turned into whines, you dug into his forearms, your legs hooked around his waist, pulling him further into you, locking him in place.

The second he felt you clench against him, the second he felt your core tighten, your slick warm his entirety, your nails digging into his arms so hard he wouldn’t be surprised you drew blood – he lost it. He managed to thrust into you two more times before he slammed himself as far as he could inside of you, not caring if it was uncomfortable for you.

He came hot and hard into the condom, his own pleasure blurring his vision, making his own body shake against yours, making his heart feel like it had skipped a beat. He stopped breathing for a few seconds, the sensations too overwhelming for his body to remember that it needed to breathe to survive.

You were panting hard, your chest rising and falling as if you’d just ran a marathon. Your nails had stopped digging into his skin but he barely registered the lack of pain. It wasn’t until you ran your fingers over the indents in his arms that he opened his eyes, seeking yours immediately.

You waited until his gaze met yours as if it was about time it did. You smiled lazily at him, completely spent, content, satisfied. He returned the smile, allowing himself to lower his body down over yours. His chest pressed against your own, softly caging you, holding you captive as his aching lips found yours.

This kiss was unlike any of the ones you’d shared, unlike any of the ones you had shared with anyone before. It was definitive, possessive, claiming you as his, and yet it was unbearably gentle, playful, wholesome.

He was the first to pull back for air, but he didn’t move away, instead he pressed his forehead to yours, his gaze unflinching, trying to communicate so much with no words at all. It was like he was making sure to savor every last drop, committing the sight and feeling of you to memory.

Aaron took much of his life for granted, the routine of it all having numbed him to most things that other people would deem as exciting or fulfilling. The only area of his life where that wasn’t the case was his son. That little boy made everything worthwhile, every battle worth fighting, every day worth living. And now, looking at you, feeling how good he’d made you feel, he knew had found something else, someone else, that made him feel excited for what the next day could bring. That made him feel fulfilled in more ways than he could yet comprehend.

Whatever doubts you’d had, whatever walls you had started to put up to protect yourself now laid crumbled all around you. He was right from the start, you were his, whatever that happened would happen, the best that you could do was ride the waves and see where they would lead you. All that did matter was that he was there and that you knew that he was also yours.

If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading! This chapter was a blast to write after all the angst that Moments has killed me with.

My requests are open! I have a few chapter ideas for Mr. Hotchner but I would love to hear what y’all would like to see. Even if it doesn’t make it into the actual series, I will try to write some cute lil blurbs.

And also, because I’m a writer that needs validation, please leave me comments or love letters if you’d like to remain anon. I need the praise and love, thank you 🩷

Ps. The next chapter is titled Guest Lecturer so you can imagine what kind of debauchery I’m about to write.

Pss. Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future updates!

#dbf!hotch #dbf!hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotchner #dbf!aaron hotchner #professor!Hotch #perv!hotch #we shouldn’t (and yet we do)

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onceuponaoneshotfanfic · 1 year

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In Your Eyes

Steve Harrington x Best Friend!Reader

2.5k words

Warnings: Pining, fluff, tiny angst

You loved your job at Family Video. Movies were an obsession of yours, so having access to them at a discount was a great perk. The store was only a few blocks from your house, so you saved tons on gas and could easily bum rides off people when your dad couldn’t loan you the car. The hours didn’t suck, and the pay was decent. The best part of your job, however, was working with friends—except for the moments when Robin Buckley decided to tease you about your love life.

“You know, I’m pretty sure he’s in love with you,” Robin piped up as the two of you grabbed candy from the back for a restock.

You shook your head. “Steve? Yeah, right,” you scoffed.

“Come on. He talks about you all the time, he lights up like a Christmas tree when you enter the room, he kind of can’t keep his eyes off you, he makes me switch shifts with him so he can work with you-”

“Yeah, because he knows he can get me to mop up at the end of the night,” you grumbled, folding your arms across your chest.

Robin smirked. “Because you’re in love with him,” she pointed out.

“In love with who?”

Steve Harrington stood in the doorway, sliding his Family Video vest over his shoulders, ready to start his shift. He cocked an eyebrow at you; you prayed that he couldn’t see how shaky your legs suddenly became.

“John Cusack,” you blurted out, shooting Robin a look that silently begged her to shut her mouth.

Steve nodded slowly. “John Cusack,” he repeated. “He was one of the geeky guys in Sixteen Candles, right? And he was in that movie you dragged me to like five times? The one where he’s got the boom box like this.” He lifted his arms in the air over his head, mimicking one of your favorite movie moments.

“Say Anything,” you confirmed softly, your heart skipping a beat at the sight in front of you. “Yeah, I loved that one.”

The three of you stood in your small circle for a moment, Robin’s eyes darting back and forth between you and Steve as neither you said another word. These silences had been happening more and more lately; part of you wondered if Steve had figured out your feelings and was looking for a way to let you down gently.

In almost all your memories from the time you could walk up through middle school, Steve was there. Even when you wound up in different circles in high school, you would still find him climbing through your window in the middle of the night just to talk or share a snack or listen to music. It wasn’t something his girlfriends liked, but he always assured him that you were just friends.

Just friends. You hated the little twisty feeling that appeared in your stomach when you thought of those two little words. From the moment thirteen-year-old Steve had sat next to you on your bed and pressed his lips to yours for the first time, you were a goner. The funny thing was, you hadn’t even wanted to kiss him; you only agreed because he was your best friend, and he was begged you to let him get this milestone “out of the way”. But by the time he crawled back out your window and was scurrying across the street to his house, you were head-over-heels in love with the boy.

And here you were now, years down the road, still melting at the sight of his stupidly perfect hair and deep brown eyes. Another perk of your Family Video job.

“Well,” Robin finally said, clearing her throat. “Let’s get this candy out there before a customer comes in.” She gave Steve a gentle punch in the arm as the two of you walked past him. “See you out there,” she called over her shoulder as Steve moved to clock in.

As you and Robin walked back to the front of the store, she raised her eyebrows at you.

“You’re really obvious, you know that?” she scoffed. “I don’t get how he doesn’t know you’re nuts about him.”

“Robin!” you hissed, snapping your head towards the office door Steve would be coming through at any moment. “Please!” Robin rolled her eyes, but for once she shut her mouth.

“You need to tell him.”

You and Robin laid down on your bed, the English Beat playing on the record player on your dresser. Hanging out after work had turned into dinner had turned into a sleepover; it was just past midnight, and you were at the point of the evening where one of you usually blurted something out just to annoy the other one.

“Enough, Robin,” you muttered, rolling onto your stomach. Your eyes landed on your dresser, where a framed photo of you and Steve sat. It was from your first-ever middle school dance, which Steve had taken you to. Another first the two of you shared. You could still remember the weird feeling in your stomach when Steve placed his hands carefully on your waist during the slow songs; you now recognized that the feeling was butterflies. Almost as if your body knew how you felt about Steve before your brain did.

Robin followed your gaze and lit up at the sight of the photograph. “You two are adorable,” she mockingly gushed. She hopped off the bed and skipped over to the picture. Before she could lift it, she paused, and your heart froze when you remembered what was next to the picture.

A few nights ago, after pining particularly hard over Steve during a movie night, you had locked yourself in your closet and penned a letter to him. In it, you spilled your guts: I love you… I can’t stop thinking about you… I wish you would notice me… It was utterly cringe-worthy, and you had every intention of burning the damn thing. But of course, Robin found it before your lazy ass could toss it in the fireplace.

Her jaw dropped as she snatched the letter and her eyes scanned it quickly. You didn’t even bother getting up to fight her for it; it was nothing she hadn’t already heard you whine about anyway. She finally looked back up at you, her gaze softer now. You clutched your pillow and squirmed awkwardly.

“Don’t laugh,” you half-whispered.

Robin sighed. “Seriously,” she said gently. “You need to tell him.” She left the letter on the dresser and rejoined you on the bed, propping herself up on her elbow. Her devilish grin returned. “Or I will.”

The next morning, Robin woke up early and quietly left for her opening shift at Family Video, promising to see you later when you went in for your afternoon shift. So, you happily laid in bed for about an hour before deciding to get up and get yourself ready for the day. After a hot shower, you returned to your room and opened your dresser drawer. As you began to grab your things, you realized that something felt… off.

“Oh no,” you gasped as you scanned the top off your dresser. There were your perfumes… your jewelry box… the photo of you and Steve…

“Where’s the letter?” you choked out, scrambling to move things around, knowing full well that the letter was gone.

You sank to the floor, pulling your towel tighter around you, as if it would somehow protect you from what you knew would be impending embarrassment. “Robin,” you muttered through gritted teeth.

Just as you were planning your revenge, the phone rang. Your mother called your name, shouting that Robin was on the other end. You quickly grabbed the phone you had in your room and answered.

“Robin-”

“Heeeeey,” Robin greeted slowly as you both heard the click of your mother hanging up on her end. “Think you could come in a bit early? Steve, uh, called out today.”

Heat rose to your face. “Robin, did you-”

“Just, uh, come in, okay? We’ll chat once you’re here.” Click.

The tone of fear and nerves was not one you often heard from Robin. You resisted the urge to slam your head against the wall, hoping that somehow your best girlfriend had not destroyed your life.

A customer jumped at the sound of the slamming door as you entered Family Video. You made a beeline for the counter, where Robin was sorting a stack of videos. She winced at the sight of you, her cheeks turning deep red.

“Heeeeeey best friend,” she called in a hopeful, sing-song voice.

“Where is it?” you hissed, glancing around to make sure there were no customers in earshot.

Robin cleared her throat and shuffled her feet. “See, funny story….” She glanced up at the ceiling, as if the words she needed were typed above her head. “I kind of… gave it to Steve.”

Several customers looked up at the inhuman screech that came out of your mouth.

“What the hell, Robin?” you groaned, burying your burning face in your hands. “Why would you do that? What did he say?”

“Okay, so,” Robin started. “I, uh, gave Steve the letter in the office. And he read it, I guess. And then he came out and said he was going home… and just walked out.” Robin lifted her hands to her face, as if she thought you would hit her. Which, honestly, sounded like a good idea.

Your chest tightened with anxiety. “And?”

“That’s it,” Robin answered. “I haven’t heard from him since.”

Tears stung in your eyes. Great. Steve now knew you loved him. And he left work so he wouldn’t have to see you, so he wouldn’t have to tell you that no, he did not like you that way. He would probably go on yet another date and laugh about your stupid letter with whatever girl he had on his arm. And he would never, ever speak to you again, except maybe to ask you to switch shifts with him so he could go out with some beautiful girl.

“I’m so sorry,” Robin whispered, interrupting your panicked thoughts. The pain in her eyes melted your heart a bit. Deep down, you knew she had done what she did out of her affection for you. “I thought-”

Sighing, you shook your head. “Let me just clock in,” you said, defeat echoing in your voice.

After a long shift, an awkward dinner at Robin’s house, and a quick shower, you planted yourself on your bed, determined to distract yourself with a book. Through your closed window you could hear the distant sound of music as you finally hit a rhythm with your book, but it was muffled under the melancholy sound of The Cure coming from your stereo.

Two quick knocks at the door interrupted you. Your dad poked his head in, exasperation on his face.

“Honeybee?”

“Yeah, Dad?”

Your dad sighed. “Can you tell Steven to go home? I’m trying to sleep, and I have no patience for him and his antics right now.”

“Steve?” Your breath hitched slightly at the mention of his name. This was it. He was on your front porch, letter in hand, ready to confront you over your stupid, stupid crush and tell you that your friendship was over, that eighteen years of laughter and memories was down the drain because you couldn’t help yourself from writing that letter and Robin couldn’t help meddling.

You jumped out of bed and scurried past your dad, begging your heart to quiet down, praying that Steve wouldn’t be able to hear it. It was so loud in your ears that you once again were barely noticing the music that continued outside as you reached the front door. Taking a deep breath, you reached out and turned the doorknob.

As you opened the door, you finally recognized the sound of one of your favorite REO Speedwagon songs wafting across the yard to you. But your attention was focused on the sight on your lawn:

Steve Harrington, King Steve, your Steve, was standing in the middle of the grass, his hair more tousled than usual, with his arms in the air, holding up the boom box that usually sat in his room. From the boom box you could hear the words-

And even as I wander, I'm keeping you in sight

You're a candle in the window on a cold, dark winter's night

And I'm getting closer than I ever thought I might

And I can't fight this feeling anymore

I've forgotten what I started fighting for

It's time to bring this ship into the shore

And throw away the oars, forever

You let your eyes wander down from the boom box to Steve’s face. At the sight of you in the porchlight, his whole body seemed to soften, and you swore you heard him let out a gentle sigh. You quietly closed the door behind you and stepped off the porch. Steve met you in the middle of the sidewalk, allowing his boom box to fall to his side and setting it on the ground between you.

“I couldn’t find that Peter Gabriel song,” Steve blurted, gesturing at the still-playing boom box. “So I thought… I mean you like REO, right? You play them all the time in the car.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, blinking rapidly and rubbing his fingers together.

You’d seen Steve flirt plenty of times with plenty of girls. He was confident, charming, funny, and incredibly sure of himself. He made jokes and smirked and offered sly compliments. And he often left the interaction with plans for a date, shooting cocky winks at you and Robin. But that wasn’t Steve right now. His eyes were full of uncertainty as they flickered everywhere but your own eyes.

“Steve, what’re you doing?” You took a small step towards Steve, trying to make everything make sense.

A flicker of that King Steve grin flashed across his face. “You said the end of Say Anything was the most romantic thing you’ve ever seen. So, I thought I’d give it a shot.”

In spite of your nerves, you couldn’t help but smile back. “And why in the world would you do that?”

“So I can do this.”

Steve took your face in his hands and tugged you towards him, pressing his lips to yours for the second time in your life. Just like last time, your heart skipped several beats and your mind was filled with nothing but Steve. Sighing into the kiss, you wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling his body against yours, wondering how you’d survived going this long between lip locks with Steve Harrington.

When Steve finally pulled back, you both broke out into fits of shy giggles, giddiness evident on both of your faces.

“That was a hell of a lot better than last time,” Steve teased, giving your nose a small peck.

Rolling your eyes, you gave him a little shove. “Yeah, looks like you finally know what you’re doing, Harrington.”

His eyebrows flew up. “Oh, that’s how it is, huh?”

“Yeah,” you breathed, pulling him back in for another kiss. “That’s how it is.”

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington #steve harrington x you

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andbreakmynose · 27 days

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You Are My Sympathy - My Better Self

You never expected to work as the babysitter for a single father who just happened to be Alex Turner, you also never expected to end up in this situation with the man you technically worked for.

WARNINGS: SMUT!! slight angst, also slight fluff. single dad! alex, the car! alex, age gap (not specified), blowjobs

Word Count: 4.5k

Celebrity babysitter was never something you thought you’d put on your resume. You had been babysitting since your teen years, so it was natural you continued doing it as an adult. It also helped that you really enjoyed it.

One of the worst parts of moving to the city after graduating university was that everything cost more than it did in your small hometown. Paying rent, your student loans, and the general costs of living was becoming difficult on a babysitter's budget, and you felt bad about upcharging your regular clients.

It got worse over the summer; the parent who paid you the best no longer required your services because she got the summer off of work. You were looking everywhere for a new family to work with, but it seems like everyone was asking for too much and paying too little. Sometimes you consider having to get a full-time job instead of just babysitting.

It was a casual comment by your housemate Laura that led you to where you are now. You were complaining about not finding work while downing beers when she joked that maybe there was some celebrity looking for a nanny that would pay you a ton. To her it was a joke, but after she went to bed you spent all night browsing websites that quite literally were for celebrities needing nannies.

You applied for a bunch, but the first one that reached back to you was a single father who was looking for someone to watch his 3-year-old daughter while he worked long hours. Some overnights would be required, but you’d also be able to sleep in your own bed at night. It sounded perfect.

Going to the interview, you expected anyone but him. You thought you’d be working for some sort of businessman, maybe a CEO, with the amount he was offering as pay. But no, you sat in front of Alex fucking Turner and his 3-year-old daughter, Ayla. You were starstruck at first but got over it when you realized how normal he was. All he wanted was the best for his daughter. He seemed to like you, and so did the little one, so you got the job.

And here you were, getting paid $4,000 a day to take care of the sweetest toddler you had ever worked with.

You sighed, looking over at the clock: 7:50pm, which meant it was about time to put the child to bed. You had bathed her, and she was already in her pajamas, but you were honestly enjoying the current game of Barbie dolls you had going on.

Kneeling on the floor of the cozy but fancy living room, your Barbies were currently busy packing their bags for a trip on their Barbie airplane. The pink plastic airplane was the gift you gave Ayla last Christmas; it wasn’t the most expensive gift, but she absolutely adored it. Alex, in return, got you a new coffee maker that you savored every morning.

You were just about to tell Ayla to put the dolls down and start heading up to the pink plush palace she called her bedroom when the door opened. Alex had come home early.

“Daddy!” The little one cried out when she saw him, toddling over to attach herself to his leg.

He laughed and scooped her up, setting her on his hip.

“Hello yourself, sweetheart,” he boops her nose, smiling wider than you’ve ever seen him smile, and then turns to you. “Was she good today? Cause any trouble?”

You shook your head; you honestly had never had ANY problems with the child.

“She was perfect. And she ate all of her veggies for lunch and dinner!” You tell him with a proud smile that you were both proud of her and satisfied with your own work. You were a good babysitter, and both of you knew it.

“All your veggies? Really? What a good little angel!” Alex beamed, ruffling the girl's head. He made sure to tell you every day how much of a lifesaver you were and how much he appreciated it, but it really wasn’t enough to explain just how grateful he was.

“I was just about to put her to bed; actually, I’m sure she’d love it if you came and read her a bedtime story.” You suggest with a soft smile; you loved Alex’s voice, and you’re sure the little one did too; the idea of him reading a bedtime story sounded like the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard of.

He thought it over for a second before nodding. He was dead tired from his day, but he’d never miss the opportunity for some more time with his little angel, especially since he didn’t get to see her as much as he’d want to.

He motions for you to follow him up the stairs to the pink palace that his daughter called a bedroom, sitting her down on the bed and placing a kiss on her forehead.

"Alright, babygirl, Daddy’s going to read you a story, okay?” He says gently; the smile on his face from being around her was like something you’ve never seen before. The little one claps excitedly and gets comfy in her bed while Alex looks at the books scattered on the floor.

“Which does she like?” He asks you; he wants to get it perfect, to make this the best bedtime story for his baby.

You hum as you look through all the books on the floor, eyes settling between two. “She’s a fan of both ‘Goodnight Moon’ and 'If You Give a Mouse a Cookie’, maybe one of those?”

Alex nods and picks up ‘If You Give a Mouse a Cookie,’ grinning widely as he does. “This one sounds good, especially since Daddy really wants a cookie right now.”

His words inspire laughter from all three of you, his being quieter and more reserved at his own joke while yours was sweeter and more of a giggle (the little girl’s laughs were more to copy her two favorite people).

He sits down on the floor next to her and starts to read through the pages: “If you give a mouse a cookie, he will ask for a glass of milk.” His voice is somehow firm and gentle, his accent giving almost a form of refinement to the stupid words on the pages. You sit down next to him and watch in awe as he goes through the different accents and makes different sounds to represent what he’s reading. It’s clear he was in showbusiness; if he wasn’t a singer, he might be a damn good actor.

By the time he’s finished the book, her eyes are already shut and small snores are coming from her tiny lips. To Alex, it’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen, but you’d say that’s actually the sight of him watching her with so much adoration in his eyes.

He stands up and beckons you out of the room, shutting off the light and closing the door.

“Do you want a drink?” He asks you, thinking about the new bottle of Merlot he bought a week ago and hadn’t really had the time to get to yet.

You should probably say no; you still have to walk home. But there’s such a sparkle in his eyes that you really just can’t say that to him. So instead, you nod and follow him to the kitchen.

The conversation is simple as he pours the first glasses; he asks about what you and Ayla did today, and you ask him about his day at work. He never really says much about his job; you assume there’s some sort of confidential stuff with the album he’s recording. It’s fine though; you can’t expect him to let his guard down around you.

“You know you’re the first fan I’ve ever shared a glass of wine with?” He says with a small smirk, He thinks you’re unreasonably pretty, but he’d never say that. To him, you’re the savior of his life, making sure the only person he cares about is safe and happy.

“I’m sure I’m also the first fan who’s ever gotten to watch Peppa Pig with your daughter.” You joke back, bringing the glass to your lips. Alex laughs at your joke; his eyes are tired, but they still light up just at the idea of you and his kid.

“You’re so good with her. I know I say that every time we talk, but you truly are so good with her.” His compliments never fail to truly touch your heart, especially since you know he means them completely.

"Aw, you’re welcome. You may be the most unusual family I’ve worked with, but she’s one of the sweetest kids.” You smile back at him; it also never hurts to have your work complimented.

“I think she wishes you were part of our family full time; every time I take her to an outing, she asks if you’re coming too.” He looks over at you as his lips attach to the wine glass; he doesn’t include the part about how he’d also like you to be part of the family; it’s all about the little one.

“She’s such a darling!” You reply, making an ‘aww’ face at his words. The idea that you’ve been such an important part of this child's (and this rockstar’s) life is so special.

“You know if you ever want me to come to those things and be an extra pair of hands, I’d be honored; you don’t even have to pay me. You already pay me enough.”

Alex nods at your suggestion; it’s a nice idea. He’d love to bring you to cookouts with the rest of the band and playdates with the other parents he knows. He’d love to bring you around anywhere; you were really one of the most gentlehearted people he’s ever met.

“I’ll have to take you up on that sometime soon.” He says, straightening his button down slightly. He hasn’t had a chance with you alone like this in a long while; maybe it was time for him to finally say what he’s wanted to.

“You know love,” he starts, the pet name not going over your head. “I think you’re really special. One of the kindest women I’ve ever met. And I know how much you get along with Ayla, but I’d love to just get to know you one on one more. Would that be okay?”

He’s anxious at his own suggestion; if you don’t approve and find him weird, you could get mad at him. And the worst-case scenario is that you could quit and he’d have to find a new babysitter; none would be as good as you.

His words might just be music to your ears; you always found him rather attractive, and seeing him and his daughter evoked feelings you didn’t really understand, but you never wanted to let yourself think about that further. He was technically your boss, but he was also suggested going on what sounded like a date. Every professional bone inside of you was screaming at you to say no, but goddamnit, you haven’t been on a date in years now.

“I’d love to!” Is the word you decide on, a smile appearing on both of your faces instantly?

Alex thanks the Lord internally that you didn’t flip out and that you actually seemed excited about the whole thing. So many ideas flood his head of what he could do to make this date perfect for you.

“Do you like Italian food? There’s this really nice place down the street that I’ve been to a few times. It's also super quiet, so no one can bother us,” he suggests. He hadn’t actually been at that restaurant since he was with his ex-girlfriend, Ayla’s mother, but he’s been meaning to go back.

You nodded almost instantly; you did love Italian food. It was like he could read your mind; that was literally your idea of the perfect first date. The idea of it being quiet was also appealing; she’s heard stories from him of what it can be like when fans or paparazzi find him.

“Sounds lovely!”

Alex beams at your words, a wide smile appearing on his face. He was already deciding on when to take you and what he was going to wear. You were just so special, and he wanted to make sure you knew how much he cared about you and appreciated you.

“You’re lovely, truly. I don’t think you know how lovely you are.” His voice is warm, and he takes your hands in his. He hasn’t felt this giddy about a woman in years, and he almost felt like a teen again.

“You flatter me; you’re a lovely person too, and a great father.” You respond to him, looking down at your joint hands. Sometimes he was so in his own head and it bothered you; he was just so special.

He lets out a low laugh and shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling for a second.

"God, no, I’m a mess. And I’m barely a father; you do more work than me.” His words were sad, but he meant them; he never felt truly good enough in any way. As a musician he thought he was past his prime, and as a father he thought he was an utter failure. It was you that kept his family afloat.

You furrow your eyebrows at his words; they hurt you for some reason. You’ve seen him and his daughter; they were so happy together. She loved him, and you could tell he thought she was the most beautiful person on earth.

You gently release your hands from his and cup his face. “Hey no. That’s not true. You are such a good father; your daughter loves you so much.”

He lets out a small gasp at the feeling of your hands on his face; it was a tenderness he hadn’t felt in about as long as he could remember. He never let his guard down, and now you were practically coaxing him into being vulnerable and open, and he felt safe. At the sound of his gasp, your own heart starts to beat faster, and you rest your forehead against his. It’s a silent gesture to show him that you really, truly care. And he feels it, and for once the world doesn’t feel so awful.

He looks up at you with his dark eyes, waiting for a silent signal of anything. He wasn’t going to push you into something; he just wanted you to stay. You let out a small nod; he could probably manipulate you into joining a cult at this very moment.

He leans slightly closer to you, his lips almost touching yours before he pulls away. He can’t be the one to kiss you; that would be breaking every rule. It’s an easy thing to notice how hesitant he seems, and it’s almost adorable to you. You grin up at him, reassuring him by squeezing his cheek with the hand still on his face. Realizing he’s probably too shy to be the one to break a boundary, you decide to cross every bridge, pressing your lips gently against his.

His lips are dry and cracked; he probably didn’t think about taking care of them. He didn’t have a reason to; he wasn’t really planning on kissing anyone until all of this. The kiss is simple, the type that you see at the end of an old Hollywood movie where they weren’t allowed to make out. He takes a second to fumble with his hands; he doesn’t really feel like going directly into groping right now. His biggest fear is scaring you off. So instead he pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you in a hug.

Even if the kiss wasn’t passionate, there was more emotion found in his lips against yours than any makeout session you had with college boyfriends. He felt truly cared for for the first time in a while; you just felt head over heels crazy about him.

Slowly, after he pulls away for a deep breath and to take in your rosy cheeks, he deepens the kiss. It starts with him gently licking at the bottom of your lip; it’s light enough that if you want to pull away, you can, but you don’t. You give him the permission he wants, and he swirls his tongue into the cavern of your mouth. He wants to get to know every inch of you—everything that made you the sweetest girl he had ever met.

The insides of his mouth had an aftertaste of coffee and cigarettes, just as you may have predicted in your late-night fantasies. There was rarely a time you saw him without one of the two, and it was endearing how that even crossed into his kisses. He hugs you impossibly closer before removing his lips from yours.

“You’re so fucking perfect. I don’t understand how I deserve you. I’m a fucked up single dad; I pay you to help me make my life less chaotic. I don’t deserve your tenderness.” He starts to ramble, pressing his head against yours again. His words ignite a spark in your chest; it’s just so untrue that it makes you angry. You wish there was a way to explain to him that he was doing nothing wrong; he was maybe the best parent you’ve ever seen.

Your brain is filled with thoughts on how you could reassure him, but there’s no words you can think of. You look down at his jeans and then back up at him.

“Can I show you how enchanted I am by you? How much I don’t care about your flaws?” You ask him, hand gently ghosting over his hips. His breath hitches, and he nods. There’s a deep worry at the back of his throat that you may feel obliged to do this, but the devotion in your eyes changes his mind instantly.

“Of course, sunshine. I’d love that.” He smiles at you as you sink to your knees on the kitchen floor, looking up at him with a warm beam. ‘Sunshine’ was one of the first things he ever said to you; on the first day you worked with Ayla, he told you that you were just like a work of art.

You wrap your fingers into his belt buckle and remove it, setting it on the floor next to you. You’ve given plenty of blowjobs, but this one felt more personal, more important. As stupid as it sounded, you felt like the safety of the world depended on you sucking his dick at this very moment.

By the time you slide his jeans and boxers off, you’re met with the fact that he’s big, like really big, and he isn’t even fully hard. Of course he was big; he was a fucking rockstar. There was no way he wasn’t big. But you were still a bit nervous that you wouldn’t be able to handle it all.

As if he could sense your hesitation about his size, he ropes his fingers into your hair and forces you to look up at him. “Take the time you need sunshine; you’ll be perfect, I promise.”

His words not only send a wave of arousal between your thighs, but they also give you the reassurance you need. Wrapping your hand around his thick cock firmly, you give him a few pumps to get him totally hard.

It doesn’t take long; he’s so attracted to you, and this moment was just so fucking hot. His cock is even bigger than you could’ve imagined; you hollow your cheeks just looking at it. It takes you a minute to think of where to start, but you remembered one thing your ex-boyfriend loved.

You begin by peppering his shaft with soft kisses, going all the way from the head to his balls (you pay extra attention to his balls, noticing the way his breath hitches at the lightest bit of contact). This is almost exactly what Alex would’ve expected from you; even the way you sucked Dick was sweet and tender.

After his dick is thoroughly covered with every kiss possible, you wrap your hand around the base and lean forward, swirling your tongue around the tip. His breath hitches, and he fights back his body’s urge to thrust forward; he wanted to let you take as long as you needed.

It starts with gentle licks and suckers; you want to warm your mouth up. It’s been a while. You do eventually start to suck on his head, hollowing out your cheeks so you can go farther. You don’t start to bob on his cock immediately, just a few gentle sucks. You look up at him for confirmation that you were doing okay.

Of course you were doing okay; it’s been so long that you could’ve just grazed his dick with your pinky and he would’ve exploded everywhere. He gives you a reassuring smile and brings his hand to your hand, gently guiding you to start bobbing.

That’s just what you needed—the slight act of dominance. You start moving your mouth up and down his shaft, your mouth feeling so perfectly full. The first time you try to deepthroat him, you gag, his dick hitting a spot pretty deep in your throat.

Alex, gentleman he is, immediately pulls you off and looks at you with concern, but you shake your head. “I’m fine, Alex, I promise,” you say before reattaching yourself to his hardness. This time it’s more passionate, faster. You’re remembering everything that made past partners tick, and you’re learning what Alex loves.

For example, he lets out a guttural moan when you gently fondle his balls, but you could’ve guessed that from the way he reacted to the kisses earlier. He moans again when you suck on him AND swirl your tongue at the same time, and you can hear the way his breath changes based on how fast or slow you’re going.

Once you determine the pace that’s drawing the most whines out of you, he brings his hand back to your head, guiding you down his cock further. This time you’re able to go all the way down, and with his full cock in the back of your throat, you look up at him with a sense of pride. All you ever want to be is helpful for him, doing the most. He gives you a tap on the back as if to say ‘good job.’ These seconds of quiet without your head moving remind you that you’re so soaked the floor is probably wet, and then he pushes you back up.

You keep this rhythm for a while, alternating between sucking him and letting him guide your head. You know he’s close; you can sense the way he’s starting to twitch in your mouth, and his heartbeat is starting to become erratic. He wants to cum in your mouth, on you, inside you, anywhere he could get it. He’s starting to become obsessed.

“Can I cum in your mouth sunshine?” He asks you, voice breaking a few times in his sentence. He doesn’t know what you’re okay with yet; maybe you’re the type of girl that would prefer to be covered in his spillage.

You pull away enough to respond, watching the way his shaft is almost convulsing. “I would love for you to cum in my mouth,” you say with a grin before laughing slightly. It was an absurd statement to say to someone who was practically your boss, but it was also really damn hot at the moment. He laughs too; he liked that he could do that while still having sex with you.

His laughs, however, are interrupted by you suddenly deepthroating him, looking up at him with eyes that are just giving him permission to cum down your hot throat. After a few more suckers, he starts to grip the kitchen counter and loses control over his hips and breath; if he wasn’t so turned on, he’d think he looks pathetic. To you, it’s beautiful that he’s coming apart and you’re bringing him this level of pleasure.

He whines when his loads start to spill into your throat, pulling out of you and gripping harder to the counter. It takes him a minute to steady his breath, admiring the way your eyes are lust-blown and the sight of your throat swallowing.

There was a lot of cum, but it was his. You liked that it was his, and you made sure to swallow it all. It didn’t have a taste you could really identify, so you decided to call it 'Alex.' It was him at his most vulnerable. You loved it.

He pulls his pants up, shuffling for his belt on the floor. You look over at the time, 10:30; you should probably get home soon before your roommate starts to worry.

“I want to return the favor. Let me taste you.” He says suddenly, almost begging you. It breaks your heart to have to shake your head no.

“I should really get home, but I’ll have to take you up on that offer later. Maybe after that date, yeah?” You smile warmly at him, grabbing his clammy hand and squeezing it a few times. He pouts in protest but then nods; he didn’t want you to be too tired at work tomorrow either.

"Alright, love, I’ll see you here tomorrow in the morning, yeah? I probably won’t be home until late again, big studio session. But I’ll make sure to take Friday off for our date.” He grins; just the idea of taking you on a date fills him with a warmth only his daughter had made him feel in the past years.

You pull him into a hug and press a quick kiss on his lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Alex. Maybe I’ll take Ayla to the park.” You grab your bag and start to walk towards the door, your face still flushed pink. “I can’t wait for our date.”

He gives a nod in agreement at that, too out of words to say anything else. It hurt him to see you leave, but you’d be back in no time.

“And Alex, thank you for letting me be a part of your family. Even if our dynamic is changing.” You reach the door, opening it with your hand.

“Thank you for being a part of our family, Sunshine. I wouldn’t have anyone else.”

AN: was reading jane eyre (also where the title came from) when i came up with this, i got really obsessed with that dynamic. might turn this into a series idk

#andbreakmynose #alex turner x reader #alex turner smut #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner fic #alex turner #arctic monkeys #alex turner fanfic #alex turner x you #fanfic #smut #dad! al

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criticallyacclaimedstranger · 6 months

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The Plan [Marcus Pike x f!reader]

Read on Ao3

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: The Mentalist

Pairing: Marcus Pike x you/cishet f!reader. Reader is fat/overweight but this is never explicitly mentioned. Also, reader is a lawyer. (I know nothing about lawyering.)

Tags/Warnings: Sad Marcus, alcohol mention, one night stands, fellatio mention, neighbours with benefits, safe sex, squirting, cunnilingus, reader has a difficult relationship with her family, mad dash through the airport at Christmas, trauma dumping (Marcus coming clean about his disappointment after Lisbon dumped him).

Summary: A drunken one night stand with your cute new neighbour Marcus Pike eventually leads to more. Takes place after his story arc in the show.

Words: 7,895

A/N: My first Marcus Pike fic, and also I finished a goddamn fic! There is so much cause for celebration here, folks. Remember to comment and reblog: sharing is caring.

Shout-out to @missredherring and @pazizz who read drafts and helped me forward with this story <3

Marcus Pike does not have a bitter disposition. He does not sulk, or harbor resentment. It's just not in his nature.

Until now.

There is just something so unforgivable, incomprehensible, wrong about the way Teresa Lisbon left him. She called him to say she was coming to D.C., that she would marry him, and two hours later she called again to inform him that she wasn't. That she was in love with Patrick Jane. That asshole.

Marcus has been divorced, and not even that made him spiral as hard as the breakup from Teresa. It just hit harder, because he had fallen so hard for her, for the way she dipped her gaze and chin when a smile broke out on her lips, before looking back up at him with those pretty eyes of hers. He fell for her sense of humor, her intelligence, the way it was so easy to be with her. And he really thought that she fell for him in the same way. Maybe she did - but Jane was there, in the background, confusing her, wooing her with one last big, desperate gesture. If Marcus had known that all it took to keep Teresa was to get himself arrested, he would've done that instead of bringing her takeout at work, making her morning coffee just as she liked it, loaning her his jacket when she was cold during that date, all the thousands of little things that he did for her, that he loved doing for her because he loved her so much that doing those things weren't a chore, they weren't planned, they were an honest, spontaneous expression of his feelings for her.

And then, one big, desperate gesture that rendered Marcus's all small, everyday gestures moot. And it pisses him off.

Practicality kicked in as a form of survival. He quickly cancelled the purchase of the house he had Teresa had picked out, found a condo instead, moved in with his things, and threw himself into his work. Most of the boxes were left unpacked. His place didn't feel like a home because he couldn't let it. He was supposed to share one with Teresa, and now there was just him, surrounded by moving boxes that he had to deal with but couldn't, wouldn't. What should've been a house for the two of them - maybe more in the future? - with a little garden, walls impregnated with love and excitement for a life together, sunlight through the window during long weekend mornings of slow breakfasts, putting up Christmas decorations together, all those things that he was looking forward to. Now he has a bachelor pad, in a fancy apartment building with a doorman, but a sad bachelor pad all the same. The furniture is more or less where it should be, but he hasn't bothered to plan that much. The kitchen table is too big, but he's not in any condition to sell it off and buy a new one. The bookcases are half full, and his artwork is still unhung. He really tried there, but the first painting he got his hands on was one that he had seen before him in the spacious yet cozy living-room in That House, with the fireplace, and suddenly no wall in his apartment was good enough. So he put the painting away, and the rest were left packed down.

He even started going out after work, when he couldn't stay any longer but didn't want to go home. He found a watering hole to his liking, and became a regular, nursing one whiskey after another until he could go home and fall into bed for a deep, dreamless sleep.

It's after one of those nights that he finds you, his neighbor, trying to open his front door with your key. Your clumsy yet meticulous movements tell him that you're intoxicated, and there is something endearing about the way you're frowning, the tip of your tongue sticking out the side of your mouth as you focus on sticking in the key that doesn't fit.

When Marcus comes closer, you notice him, and look up. Quickly registering that it's the workaholic neighbor that you rarely see, you just nod, and go back to trying to open the door.

"That's my door," he says, and you look up again.

"What's that?"

"That's my door. You're trying to get into my apartment."

You frown, your hand holding the key falling to your side as you process his words. You then squint at the number of the door, taking a few seconds to realize that this is, indeed, not your front door.

"Oops," you mutter, then grimace apologetically at your neighbor. "Well, this isn't embarrassing at all."

"Don't worry about it," he shrugs, fishing his own key from his pocket. You step to the side to give him access to the door, and when he stands right next to you, you can smell his cologne, sophisticated and with a hint of bergamot.

He eyes you, just as drunk as you are.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Late night. You?"

"Same." He looks so tired when he says it, but you can tell that there is a dimple aching to appear in his cheek. His face, bleary though it is, is handsome, and looks like it was made for smiling.

"What is it you do again?" you ask. You've exchanged pleasantries with him when he first moved in, but you never had the time or mental capacity to actually remember who he is.

"FBI, I investigate art theft."

"Ah, right." Yeah, that's it, something so unusual and random that one couldn't make it up. Then again, D.C. is full of people who do stuff you only hear about in movies.

"Marcus," he offers his hand, and you take it, and give him your name.

"And what is it that you do?"

"Law. I work with government contracts and related investigations at a law firm here in D.C."

"Sounds complicated."

You shrug. "I'm smart enough."

"You look good, too."

You scoff. "Are you coming on to me?"

"I'm trying." Now the smile breaks through, lighting up his whole face. Gods, but he's cute.

"Okay." You make the decision quickly, nodding at his door. "Looks like I picked the right door, after all."

Marcus unlocks the door and opens it for you.

His head is pounding, and his mouth is dry when he wakes up. For a moment, he doesn't know what day it is, what he's supposed to do, or what happened last night, but then the flashbacks start to put things together. The flirty neighbor. Her naked skin. Her alcohol-fuming kisses.

He turns his head and sees you, still asleep next to him. Oh, okay.

Sitting up slowly, he gets his bearings before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Clothes are strewn over the floor. Right next to the bed is a used condom, tied up and looking sad and abandoned. Okay, good, at least he remembered to use protection. He picks it up and takes it to the bathroom, where he disposes of it before washing his hands and face.

He hears the rustle of bedsheets, and returns to the bedroom, realizing that he's naked. You might not want to be greeted by a naked stranger first thing. Looking around for his underwear, he's nevertheless too slow in finding them: you're already sitting up and rubbing your forehead.

He clears his throat. "Good morning."

Your smile is a little lopsided. "Morning."

"You want breakfast?" Marcus immediately offers, wanting to do the gentlemanly thing before he sends you off so that he can take about ten aspirins, and go to work. "And I'll put out a clean towel for you so that you can use the shower."

"Appreciate it, but I live right next door," you point out as you get out of bed. You're as naked as he is, and Marcus tries very hard not to ogle your body for what he suspects will be the last time.

"I don't mind."

"Thanks, but I have to get to work." You pick up and put on your panties, bra, skirt, shirt. Marcus spots his boxer briefs, and pulls them on.

"Okay, well... I had a good time."

"I did too."

Now you're standing right in front of him, buttoning up your silk shirt. Even with your makeup smudged out, and terrible morning breath, you look really nice.

"I gotta ask you something, though, because my memory is a little... hazy." Your cheekbones seem to glow, and he realizes that you're blushing.

"Yeah?"

"I sucked your dick, didn't I?"

Marcus feels the heat rise to his ears. "Um... well... yes, you did."

"Well?"

"What?"

"Did I do it well?"

"I think so."

You grin at him. "You don't remember much either, do you?"

"It was all consensual, if that's what you're asking."

"Oh, I have no doubt about that." You surprise him by placing your hand on his naked chest. His heart skips a beat, and he hopes that you won't notice.

"I really have to go, but maybe I'll see you again soon?" you ask softly, and Marcus finds himself relaxing.

"I'd like that."

You even kiss him good-bye, a quick, closed-mouth peck to keep morning breaths from mixing, before you grab your shoes, your purse (muttering under your breath about several emails, and two missed calls), and head over next door.

Marcus, still only wearing his underwear, looks thoughtfully at the closed door for a long while before going into the kitchen with the too big table to make coffee.

Work occupies most of your waking hours, six days a week, often seven. You don't see Marcus again for weeks, don't hear any sounds from his apartment during the hours you're home and awake. Barely having time to think about him, your thoughts nevertheless stray to him when you're standing in the shower or going to bed at night. You haven't been able to fit a boyfriend into your life in a long time, and casual hook-ups have rarely left you satisfied, but even with your hazy memories of the night with Marcus, you left his apartment that morning with a feeling that it was good. So that's where your thoughts go when you touch yourself, the few times you have the energy to do so.

One Friday night, after a long but satisfying week that ended with a contract being accepted as it was, which meant you could have a weekend with only a couple of hours of work from home, you're hurrying home with Chinese takeout in a bag. Looking forward to a quiet night in front of the TV, with an early morning at the gym the following day, you run into Marcus on your way into your apartment building.

"Hi," you smile, immediately noticing how he seems to square his shoulders when he sees you. "Going out?"

"Yeah," he nods, moving his weight from one foot to the other as he takes in your food bag. "And you're staying in?"

"Finally, a Friday night without work," you acknowledge. Marcus's smile lets you know that he knows about that all too well.

"Enjoy."

"You too, you going somewhere nice?"

"No, I mean... I'm just going by myself."

There is something so despondent about the way he averts his eyes when confessing to going out alone. You're not in a position to start saving people, but you see an opening here.

"Join me for dinner instead, Marcus."

"I don't want to bother you."

"It's no bother," you shake your head, now moving towards the elevator while beckoning him to follow you. "Come on, before the food gets cold. There's enough here for two, I always buy extra."

He hesitates for only a split second, you can see it in how his body seems to pull him away, out to some sad bar with too much to drink. Instead, he nods, smiles softly, and follows you. He insists on bringing a bottle of wine from his place, and you accept.

You find out more about him that night, as you share your takeout with him, and he shares his wine. He tells you of heartache, only summarily, clearly not wanting you to feel sorry for him, but you can tell that he's been torn up about the "amicable" break-up. He also mentions that he's been married, and you wonder what's wrong with him. He seems perfectly nice and normal, why hasn't he been able to keep a woman? To his credit, he never complains about nice guys finishing last, only states that maybe he's meant to focus on his career.

"There's a lot to be said about having a good career," you agree. Marcus sips his wine with a small smile.

"Work doesn't break your heart."

"That, too."

"I take it you don't have a partner who'll suddenly come home to find me in his kitchen?" he jokes lightly, but you recognize the question for what it is: he wants to know if you're Seeing Anyone.

"Not one for relationships," you shrug.

"You don't long for anyone to snuggle up with in front of the TV on a Friday night?"

"I don't have time. And they never seem to understand that. Or they're working, too." You pick at the scraps in your takeout box with the chopsticks. "And I seem to attract douchebags. Dunno if it comes with the field in which I work. I always seem to go out with terrible lawyer guys."

Marcus chuckles. "Their loss."

"I miss having sex, though." You look him in the eye, and his tongue slides over his lower lip, catching some runaway sauce.

"Yeah?"

You nod, and feel your cheeks heat up. You're a no-nonsense person, but not always this forward with men. But it's easy with Marcus. He takes it all in stride, doesn't seem to think you're aggressive, or slutty, he just smiles and tells you that he misses sex too.

"But what we had was okay, though?" he adds. "Even if neither one of us seems to remember it that well."

"It was," you agree, raising the glass to your lips and draining the rest of the wine. After putting it back down, you tilt your head and bite your lower lip.

"You wanna do it again? Now that we're sober and all?"

"I'm a little tipsy," he warns you with a chuckle, "But I'm in."

Both of you get up at the same time, chairs scraping the floor simultaneously in the kitchen that mirrors his own but has a table that fits it. All of your apartment just fits in a way his half-assed dwelling doesn't. He realizes that it's because your apartment is a home, decorated and lived-in, warm colors and fabrics, Scandinavian wallpapers in bold but tasteful patterns that he himself would never consider but that feel right here.

You step up to him, snugly fitting yourself to his frame, and place your hands on his narrow hips as you kiss him. The two glasses of wine that you've had have laid a warm, cozy blanket over your busy mind, and now you're fully focused on Marcus, whose soft, plump lips are meeting yours as his arms go around your waist.

You make your way to the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes as you kiss and get undressed, get undressed and kiss. The bed in unmade, you just threw the covers to the side when you got up this morning. Wearing only your underwear, you lay down, pull Marcus over you, rake your fingers through his hair, moan when he palms your plump tits through the bra.

"Tell me what you like," he asks you hoarsely. You hum when he scatters kisses along the lace trim of your bra.

"That's a good start."

He hums back as he pops your tits out of your bra and lick around the nipples.

"Go on," he asks, and a shiver runs down your spine at the low barytone of his voice. You reach around to unhook your bra, and Marcus takes it off you and flings it to the side before burying his face between your breasts.

"You eat pussy?" you ask him breathlessly, and he looks up at you.

"Of course."

"Not everybody does," you wink, and he shakes his head.

"Their loss."

He's in a hurry, you note, but it's endearing in an unexpected way. When he pulls down your panties and gets settled, your legs over his shoulders, you remember to give him a warning.

"I, uh, I don't orgasm from oral, just so you know."

"Really?" His breath is hot against your folds, but he's looking up at you with attentive eyes.

"Yeah. It's not a comment on your skills, I just need you to know it," you shrug, accustomed to always having to tread carefully around the matter. Too many men get offended or take it as a challenge.

"Thanks for telling me," Marcus smiles in a way that's way too innocent and adorable for a man who's got his face inches away from your pussy. "But do you really want me to...?"

"Oh God, yes!" you reassure him. "I enjoy it a lot, and it gets me wet. I just can't cum, I need vaginal stimulation for that."

"You got it," he pats your thigh lightly before his tongue connects with your folds, and your eyes fall shut as you hand yourself over to the pleasure, to Marcus's deftly dancing tongue. He's good, he's attentive and eager, yet you don't get the feeling that he's trying to prove you wrong, to make you orgasm. Lord knows men have tries that in the past, and it's just stressful. No, he just seems to enjoy your moans, the way you writhe and grab his hands, the twitches of your pelvis when he does something extraordinary.

"Goddddd, Marcus, that's so fucking good..." you wail when he alternates between sucking your clit and licking it with a quick tongue. He's getting louder, sloppier, and you know you're dripping. Your clit is throbbing, and you know this is the perfect time to speed things up. You push him away, your thighs closing around his head, and Marcus retreats, chin glistening as he licks his lips.

"You okay?" he wants to know. You nod, breathless and with a pounding heart.

"Need to fuck you."

He scrambles up for a deep kiss, wet and lewd, before you push him over to get a condom from your nightstand. He drapes himself over you as you stretch across the bed, and peppers your back with kisses, like he's unable to stay away from you. You roll around, finding yourself caged between his strong arms, and you pull him down for more kissing with lips swollen and dry but still wanting more.

"How do you want me?" he gasps between the kisses as you pull down his underwear and paw at his small butt.

"Can I be on top?"

He rolls over onto his back immediately, watching you with open-mouth excitement when you remove his shorts and put on the rubber. When you finally sink down on his length, his fingers dig into your thighs as his breath hitches.

"Oh, that feels good..."

"Uh-huh," you sigh, staying still for a moment to adjust to his cock inside of you. You smile inwardly as you find yourself thinking about just how perfectly sized it is: thick but not too long.

"What?"

Your eyes open to find Marcus grinning at you.

"What what?" you grin back. He caresses your hips slowly.

"You looked like you had something to say."

"I was just thinking about what a perfect, gorgeous dick you have."

His cheeks turn pink. "Thank you. It came with the body."

You chuckle and start a slow grind, hips moving lazily back and forth as you seek out the right spots, the right rhythm. Finding it, you plant your hands on Marcus's chest and let out a low moan as you go slightly faster.

"That right for you?" he huffs, sitting up to catch a nipple in his mouth.

"Mmmfuckyes..."

You drop your hand to where your bodies meet, fingers seeking out your clit. Pleasure zaps through your body when you rub it, and you clench tightly around Marcus, causing him to dig his fingers into the soft flesh of your hips, both of you groaning.

"So good," he gripes, soothing the sting of his fingertips by rubbing his palms over the affected areas before he moves his fingers to your front. "Need a hand?"

"'m good," you gasp, your free arm slinging around his neck. You clench around him again, and Marcus's hips jut upwards, slamming into you with a force that makes you choke.

"Fuck! God, Marcus, that was..."

"Can we try something?" he pants, pulling you in for a kiss. "Please?"

"Okay?" you frown, a little frustrated at being interrupted, but Marcus gestures for you to rise, so you do as he asks, and let him pull you down with him.

"Get on top of me again, but lie down," he instructs you. You must look doubtful because he immediately adds:

"Just try it, if you don't like it, we can go back to what you were doing."

"I'll try anything once," you shrug, and get on top of him again, this time with your back turned to him. Marcus pulls you down, positioning you on top of him, legs spread, his own legs on the outside of yours. You hesitate for a second, the reality of your weight sometimes haunting your mind, but Marcus insists.

"Just come here, baby," he tells you softly, so you let him take your weight. One of his arms sneaks up the side of your ribcage to cup a breast. With the other, he guides himself into you, pushing himself in with an upward thrust of his hips. You choke on your breath and let your head hang back on his shoulder, one arm seeking a position to support you, the other coming around Marcus's neck when he presses a toothy kiss to your neck. He thrusts into you again, fingers playing with your nipple, and then his other hand comes to rub your clit.

You keen at the sudden intensity, back arching on top of him, and he plants his feet more firmly on the mattress.

"Fuck," you gasp, "that's good, Marcus, this is good..."

He sucks a kiss to your neck, his teeth stinging just a little, and your legs kick in search of a hold so that you can stay just above him. He slips out, and you whimper.

"Relax," he soothes you, thumb abandoning your clit to instead guide himself back into you. "Put your weight on me, I can take it."

You follow his instructions, back sinking down onto his chest and stomach, pelvis angling slightly to help him stay inside you. His fingers return to tease your clit, and your head falls back onto his shoulder as he settles into a rhythm that makes your toes curl.

"That's it," he praises you, his breath hot against your ear. "Just like that, take it, just enjoy it, let me take care of you."

The slow drag of his cock against your slick walls is maddening in how it pushes at your spot but leaves you wanting more. You buck your hips down eagerly.

"Faster, please, Marcus."

He obeys immediately, moaning at how you immediately clench around him. Your fingers thread through his hair, the other hand fists into the sheets. The pressure on that one spot inside you is growing in intensity, insanely, perfectly, knocking your breath out with each jab of Marcus's cock against it. Your moans become whimpers, a moan too complex a sound for you at this point, when you are so close, so utterly close to the climax that you now need as much as you need air -

The release floods your body and your cunt, and for a split second you're horrified at the wet feeling on your thighs, the rippling sound, until you realize that you squirted. A half moan, half giggle escapes you as you press your thighs together as if to lock in the orgasm that pulsates through your cunt and lower belly. Marcus gasps an excited Fuck, yes before bucking up a couple of errant times, and then relaxing down. He kisses your temple, drags his soaked fingers up over your soft belly, making you squirm.

"Sorry," he murmurs throatily. You murmur something back and slide down next to him. Everything between your legs seems wet and now cold, but you're still prickling all over with excitement.

Marcus heaves a deep sigh before turning his face to you. "That was so hot."

"I didn't know I could do that with a man."

"You haven't before?"

You shake your head. Marcus smiles softly.

"I'm honored. Was it good?"

"Yeah. How about you?"

"So fucking good."

You smile back at him before turning your face back towards the ceiling, and taking a deep breath that you sigh out audibly. Your body relaxes quickly, a muscle in your lower back mutters about the position you just were in, but you feel extremely good, and wrung out in a fantastic way. In the corner of your eye, you catch Marcus taking the condom off, before getting up to take it to the trash. When he returns, he looks around, looking for his clothes. You roll over onto your side.

"You don't have to leave, you know," you tell him quietly. Marcus stops, boxers in hand.

"Yeah?"

"I mean... don't get me wrong, I'm not looking for a relationship," you hurry to assure him. "But I wouldn't mind you staying over. Unless you have plans?"

"I don't."

He drops the boxers, and slides back into bed, next to you. You smile a little wryly.

"The sheets are wet. I'll change them, feel free to grab a shower.

"Soon," Marcus tells you, low voice heavy with a calm confidence. "I suggest we wet them a little more first."

Your deal with Marcus is simple and beautiful: sex, with or without staying the night. The occasional take-out dinner. Quickies when you run into each other in the corridor outside your front doors, with ten minutes to spare. It's undemanding, friendly, mutually satisfying. Uncomplicated, with no romantic feelings involved, so nobody can get hurt.

Marcus is an active lover who smoothly takes charge. Not bossy, but firm and empathic, and not afraid of using aids of different kinds to raise your orgasms to the next level. He's not opposed to fucking you fully clothed in the morning and leaving you wanting as you go to work with his cold cum in your panties, shot there after he removed the rubber after fucking you.

It is, in short, the perfect set-up.

Fall passes by, and you see yourself forced to fly out to see your family over Thanksgiving. You spend as much time as you can working in your childhood room, however. Your parents do not understand your choice of profession, your mother does not see how a woman of your age has chosen to be childless. Your older brother knocked his girlfriend up at sixteen, your younger sister was married at eighteen and divorced at twenty-eight. You love them, but you don't have a lot in common with them, and even if your siblings at least pretend to understand your life choices, their contempt steeped in jealousy of your life shines through at times. Your parents choose to simply ignore the life you have built for yourself in D.C., talking instead about Mrs. McCall next door, Annie down the street, Cybil in town, Kearney at the gas station, as if you knew any of them or cared about what they said about Kayleigh's twins.

You endure for two nights, and text Marcus from the airport, before boarding: I'll be home after nine tonight. You free?

He replies almost immediately: I'll pick you up at the airport.

You text him the flight number before turning off your phone, settling for a three-hour nap in lieu of working.

When you finally land, puffy-faced but breathing freely now that you're back in the city you call home, Marcus is waiting for you in arrivals. The way his smile lights up his eyes when he sees you makes your heart miss a beat. There is something there that's beyond what the two of you have, something much more sincere.

You shake it off and smile back as you walk up to him. He leans forward, like he's about to kiss you, but ends up giving you an awkward half-hug.

"Welcome home."

"Thanks. And thank you for picking me up."

"My pleasure."

The two of you turn and start walking towards the exit. Marcus offers to take your carry-on wheelie bag, but you decline, accustomed as you are to carrying your own luggage yourself.

In the car, he asks you how your Thanksgiving was.

"As holidays at my parents' usually are. One night would've been enough."

"That bad, huh?"

"Yeah. It's just..." You rub your forehead. "Whenever I visit, I feel trapped. Everything back home is... small. People are kind, yes, but they're small-minded. The town is small. The spaces in which to move, physically and mentally, are small. And I feel like some kind of big city snob who comes to visit twice a year, scoffs at their very ordinary and, as far as I know, happy lives, and then flies back to my vegan frappuccinos and twenty-four-hour sushi restaurants."

Marcus chuckles low. "I think I know what you mean. But it's hard for me to imagine that you'd be a snob about anything."

"I probably am. But I... I don't know, I outgrew that town when I was fifteen. Couldn't get out fast enough. And I don't like going back."

"Does your family support your choices?"

You shrug. "Yes and no. Mom and dad are proud, I guess, but at the same time they don't have any idea what it is that I do. 'If you wanted to be a lawyer, couldn't you be one here? Where it's not as stressful and you could start a family, and work normal hours?' As if I could practice the law I'm interested in over there."

"What's the most common type of lawyer in your hometown?"

"General practitioners who do a little bit of everything, wills mostly. And there are three, I think."

"Wow."

"Exactly."

The conversation turns to other subjects as Marcus drives the two of you to your apartment building. As he parks in his spot in the underground garage, you place your hand onto his thigh. He turns off the engine and looks at you.

"Thanks for picking me up," you tell him quietly. His hand comes to rest on top of yours.

"No problem."

"You have any plans for tonight?"

He shakes his head, then leans forward over the middle console as you reach across the same for a kiss. His fingers thread into your hair before closing around the back of your head to bring you in, and you sigh softly against his lips as you feel the rest of the pressure from your Thanksgiving visit melt away. If the town you grew up in felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable, D.C. and Marcus feel like home. And there's nothing you want to do more now than be with Marcus in this city.

You break the kiss and lower your gaze to his fly, where your fingers are already working on unzipping him. Marcus exhales in an audible sigh.

"You missed me that much?"

"Don't get any ideas," you warn him before bowing down over his lap.

Later, when you are freshly showered, and lying awake in Marcus's bed with him deeply asleep next to you, you wonder when his presence at night became such a comfort for you.

Marcus visits his parents over Christmas. You manage to convince yours that you're way too busy and the holidays too short for you to fly out. Settling in for a couple of days off work, you plan to go to the gym, meet friends, and maybe finally get through that book you started three months ago. You plan for simple yet delicious meals and come home with bags full of groceries and bottles of wine that you balance in your arms as you're digging for the keys in your pocket.

"Lemme get that."

Marcus appears by your side, taking a grocery bag from you.

"Thanks."

You manage to let yourself in, and Marcus follows you to the kitchen, where he leaves the bag on the table.

"Hi," he smiles. There is something so endearing about this man, his smile lights up the whole room, you can't possibly keep from smiling back at him.

"Hi. I thought you already left for the airport?"

"Just on my way now. Glad I caught you."

"Oh?" You unbutton your coat, unwrap the scarf from around your neck. "What's up?"

"Just... I wanted to see you before I left. Wish you happy holidays."

"Right." You take off your coat and leave it over the back of a kitchen chair. "Well... happy holidays, Marcus. I hope you have a nice weekend with your parents."

"Thanks." He clears his throat, looks down and scratches the back of his head. "Do you have any plans for New Year’s Eve?"

"Not that I know of."

"Do you maybe... want to do something?"

"Sure," you nod, a warmth spreading in your belly. "Like, dinner?"

"I was thinking Hirschhorn? You said you were curious about their special exhibit. Then dinner, and maybe a movie, if you're not opposed to spending so much time with me at once?"

You feel your cheeks heat up a little. "I don't mind at all. That sounds lovely."

His smile widens, his warm eyes glitter. "Great. I'll get back to you as soon as I return."

He kisses your cheek before leaving, his hand resting momentarily on your arm. When he closes the door behind him, the apartment feels empty.

That emptiness stays with you over the holidays. You're enjoying the time off, yes, and downright cherish not having to spend time with your family. You were looking forward to Christmas eve drinks with a couple of friends but are disappointed when they only talk about holiday preparations, gift shopping, and visiting in-laws. The detachment makes you annoyed. It's not that you want that kind of life, you don't want kids and a house and Thanksgiving dinners and all of that. But there doesn't seem to be any alternatives. You get the feeling that they feel sorry for you, that they think you should look up from your laptop once in a while, go dating, settle down, maybe work less.

Always work less. You love your job so much, maybe you won’t forever, but right now you do, and it doesn’t feel taxing when it gives you the gratification it does.

You grab a cab home, earlier than you thought and morose for not getting the carefree night you had planned for. Maybe it's your own fault for thinking that people with families wouldn't have changed.

You weigh your phone in your hand for a couple of blocks before texting Marcus.

Hope you're having a better time than I am. Just getting home after drinks, and realized I have nothing in common with my friends anymore :/

You regret the text as soon as you've sent it. It sounds whiny, and you know that you're being unfair to your friends. But Marcus replies almost immediately:

Sorry to hear that. Wish I was there to make you feel better.

You smile, and your heart skips a beat. He always knows what to say.

It is what it is. Early night for me.

He replies with a Santa emoji that makes you chuckle.

Too old for Santa, you type back. Or too naughty. Either way, he's not coming.

Only man who should come in your apartment is me ;)

You stare at the message, cheeks heating as you lick your lips. Your brain scrambles for an answer to match his tone.

I'll be the judge of that, mister. If you're away for too long, I might get lonely.

The reply comes almost immediately.

I'll be back before you know it.

Your heart is fluttering like a butterfly inside your ribcage, and you react with a thumb up to the last message. For the rest of the cab ride, you're chewing on your lower lip while looking out the window, decorated windows racing past you as the cab driver navigates towards your apartment building.

You fall asleep in front of the TV and are awakened by a text.

You up?

You rub your eyes, realize that you're still wearing makeup, and curse low.

It's two am.

Marcus's name immediately lights up on the phone, and you answer the call.

"What's up?"

"Sorry to wake you."

"That's fine, I was on the couch. Gotta schlep my ass to bed," you yawn as you turn off the TV, and stand up, scratching your head.

"I'm outside."

"What?"

"I'm outside your door."

You frown, trying to understand what he's saying. "What are you doing there?"

"Just open?"

Call still active and phone held to your ear, you walk over to the front door, and unlock it. And there Marcus is, holding his phone but lowering his hand and ending the call while smiling wryly at you.

"Hi."

"What... why aren't you at your parents'?" you stutter, still holding the phone like you're talking to him through it.

"Because I can't do this at my parents'." He steps up to you, cups your cheek, and brings his lips to yours. His face is cold, so you understand that he has just arrived from the airport. Your sleep-riddled brain still doesn't understand, and Marcus breaks the kiss, breathing softly against your lips before drawing back.

"Did I... fuck this up now?"

You lick your lips and realize that you're feeling calm and steady in a way you no longer do when he's not around. You grab him by the jacket lapel and pull him in through the door.

"No," you reply, a shiver running through you when he puts his arms around you. "No, you did just the right thing."

You don't use your tub as often as you would like to, yet it was one of the main reasons why you bought your apartment. It's spacious, has gorgeous vintage style brass faucets, and is placed by the window, from which you can see the park, now wearing a white winter coat of snow, on the other side of the street. The shower booth is at the back wall of the bathroom and your busy lifestyle has you favoring quick showers instead of long, luxurious baths.

Now, however, you're stretched out languidly in Marcus's arms, the back of your head on his shoulder, his hairy thighs pressing up against you on either side. The water is hot and scented with oils, and if the orgasms you had before getting out of bed hadn't relaxed you, this would definitely take away the last vestiges of stress knotting your muscles.

"This is a really nice tub," Marcus mumbles into your ear, his hand running up the inside of your arm, resting on the edge of the tub. "Wish I had one."

"You're welcome to use mine," you smile, just as his hand disappears into the water, finding your breast and cupping it, thumb lazily stroking the nipple.

"I like your apartment better anyway," he admits. "Mine doesn't feel like a home."

"That's just because you haven't unpacked."

He raises his shoulders in a shrug. "Been busy."

"Doesn't help much that you're fucking me every time you're off work."

“One could even say it’s your fault I haven’t unpacked,” he muses, lips touching your temple. You shake your head, hand finding his and leading it away from your breast.

“Nuh-uh, you don’t get to pin this on me.” There is no vehemence in your voice, and even if Marcus can’t see your face, he can plainly hear the smile threatening to break out.

“I had to try.”

You bring your hand back to your chest, and sigh when his fingers brush over your nipple. It would be so easy to just let things slide, enjoy his hands, his mouth, his cock that’s resting softly against your lower back… But your interest is piqued.

“Why haven’t you unpacked, Marcus?” you ask quietly. “I’ve seen that you have painting just waiting to be hung on the walls and given how much you like to criticize my dentist’s office artwork from Ikea, I can’t imagine why you haven’t done more to decorate your apartment.”

His hand stills, and you feel him swallow. He clears his throat, sighs, clearly stalling, but you don’t show mercy. You want to know.

“I guess… I thought I’d be making a home with someone. And when that didn’t happen, I didn’t like the idea anymore.”

You braid your fingers with his, the water gently rippling with your movement.

“Your ex?”

“Yeah. Teresa.”

“What happened?” He’s mentioned some tragic breakup but never specified, and you’ve never asked. Now, however, you’re asking. You want this puzzle piece to fit right, want to know everything there is to know about Marcus Pike.

“I don’t want to burden you with that…”

“I want to know, Marcus.”

He hesitates, but eventually tells you how his ex, a smart, beautiful woman that he fell head over heels for and eventually proposed to, accepted his proposal over the phone but called again thirty minutes later to tell him that she was leaving him for a coworker. Marcus had been transferred to D.C., had asked Teresa to come with, had a plan for a life together, and she turned out to be in love with a coworker: a charming, unreliable man who worked out an elaborate scheme to make her choose him instead of Marcus.

You’re shocked to silence when he stops talking, an array of emotions simmering inside you. When Marcus speaks your name, the first one to burst is anger.

“What a cunt!”

Marcus sputters your name, but you don’t feel bad.

“You know I’m right!”

“No need for language like that,” he protests, but you can sense a change in him. It’s like something’s loosened in him. Even if you can’t see his face in this position, you can feel it in how his body feels against yours.

“I’m sorry, but that behavior is despicable. And from what you’ve told me about that asshole that she went with because of you, I’d say they deserve each other.”

He shrugs. “Or maybe I was too pushy. We didn’t date for long before I asked her to marry me. I should’ve given her more time.”

You turn around in his arms so that you can meet his flickering gaze. Raising your hand to his cheek, you caress the slightly scratchy surface that sorely needs a razor.

“If it feels right, it feels right,” you tell him softly. “There’s no shame in being open and honest about your feelings, Marcus.”

He blinks, and for a second you think his eyes look shiny. His lower jaw moves as he swallows.

“Thank you,” he eventually mumbles. “I don’t want to sound like I’m making excuses but… I did feel I was being straight with her. And she… really fucking hurt me.”

“Yeah, she did.”

His stare is suddenly relentless.

“Will you? Hurt me, I mean?”

You feel nothing but calm. “Marcus, I like you a lot. This is more than just sex now. But I won’t marry you in six months, and I don’t need you to have a plan for us. I like my job, I have a good career that I won’t give up. I don’t want kids, but I like being with you, and I want to keep being with you, not just have sex but do other stuff with you.”

He smiles at that and casts his eyes down. You lean forward to press a small kiss to his lips.

“And I will help you to unpack your shit, and I will come with you to get a new kitchen table tomorrow when the stores open. Because that huge monster you have jamming up your kitchen has got to go.”

“Not tomorrow,” he immediately tells you, and you quirk an eyebrow. “Because tomorrow I’m taking you to the museum, out for a meal, and then we’re watching Casablanca.”

You chuckle. “It’s a deal.”

He pulls you in for a deeper kiss, water splashing when his arms go around you.

“For the record,” he murmurs against your lips, “I like you too.”

“That’s a relief,” you smile, before a gasp escapes your lips; Marcus’s hand has slid down your soft stomach to the apex of your thighs, and one finger is slowly circling your clit.

“Open your legs,” he whispers, breath almost scorching your cheek that is already warm from the water and your rising desire. You move around, legs and hips repositioning themselves so that he can cup his big hand over your sex.

“Marcus,” you breathe in a low moan, “I already came twice this morning…”

“And you’ll come a third time,” he promises as he slides a finger inside your warm heat, rolling a nipple between two fingers of his other hand. You curl your arm back and around his neck, seek his lips for more kisses, push down against his hardening cock to make him gasp into your mouth. Thumb on your clit, he adds a second finger to your pussy, fucking you slowly as you exchange moans along with your kisses. Your hips jut upwards when he hits the right spot, and then he stays on it, water splashing over the edges of the tub when he goes increases speed. Your hand dives underneath the surface to find his cock, and a strangled moan travels from Marcus’s mouth to yours when your fingers close around the stiff length. When he slows down, so do you, when he fucks you faster, your hand works him faster.

The climax reaches both of you at the same time, your bodies tightening up, Marcus’s hips jerking up as your thighs clamp shut, cries bouncing off the tiles as you press your bodies together. As silence falls, the water stills and your hearts return to their normal rhythms, and Marcus’s lips are on your temple.

“Fuck, you’re amazing.”

“So are you,” you hum, a ripple of lingering pleasure making your legs twitch. He kisses you again, a light smattering of kisses over your temple, brow, cheekbone, before reaching your mouth. That last kiss is deep and slow, loving, and intimate in a way you haven’t had with him before. It’s unnerving, almost scary, but there is something so comforting about Marcus’s broad-shouldered body underneath you, something that makes you embrace the unknown.

“Happy Christmas, baby.”

The underwhelming meeting with your friends, the flirty texting with Marcus, that feels like weeks ago. But it was only last night, and your world has been thoroughly rocked since then.

“Happy Christmas, Marcus.”

#marcus pike #marcus pike fanfic #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #my fic

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roguerogerss · 9 months

Text

snow lands on top

pairing: coriolanus snow x covey reader

w/c: 3.2k

warnings: just fluff! a few sexual comments but nothing more, mentions of family deaths, reader is just a poor lil soul

(merry christmas my angels! if you’re having a hard time, i feel you! here’s some soft coryo lovin to help you through it. the holidays r a hard time for so so many people, and my inbox will always be open to anyone who needs someone who’ll understand <3 luv you the most, we’ll get through it all)

Christmas Eve. The soft patter of snowfall, the breeze from your half open window, the bustle of the Corso below. You'd been listening to the Christmas shoppers - stressed or unbothered - the kids playing in the snow, mothers and fathers dragging their children to holiday themed events. Laying around in bed all day in old silk had become your go-to on the run-up to Christmas.

You’d come to hate snowfall. It meant the sounds of merry families, playing outside together. It meant mourning for when you could do that, it meant resenting others, something that the Covey would never want for you.

Christmas was bittersweet. It had been for years, now. No gifts under your small, sad Christmas tree, no family gathering, no over-the-top dinner event, sometimes no dinner at all. You lived alone, in your little apartment which you could hardly afford, and had no family left since the war.

You remembered the good times, of course, that was the 'sweet' in all of the bitter. Remembering your mother's baking and the smell of sugar cookies and Christmas cake. The lavish real evergreen tree that made the ridiculously high ceilings of your apartment look low. The gifts, the dinner, curling up with a mug of hot milk on the plush sofa. You even thought of your Christmases back in District twelve. Never too fancy, never too many gifts, but a family, the Covey, music, a home.

Life after the war had been cruel to you. What once was a young girl, with a family wealthy enough to move her to the Capitol, had become a young woman with no one to turn to, and not a penny to her name. You didn't have the luxury of pretending like everything was fine, like you had your family's riches to fall back on. Everyone at the Academy had found out when you'd had to ask for a scholarship loan to pay for your tuition, one which you'd never be able to pay back.

That was something you'd always envied of a particular classmate of yours. Coriolanus Snow. Crassus Snow's baby boy. You knew he must've been penniless, as poor as a church mouse. But maybe you only knew that because your own circumstances were much the same. Coriolanus was smart about it, always looking classy from an outside perspective, never asking for money, never acting hungry. But, when looked into closer, you could easily see cracks.

His shoes were the same ones he'd had since first year at the Academy, and they must've been achingly too small for him. He'd eat only small amounts at school and pretend he was full up, but you'd seen him once, with no shirt on, and his ribs stuck out like a sore thumb. Wherever there was an academic prize that involved money, he was always trying his hardest to win, pulling out every stop, but if there was no monetary prize, he'd only do half as much.

You saw right through his act, always had, but instead of exposing him to everyone else out of jealousy, you'd helped him out whenever you could. Us poor orphans have to stick together, right?

You'd share food, give eachother your spare trolley tokens so you wouldn't have to walk the hour back to the Corso, discuss strategy over how to win said academic prizes, and split them with eachother when you did.

You'd become close friends, over the years, even although it was kept strictly as a secret from all of your other classmates. And so, when you heard a familiar voice floating in through your window, you smiled to yourself.

"Y/N?" You could only faintly hear him calling from the street, but you started up from your bed and yanked the window open fully so that you could hang out of it.

There he was, Coriolanus Snow, in all of his glory. Blonde curls full of white snowflakes, wrapped in what seemed to be a ratty fur coat, chittering away. You laughed when you saw him. "Coryo, what are you doing out? You'll freeze to death!"

"Wanted to come and make sure you were okay." He called back, and then looked around warily, almost as though he was checking the coast was clear before asking, "Can I come up?"

You nodded, "I'll buzz you in." And then you swiftly closed the window. Goosebumps had raised on your arms and chest and you'd be paying for the next year if you had to put the furnace on.

You crossed to your bedroom door, made your way down the hall, and pressed the buzzer, which always made the most abhorrent sound when it let whoever was outside, in.

You waited by the door, and soon enough, Coryo was coming bounding up the stairs, fur coat now in his hand, nose and cheeks bright red. You let him in and laughed as you took his coat from him and hung it up. "It's Tigris'. I don't have anything warm enough, but it's the rattiest old thing I've ever seen."

"It's quite something." You turned back to see him shivering, arms folded around his body to try to warm himself. "Oh, you poor lamb."

Your Covey accent had never faded. The Capitol had always looked down upon you for it, but Coryo blushed every time you spoke. "I'm fine, I'll be fine."

"But it's freezing in here, too. Come here." You opened the small cupboard in the hallway, which held a few random seasonal items, and pulled out two, old blankets. You smiled at Coriolanus as you draped one around his shoulders, and he smiled back, close enough to you that his breath was hitting your cheek.

"Thank you, honey." Coriolanus' eyes scanned your apartment, peering through the living room door and then your bedroom door, and he frowned when he saw just one Christmas decoration - your tiny little tree. His family was poor, but Tigris was creative, and they still managed to uphold some joy in the form of tinsel and stockings at Christmas time.

"What?" Your face dropped and you looked worried, placing a tender hand on Coryo's blanket-clad shoulder. "You look so sad."

"You just..." Coryo's voice trailed off, unsure of how to say what he meant without hurting, or offending you. "I mean, you don't have too much, do you?"

"Well, I thought you knew that." A crease had appeared between your brows and you sounded upset with him, dropping your hand from where it had previously sat. Coryo corrected himself quickly, shaking his head at you.

"No, I'm sorry, that came out wrong." He racked his brain for something to say that would make you feel better. The look on your face made his chest sting. "I don't know, would you want to spend Christmas with us?"

You cocked your head to the side, looking at him as though he was going insane. Maybe he was, he wasn't even sure what he was saying. He closed his eyes and ran and hand over his face, which brightened you up a bit. You laughed, and he laughed, and he felt his shoulders relax. Why was he so nervous? He never got nervous, not like this, anyway.

"We don't have much either, but it'd mean you weren't alone. I know how you feel, especially at this time of year." Coryo noticed the slight tinge of pink that had dawned your cheeks, and, on a whim, he reached out and, with two freezing fingers, tilted your head back so that you were looking at him. "You could come to our house, Tigris makes bread pudding, and we managed to get some beef mince this year, too. Maybe you could even sleep over tonight, and we could wake up together-"

"Coryo, you're rambling." You stopped him, you knew he could go on for hours, and, although the offer was tempting, and you enjoyed the idea of spending even more time around Coryo, you planned on turning him down. "Thank you. That sounds lovely, but I'd never want to intrude. No, the Covey wrote me to let me know they've installed a telephone in the town hall, I can call them for a couple minutes tomorrow, lift my spirits. I'll be fine."

You waved him off, and pulled your mother's old silk robe tighter around your body. You started towards the living room door, expecting Coryo to follow, maybe you'd sit together on the flaky sofa and talk for a few hours, but he didn't let you get far. He snatched your hand from your side, and when you turned to look at him, his blue eyes were filled with concern.

"Call them from our house." He wasn't going to let you off without a yes. "Please. I can't leave you alone, that's not fair. Plus, I've always wanted to meet them, haven't I?"

You took a breath and adjusted your hand in his. It felt nice, to have him be so affectionate. You could admit you were closer than most friends, the line between friendship and love always slightly blurred and maybe crossed over on more than one occasion, but it always felt good to have him near.

After careful consideration, and a few reassuring rubs at the back of your hand from Coryo, you finally gave in. "Are you sure? I don't mean to be a pain-"

"You're not. You could never be." He stepped closer and took your other hand, close enough to you that, if he leaned forward, your foreheads would be touching. "Honest, Tigris will be happy to have someone other than Grandma'am."

"And what about Grandma'am? I'm District, I don't think she'll like that-"

"She respects your family. It's not the right way, I know, but there are very few district people she doesn't mind. She knew your parents, always says they were very respectable people." A grimace crossed Coryo’s face, talking about his Grandma’am’s views in front of you. He’d agreed with her for most of his life, but that was until he met you, and that Covey accent finally made snow melt and changed his mind.

"Really?" Your face had lit up. The idea of anyone from the Capitol accepting you, no, respecting you, was something you’d only ever dreamt of.

"Really." Coryo smiled, now, and then he joked, “What an honour, huh? To have Grandma'am like you."

"An honour, indeed." You laughed. You let go of one of his hands, but kept hold of the other. You started to drag him with you towards your bedroom, but Coryo stayed put, confused. He’d never been inside your bedroom, he assumed it was off limits. You laughed at him, “I’m not trying to get you into bed, darlin’, if I was you’d know about it.”

His face turned a deep shade of red and you approached him and placed a gentle hand on his cheek. “Coryo, I’m messin’. I’m just going to pack a bag, you can come if you like, but if I’m making you uncomfortable you’re welcome to sit in the living room.”

“No. Oh, no. You’re not making me uncomfortable.” Coryo let you lead him to your bedroom, now, and he looked around the almost bare room as though it was a place of worship. There was hardly anything in there, a mattress on the floor, a small, oil lamp positioned next to it. A couple of books, a wardrobe which held your school uniform and your mother’s old performance dresses, which you wore every day you could. He was just happy to be somewhere so intimate, somewhere you allowed only the closest people in your life. “Sorry.”

You got that cheeky look on your face, now. The one that Coryo loved so much. “It’s okay. I know you’re a virgin, anyway-”

“Hey!” He smacked you with the blanket and you giggled and smacked him back. “That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, but it’s obvious.”

The walk to Coriolanus’ apartment wasn’t long, but it felt different. You’d never made it obvious that you were close, before, but you walked together, through the snow, chatting away like you’d been best friends for years - which was the case, and now people knew. Even when you passed classmates or their families, you’d both smile and wave, and it felt good to know that people would know.

“Are you excited to meet Grandma’am?” Coryo joked. Your cheeks balled when you laughed and gripped onto his hand in an overdramatic way. Coryo thought his heart might’ve burst.

You bounded forward, still holding his hand, and walked backwards in front of him. “Oh, the most excited. I’m sure she’s got great gossip.”

“Only the best. Did you know she had a fling with the President’s brother when they were in school?” Coryo whispered dramatically, and you gave him an equally as theatrical gasp.

“I hope she’ll tell me all about it.”

You arrived at the apartment cold but happy, noses bright red but laughing. Fingers freezing but locked together. You felt pure joy for the first time in a long time, and Coryo decided he could get used to this.

When Tigris opened the door, you knew this was the right decision. Her face lit up, and she clapped her hands together excitedly as soon as she saw you. She didn’t even bother to greet Coriolanus, just started straight for you, “Oh my! It’s so lovely to see you. Please tell me you’re staying for Christmas!”

“I sure am. Coryo managed to convince me.” You looked up to the boy stood beside you, who’d already been smiling down at you with such love in his eyes.

“Well, we are so happy to have you. Lucky to have you.” Tigris squeezed your shoulder and then stepped to the side, gesturing to both of you. “Come in, please.”

You could’ve sobbed, the feeling of being wanted, not being alone. Coryo touched a comforting hand to your arm as you stepped into the foyer, once grand, but now cracked and tired. Tigris took your coat, and the Grandma’am greeted you with open arms.

“Your dress is beautiful.” Tigris commented, and you did a quick twirl to show off the lace-up detail in the back.

“Thank you, it was my mama’s. I try to wear her dresses whenever I can.” You smoothed the ruffles of your dress, looking down lovingly at the shades of green tulle, handmade by your mother herself.

“And so you should.” Tigris reached out to touch your ruffles, too, and she smiled at you as she did so. “She had great taste.”

Coryo led you through to his bedroom, to let you drop your bag off and familiarise yourself with the place. “Thank you.” You muttered as you placed your bag on his windowsill. “For letting me come here, letting me stay. Your family are just beautiful.”

“Yeah, they’re great.” Coryo stood from his bed to join you as you looked out of his window onto the snow covered Corso, at a fresh snow angel and a family you could hear laughing from the penthouse. “I’m sure the Covey are, too. And your parents.”

“My parents were. And the Covey are. I hope one day, you can meet them.” You turned to him, that crease in your brow back.

“I’d love to.” Coryo took hold of your hand, noticing that you’d taken up an unsettled look. “Should we get some air? Grandma’am keeps roses on the roof, might be nice to see them in the snow.”

You nodded. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

The roof was nice, you could see the entirety of the Capitol from up there - roofs engulfed in white, and the snow-covered roses were such a beautiful sight. You plucked one of the stems, after Coryo said you could, and simply stared at the thing. Back home, flowers were everywhere, they felt like warm hugs, like trips to the lake, like your mama. It was rare that you saw them growing in the Capitol.

“It’s beautiful up here.” You commented as you took a seat at the edge of the rooftop. “You can see the whole city.”

“It is beautiful.” Coryo sat next to you, shoulders touching, pinky fingers travelling closer to eachother and then pulling back, looking forward but watching eachother out of the corner of your eyes. “You’re beautiful.”

Coryo had let it slip, and he took in a deep breath and held it for a while after speaking. You tried not to let your smile get too wide, worried it would border on psychotic-looking if you let it reach it’s full potential. Beautiful, Coriolanus Snow called you beautiful.

“Oh.” Was all you could say, quietly, only loud enough to be picked up by the soft breeze and carried over to Coriolanus. “Thank you, Coryo. I think you’re beautiful.”

Coriolanus looked down and laughed, shaking his head at you. You let your pinkies intertwine, now. “You’re just saying that because I said it.”

“I mean it. Anyone would be stupid not to think it.” Then all of your fingers were locked together. And you sighed and let your head fall onto Coryo’s shoulder. He smiled to himself, and then, in a quick surge of confidence, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head and decided to speak his mind.

“You know I love you, right?" He blurted out. He didn’t regret it, but he was nervous, now. If he’d learned anything this Christmas Eve, it was that you made him nervous.

"I know." You closed your eyes and breathed in the cold air, “I love you, too."

"But I mean, really love you." Coryo took his hand from yours and, instead, draped his arm around your back, fingers reaching up to fidget with your hair. “You're very easy to fall in love with."

"Hm." You hummed and removed your head from his shoulder to look up at him. Your cheeks were flushed and your breath made little clouds in between your two faces. “I think you're very easy to fall in love with, too, Coryo."

You were so close, noses touching, Coryo’s hand still twirling one lock of your hair around and around. And then your lips were on his, his hand gripping the back of your neck, kissing you with a hunger, a passion, you’d never felt before. Not feverishly, not sexual in nature, just real, raw passion. You’d meant what you said. Coriolanus Snow was incredibly easy to love, and you did. You loved him. And he loved you. Nothing else had ever seemed to simple in your entire life.

Coryo couldn’t imagine a world, now, where your lips hadn’t been on his. Where you hadn’t called him beautiful. He was on a high, an all time high, he was convinced. Snow lands on top.

The snowflakes continued falling, landing on your heads, noses, the roses. And you let them, with no resentment, no upset. Because Coryo was there, everything was easy, now.

#coriolanus snow x reader #coryo x reader #coryo snow x reader #coryo snow #coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus snow #the hunger games ballad of songbirds and snakes #the hunger games #tom blyth #tom blyth x reader #coriolanus snow x covey!reader

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queensunshinee · 4 months

Text

Time Of Our Lives || Part 12

Part 12:

"Your apartment smells funny," Liana said as she entered the building and moved towards the main window. "We can buy a rug for the living room. Do you want one?" she asked after walking around the rooms in Patrick’s apartment. It was small. Living room, kitchen, bedroom, and a bathroom. It had been a month since she settled in the Oxford dorms. Patrick had arrived three days ago, and this was the first time they were meeting.

"Hey Amanda. I missed you too." Patrick leaned against the bedroom doorframe, watching her with amusement. She just couldn’t help it. She had to fix something. She would always find something that needed tidying and organizing. He had learned not to argue with this trait from a young age. He had learned that if he refused, she would withdraw into herself, and it would bother her until she could do something about it.

"Hey." She smiled genuinely and hugged him. Patrick looked almost the same as she remembered. Jet-lagged but pleased with his choices for a change. "Hey..." he refused to let go of her, inhaling her scent deeply like he always did when she allowed him.

"You're here." She took a step back and examined him, as if not believing it was really happening. As if she had been waiting her whole life for this moment. That’s how Patrick decided to interpret her facial expression, even if that’s not what reality was showing him. He would take the current smile any day over another day where she was at a certain point on the map and he was on the other side of the world. "So many possibilities, Amanda." He couldn’t stop smiling. "Let's find you a rug and some pillows for the couch, okay?" she replied, trying to solve the current problem she had found for herself; his apartment.

They wandered around London for hours. Stopped for lunch at a small Italian restaurant. Went into a small museum and did some window shopping at brand stores neither of them could afford. Liana’s laughter filled the space occasionally. A sound Patrick prayed to dream about when he would be alone without her scrutinizing gaze around.

As the sun set, they sat on the grass in a park near Liana’s dorms, each holding an ice cream cone. "I think I found a job," she said, trying to eat as much of the ice cream as she could before it melted completely. "Where?" he asked with curiosity. "There’s a cafeteria in Oxford that sells smoothies and other things that pretentious people willing to pay unreasonable amounts. I’ll probably start next week." She smiled, pleased with herself. "Will you be able to balance it with your studies?" he asked. "I have to try. My parents were barely willing to keep paying for my studies as long as I'm not at Stanford, and I don’t want to take an actual loan just to be able to pay for food. It feels unnecessary and lazy." She shrugged, as if it was self-evident.

"You're tough. You’ll make it. When do classes start?" he asked. "In a week. I’m stressed. But a friend of my roommate, Flor, is starting with me, and I met her. She seems nice." Liana chatted about people she had met in the past month. "You're nice." Patrick smiled his characteristic smile when he tried to dodge the implications of what he was saying. It was a toothy grin that included a dimple. It usually highlighted his eyes, showing something mischievous that at age 20 should have started to fade. But not with Patrick. "You're a jerk." Liana rolled her eyes and punched his shoulder, which automatically made him grab her hand.

Liana couldn’t help but think about Art. About the fact that it was the same gesture. Art had held her just like that at the Christmas party. She pulled her hand back and cleared her throat for a moment. Not wanting to change the atmosphere too much but feeling the shift anyway.

Patrick felt the change too, but it was like background noise. He understood something happened but didn’t know what. This wasn’t the first time he touched Liana. You could say he was a touchy person by nature. It wasn’t new and didn’t characterize just his relationship with her. "What just happened?" he asked with a chuckle, as if it wasn’t really important. As if it wasn’t serious. As if he could breathe properly and wasn’t trying to correct the mistake he made a moment ago. As if he wouldn’t do anything to make her laugh again and not look at him with furrowed brows.

"Nothing. It’s getting late. Shall we go?" she asked, with a smile that didn’t reach her ears. One that showed teeth but not all of them. One that hid from him what she really felt. He hated that smile.

"Patrick! You'll have ants in your house!" Liana scolded. No, she wasn’t just scolding; she was fuming. Three months had passed since Patrick moved to London. His coach, Kirk Fucking Morcich, was objectively the best coach he had ever had. He had improved tremendously. From the moment Patrick decided to take tennis seriously and not just as a way to avoid a real job, he started seeing results.

He still had to attend the annoying courses his parents signed him up for. But he had already won a tournament in Europe. Something he didn’t think would happen, and certainly not so soon.

His parents were proud of him. A strange feeling. An almost unfamiliar feeling. His mother called him and actually said those words, “Hey Pat, your dad and I read about you in the paper. Well done.” And he wanted to find something bad and start a fight because he didn’t know any other way to talk to his mother, but he said “thanks” quietly and felt himself blush. Like a little boy needing a kind word from an adult who was never really responsible. Not for what mattered.

“You can’t just leave your food out like this, Pat.” Liana interrupted his train of thought. “It’s not that bad.” He responded with an eye roll. “Patrick, it’s moldy. It’s been sitting on your table with actual mold. How am I supposed to wash this? It’s disgusting!” she fumed. Her cheeks were red, and her hand moved quickly over her nose.

“You don’t have to wash it. Did I ask you to wash it? Just throw the plate away; I have more plates.” He rolled his eyes again. “Why can’t you take anything seriously?!” Liana nearly stomped her foot. “Did we get married or something? Because this relationship doesn’t have the benefits of marriage, you just yell at me after I haven’t been home for a week.” He sighed and sat on the couch, officially tired of this argument. “No, Patrick, we didn’t get married, and sorry I don’t want you to die of dysentery while you’re living alone.” She shot back, and he heard the plate land in the sink. “So instead of throwing it away, you decided to break it?” He started getting angry too, because lately, that’s how all their conversations looked. Conversations about why he didn’t wash dishes, why he left the milk out, why he didn’t water the plant she bought him, why he didn’t show up at the bar her friend worked at, why he didn’t.

And he just wanted to tell her that if she acted like he was her boyfriend, then she should let him touch her the way he wanted to touch her. But they hadn’t had that conversation yet. He hadn’t told her that when he wasn’t thinking about tennis, he was thinking about her, and to be honest, if he wasn’t thinking about those two things, he was thinking about Art. And he knew she was thinking about Art too. And maybe they needed to have a conversation about fucking Art.

“I didn’t break it. Calm down.” She muttered. Liana had managed to somehow find herself in London. She couldn’t say that about any other period in her life. She enjoyed her studies and had met quite a few new people. People she liked being around. People she wasn’t embarrassed around and felt comfortable drinking wine with. She was a person who enjoyed wine now. Some might say Liana had grown up. She would agree with them.

One time, after drinking wine with her new friends, she called Art. She would say it didn’t happen until her dying day. She wouldn’t have anyone to say it to because he didn’t answer, and she didn’t plan on going around telling the world she drunkenly called Art Donaldson. It was embarrassing.

Patrick was always busy. Tennis. Fucking tennis. She hated tennis so much, and as someone who didn’t even know how to hold a racket properly, she couldn’t escape this terrible game.

So as close as Patrick had been during these months, he was still far away. She had hoped so much that he would be an integral part of this experience. That he would love London as much as she loved London, but he just loved playing tennis in London, and she was losing to the ball and racket again and again throughout her life. “I haven’t seen you in a week. Why are you mad at me?” Patrick stood up, moving towards the kitchen, leaning against the door in his characteristic way. “I’m not mad at you.” She rolled her eyes, her back to him, trying to wash the plate he ruined with food he didn’t clean up in time. “This is pointless.” She muttered to herself. “That passive-aggressive vibe might work with Art. It doesn’t work on me. Either tell me why you’re mad or let me go rest.” He said, not taking his piercing gaze off her back.

“Do you want me to leave?” She turned to him. Her expression made it clear she was hurt. She completely ignored the comment about Art. Patrick didn’t want to keep ignoring comments about Art. “I want you to tell me what you want from me, Liana. I don’t think that’s an unreasonable request.” He started moving towards her. “I don’t want anything from you, Patrick. You’re my friend. We came here together, and I care about you. That’s all.” She shrugged and looked everywhere in the room except his face.

“Liana.” He stood in front of her, demanding. Something in his tone made her look directly at him. “What?” Her voice was quiet. She hated her voice. Why did she always sound so desperate?! “Why are we fighting about dishes when you don’t live here? You understand that’s ridiculous?” He asked, not letting go and not changing his tone out of pity for her soft voice. “I’m not fighting with you. I want you to be reasonable. Do you think I enjoy playing mommy with you?” She asked, raising an eyebrow and folding her arms beneath her chest.

Patrick stared at her chest. He didn’t even try to hide it. Fuck it. “You can’t act like we’re sleeping together while not sleeping with me. That’s absurd.” He realized he had said it only when he saw her eyes widen and her face turn red. “You think I’m hitting on you, Patrick? Is that what you think this is?” She asked, her voice unsteady. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. God. Why is this happening to her? “Eat from your disgusting plate with mold for all I care. I won’t say a word.” She said and tried to move past him. It was her cue to leave before this conversation escalated. He pulled her back with a quick but not overly forceful hand movement. She knew he had a lot more strength in him. She knew he was fire. In the pair Fire and Ice, he would always be Fire. “Patrick.” Her weak voice almost whispered. “You’re not hitting on me?” He asked, also in a low voice. He seemed relatively calm considering the storm of emotions within him.

Patrick decided he had nothing more to lose. He was improving. He was maturing. He asked his parents for help. He had moved halfway across the world to be close to her. He was becoming the best version of himself. And to be honest, Patrick knew that if Liana had settled for the mediocre and basic version of Art, there was no reason he shouldn’t at least try. So Patrick decided to try.

“No...” She bit her lip and looked at him without breaking eye contact. “Bullshit.” He laughed. He just laughed in her face and didn’t release his hold. “You’re walking around my apartment, dressed in short clothes in fucking December in London. Getting mad about plates. Liana. Even you can’t be that naive about what this does to me after a week of a tournament. A grueling week of victories without anyone to celebrate my success.” He considered kissing her neck at that moment. He thinks she would let him. Now, looking at her, he was sure she would let him do whatever he wanted with her. And he was a greedy bastard. He wanted everything.

“Liana. Look at me.” He demanded. Not letting go. She looked. “Why are we fighting?” He asked. The stern tone made her blink. “I missed you.” She said, defeated.

“It’s really hard when you’re supposedly here but not really here, and I know you’re here for tennis, but I wanted you to be here for me too, and it’s okay if we have separate lives here, I do too—” Patrick cut off her endless ramblings because he knew she wouldn’t stop talking if it was up to her. His lips found hers, and his hands held the back of her head. and somehow she actually kissed him back.

The feeling of Patrick’s lips on hers was different from the feeling of Art’s lips. Liana hated herself for comparing him to Art. She wondered if every person who will kiss her would automatically be compared to the person who hurt her the most. She wondered if that’s how she would live the rest of her life. And during these existential thoughts, she realized the bitter truth. Art Donaldson would be a part of her forever.

“Pat. Wait. We can’t. We can’t do this.” She put a small hand on his chest, and he took a step back. Because when a girl told Patrick she wanted to stop, he stopped. “Why can’t we?” He didn’t look amused. He looked angry and hungry and tired, all in the once. In the same body movements. “You know why” Liana sighed.

Silence fell in his kitchen.

"You don't owe him anything," Patrick stated. This time he felt like he's the one who could stomp his foot like a kid in the middle of a tantrum.

"I know." She bit her lip.

"I don't owe him anything," he said, this time not looking at her. Because if she saw his face, she'd know he was lying to himself. Liana always saw him. She saw him stripped of defenses. And his biggest defense right now was tied to the girl in front of him and the fact that they both missed Art. And he did owe him the love of his life.

Because Liana still didn't know what Patrick and Art both knew clearly; Patrick had won. She would be his the moment he decided so.

"Liana. Please let me kiss you." His voice was weak, and his gaze shifted to her. His eyes still screamed fire. Fire. Fire. Danger. Run. Fire. Stay away. Get closer. Fire. Danger. Fire. "Liana." He said again, closer now, breathing the same air she breathed. The air she exhaled entered his lungs. He moved his hand back to her neck. The other hand, unashamedly, grabbed her ass in a half-pinch. It was a grip that didn't retreat, didn't regret, didn't shy away. As if he was born to hold her exactly like this. Exactly how he wanted. "Patrick." She didn't recognize the sound that escaped her mouth out of surprise, but she recognized Patrick's smile just a second before his lips were on hers again. Patrick had decided.

Hey thereeee It's London and it's Patrick's time to shine. What are we feeling about everything? Talk to me. I'm dying to know what you're thinking as usual.

taglist: @lamoursansfin @marley1773 @ruyaas-world @apolloscastellan @primlovesdilfs @fangirl-kimora @serenadingtigers @imbabycowboy @do-it-for-kicks @izzywags478 @4deline08 @igotmajordaddyissues @jackierose902109 @ganana @yoitsme-04 @swetearss

#art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig x reader #art donaldson #patrick zweig #challengers fic #the time of our lives

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lumosinlove · 9 months

Text

Christmas Eve Will Find Me

Seven: Finn

Sleeper Car

Somewhere Just Outside of Amsterdam

Logan was sleeping. He slept a lot, actually, so much that Finn found himself pausing before he left the room to watch him breathe. He lay a hand against the smooth wood of the upper bunk and tried not to feel creepy. This was Logan. Watching him sleep hadn’t been creepy for a long, long time. He slept on his side, one knee hitched up and meeting the wooden, cradled edge of the bed. His brown hair splayed against his pillow. Finn was having a hard time waking him for dinner. They would be in Amsterdam tomorrow morning and who knew what awaited them. Possibly not soft sheets and a warm room. Logan stirred, maybe just from the feeling of his gaze.

“Where’re you—leaving?” Logan mumbled without opening his eyes.

“It’s dinner time,” Finn folded his forearms over the bunk’s edge and rested his chin there. “Have to get up, sleepy-head. Have to get all fancy.”

“Ugh. You go, bring me back.”

Finn stayed silent long enough to watch Logan’s breathing even out again. He was asleep again, that quickly. He never fell asleep that fast.

“Logan,” Finn said softly, reaching forward to rub a thumb against Logan’s wrist. “Logan.”

“Hm.”

“I don’t…I really don’t want to leave you here alone. C’mon, let’s get out of the room for a bit. Talk.”

“C’est bien,” Logan mumbled, and Finn’s heart skipped. That was more like it. Half English, half French. Logan cracked one eye open. He turned his hand to pat Finn’s arm. “It’s okay. Have dinner. Come back. I’m really…I’m really tired.” A half a smile crossed his face. “And I’m dreaming.”

Dreaming. That was how many of his memories came back. They’d started a bit of a game out of it. Logan was tell Finn his dreams and ask what was true.

Neither of us can cook?

God, we really do live together. I dream a lot about us sitting on the couch?

Finn’s personal favorite: Who…Who is Martha?

“Have dinner,” Logan said softly, already pushing his cheek more firmly into a pillow. Come back and I’ll ask you what’s true and what’s not.”

Noelle. Who is Noelle?

Ice skates? Ice skating? We went?

Canadian? Am I? Or was that something undercover?

There was bad dreams, too. Logan would wake up and sit with a vacant expression on his face. Finn. I’ve killed people.

“Want something good to dream up while I’m gone?”

“Ouais.” That was better than an English yes. More him.

“Okay. All right…Well, here,” Finn whispered. He slipped a small piece of paper beneath Logan’s pillow. “Don’t lose that. I’ll be back soon.”

The crew had jackets that could be borrowed—apparently it was required if they was going to dine anywhere other than a private room at suppertime. Finn wasn’t sure why Sirius had chosen such a proper railway, but he didn’t feel like going alone. Not to ask for a jacket and not to eat rich food. After a moment of hesitation, he knocked on Leo and James’ door.

Leo answered with wet hair and trousers on—on loan from a gentleman down their corridor. It was amazing, what people would hand over at the horrific mention of lost luggage. They were dark and slim and fit him well, and his chest was still wet from the shower and—

Finn cleared his throat. “Hi.”

“Finn,” Leo said, surprised. He was holding a towel. “Hi.”

“Um. What’s up?”

“Well—nothing.” Leo smiled a little. “James is on watch near one of the tea rooms cause we’re about to refuel. Here, come in, come in.”

Leo and James’ room looked identical to his and Logan’s—James was just messier, and Leo was neater. His top bunk was made up and James’ was a ruin of sheets and crisp packets.

“Are you good?” Leo asked. He was standing by the mirror, putting a toothbrush back in a cup. Finn let his eyes trail over the broad expanse of his back and then realized Leo was looking at him in the mirror and felt himself warm. It was just Leo, but, then again, Leo had always been beautiful. He’d joked about it to Logan.

They’d been washing dishes. Finn rinsing, Logan loading them up.

“You certainly go away for long periods of time with very beautiful boys.”

Logan had rolled his eyes.“Finn. Quoi?”

“Take your pick,” Finn said. “I mean, Leo looks like a—a god of some sort.”

“You look like a god.”

When Finn had looked down at himself and his wet, soapy t-shirt and ratty sweatpants,Logan had grabbed his face with wet hands and kissed him.

“Finn?” Leo had turned to look at him. “Are you okay?”

“Oh. Sorry. It’s good. Lo is sleeping,” he said. I’m worried about that, he almost said, but Leo’s eyes showed him he didn’t have to. “I’m going to bring him something back. But I was wondering if you wanted to—”

“Yes,” Leo said instantly. He was reaching for a shirt.

“Oh, good. I don’t really want to sit there alone. With the…jackets and stuff, I don’t know.”

“No, no,” Leo said, then laughed. “I mean yeah, I’m starving. Just let me get dressed.”

Finn nodded. He sat down at the window seat and thought of the note he’d tucked beneath Logan’s pillow. I love you I love you I love you. It sort of scared him, that it could all come crashing back suddenly. Maybe he should have stayed. He didn’t want Logan to be all alone when he remembered. If he—no, when. He wanted to be there. He hoped he could be there. It would probably be overwhelming. Logan’s entire life, breaking through a watery surface. Or, if not the entire life, Finn hoped all the parts he’d been in returned.

“Okay,” Leo said. He had smoothed his wet hair back from his face with his fingers. Finn had never seen it pushed back like that before, out of his eyes. It was handsome—even more so when Leo smiled at him. “Ready?”

The dining car was half-crowded. Everyone was dressed much better—but, after all, they hadn’t been chased on board. Finn had been given a navy jacket, Leo a black one. They each had the railroad crest on it, as if the host—who had given them a disapproving look as he’d handed the jackets over—wanted the entire car to know they hadn’t come prepared.

“We’re being singled out,” Leo said, leaning down to do so from where he walked behind Finn. Finn felt the words against his neck, warm and with a smile in them.

Finn smiled, and the host caught them at it.

“Sir,” he said shortly, and gestured to a neat little table. It was covered in a crisp white cloth, white folded napkins, delicate silverware, and a glass-hooded candle—which seemed a little risky, but, given all they’d been through lately, Finn wasn’t sure he could call a candle on a train dangerous.

“Thanks a ton,” Finn said, mostly just to watch him sneer at his American accent. Leo widened his eyes at him, grinning as they slid into the booth across from each other.

“Your server will be with you momentarily.” The man didn’t wait for them to reply, but turned sharply back to his post at the front of the car.

“This feels like an Agatha Christie novel,” Finn said, unfolding his napkin and settling it across his lap.

“Don’t say that. Those never end well for someone.”

“Oh.” Finn shook his head. A waiter poured them water, ice clinking into the crystal glasses. “You’re so right. Sorry.”

“I’m joking, Finn.” Leo picked up his menu, blue eyes bright. Finn found he was suddenly biting back the urge to tell him he looked good.

Finn cleared his throat and picked up his menu, too. All in thin cursive. And French, apparently. Finn sighed. “This guy hates me, he gave me a French menu on purpose.”

Leo laughed. “God, no he didn’t.”

“Oui.” Finn said. “Lo would be dying laughing right now.”

Leo held out his own menu. “Here, switch with me, I can read it.”

“Oh right.”

“I should have pissed him off more,” Leo said as they switched. “He could have given me almost anything and I would have been able to order in it.”

“You’re more snarky than people know.” Finn smiled, scanning the items. Each one seemed to have ten ingredients. “Wow. Of all the times we’ve been to dinner, we’ve never gone somewhere this fancy.”

“We haven’t,” Leo said. He took a sip of water, but Finn sensed he wasn’t finished. “I…I missed that the most. Me, you, and Lo. Just. Just hanging out.”

Finn nodded slowly. “What was the last one? I’m having trouble remembering…”

“We went to that new bar? Like, two streets over from the university, we waited outside for you to get out of class.”

“Oh,” Finn said. The image of Logan leaned against the red-brick side of his building, Leo, taller, standing close and smiling at something. The two of them, looking up with a grin when he called out. Finn laughed. “And then, and then, people kept thinking you were my boyfriend, remember?”

Leo smiled down at his menu. He swallowed, and pushed his hair back out of his face. “Because we had the booth I guess, and Lo was in the chair across from us. That’s all.”

The conversation they fell into was easy—as it so often was with Leo. They hadn’t spent much time just the two of them until the one time Logan had been called up and Leo hadn’t. That had been one of Finn’s longest stretches—until Greece—of having to go without Logan. But Leo had stepped right up. He’d been right there to ease the chill of the lonely apartment. They’d watched movies, gone out to their favorite bookshop. Leo had even gotten Finn to master some of the most basic of his recipes. Whenever Finn itched to use the burner phones, trying to press down the urge because no, being lonely was not an emergency, Leo had called him up to see if he wanted to go for a pint after work.

This felt like that. None of the bone crushing sadness that had existed when Leo brought him Tupperware meals because they both knew Finn might simply cease to exist if they weren’t careful. Finn had felt it, he’d felt himself slipping away with each day he believed Logan to not share his world anymore.

Leo signed the bill to his cabin and sent a bright smile to the host as they handed over their dinner jackets. Leo’s had a sauce stain on his lapel, and they had both had to hide their laughter in their napkins when it had happened.

“My apologies,” Leo said in French, and Finn had to turn sharply the other way with a hand over his mouth.

Leo pushed the button for the train car door to open, then again after they crossed through the unheated in-between space. The roaring of the wheels became loud between cars. It made Finn nervous, being able to see the sliver of racing tracks beneath his feet. He kept his eyes on the back of Leo’s neck. His hair was dry now, back to being its light blond.

“Thanks for coming with me by the way,” Finn said as they passed sleeper car doors. He rubbed his palms together. Even that brief hint of winter air had chilled him through.

Leo looked back at him. “Of course. I mean…It’s been a while since we’ve…”

Leo didn’t finish, but Finn guessed he had been thinking along similar lines to his own. Been happy together. Had dinner together.

“It’s such a relief to be able to smile again while talking about Lo,” Finn said. He found himself reaching out and laying a hand against Leo’s shoulder. “Especially with you.”

Leo had just stepped into another in-between space when he looked back at Finn. The wind picked back up. The wheels went loud again. Goosebump rose all over Finn’s body and he reached out to steady himself against the wall as the floor swayed slightly beneath them. Slivers of moonlight got through to them and made Leo’s blue eyes look like lakes at night.

“I just mean,” Finn said. “He doesn’t feel—everything doesn’t feel so god damn far away anymore.”

The door ahead of them opened suddenly and they both jumped. They pressed their backs against the wall to let a couple pass, Leo saying a polite hello. Finn could feel the winter night curl its freezing fingers under his sweater.

A blast of heat hit them when the couple opened the far door, and then was gone again. It was just them and the train.

“He’s not,” Leo said, soft under the noise. “He’s not far away anymore. Not a world and not a phone call.” Leo tilted his head. “Just a few steps.”

Finn huffed out a laugh. “You knew about the phones, huh? Before everything happened.” Maybe Leo had seen them in the drawer, one of the nights he’d stayed over.

Leo arched a brow. “I set it up for him.”

Finn stilled. “You…What?”

“Lo came in one night,” Leo said. His eyes darted over Finn’s face. “I—Are you cold? We should—”

“No,” Finn whispered. “Leo. Tell me.”

Leo’s mouth moved like he was biting the inside of his cheek. “Well—I wasn’t supposed to. He didn’t want you to think that—to think that he was really worried about something happening. But he came in, and I wasn’t expecting to see him so I remember being surprised. And then he looked like something was wrong so I thought something had happened to you. But he said everything was fine.”

“Do you think…” Finn hesitated. “Do you think maybe this was the beginning of whatever led to Salazar wanting to…” Kill him.

“Looking back at it, maybe,” Leo said. “He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong.”

“But that was a couple years ago now.”

“I know.” Moonlight darted across Leo’s features, flashing like it was being blocked and revealed by passing trees outside. “I know. All he said was that he needed a way to contact you. Or for you to contact him. No matter what. And so I did it.”

Finn’s chest hurt. Leo said it so simply. So fiercely, so casually, like he wouldn’t get into horrible trouble of anyone at their agency found out. He’d done this for them. Just like the tracker that sat just beneath Finn’s skin. Just like he’d helped Finn help Logan. He wouldn’t let them lose each other again.

“Thank you,” Finn whispered.

“It’s…” Leo swallowed and looked away. “It’s just my job.”

“No…” Finn couldn’t help it. He rushed forward and wrapped his arms around Leo’s neck. “Thank you,” he whispered. He squeezed tight and then pulled back. “Leo, thank you. I can’t tell you—he found us because of you. He found us.”

Leo nodded slightly. His shoulders jumped like he was breathing quick.

“You let him come back to us,” Finn whispered. He laughed a little. He was crying a little. He leaned forward and kissed Leo’s cheek, laughing the words right against his skin. “You did it, thank you, thank you—”

And then Leo was kissing him. He’d turned his head, brought his hands around Finn’s waist and…Finn stopped breathing.

Finn wasn’t used to tilting his mouth up to be kissed. Logan fit snuggly below his chin. Logan wrapped Finn’s shirts up in his fists and pulled him down to his mouth. Logan pushed up on his toes and fell against Finn’s chest and wrapped his arms around Finn’s neck.

Now, Finn’s arms were raised around Leo’s slightly taller shoulders. His chin was stretched up. There was no need for tip-toes, but Finn would have been too surprised anyhow. Leo’s mouth was warm. Finn sank against his chest, his eyes slipping closed.

Leo pulled back, their mouths making a soft, breaking sound. For a moment, their breathing together was soft. Finn couldn’t feel the cold air anymore. The sort of calm he associated with Logan’s body had settled somewhere between his shoulders.

Then Leo’s blue eyes went wide. “I—Oh God.”

Finn could only stare at him. He let his arms drop.

“No, oh my God.” Leo backed up so fast he made the train door rattle. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Leo,” Finn said. “Um. It’s okay—”

“No.” Leo sounded mournful. “No, that was anything but okay.”

He turned fast and with a hard hit to the door button and starting walking quickly up the train corridor.

“Leo.” Finn darted after him, praying none of these doors suddenly opened. “Stop, stop, it’s okay. Wait.”

“No,” Leo said, turning to Finn again when they had almost reached their doors. He dropped his voice to a whisper. He looked like he was about to reach out, but he pulled his hand back at the last moment. “God, Finn, I’m so—”

“What’s this now? Running in the hallways.”

Both Finn and Leo looked up at the unfamiliar voice. A boy was coming towards them. Finn thought he looked around Leo’s age, with brown eyes, olive skin and curling, sandy-blond hair. He was wearing a neatly pressed dinner jacket—one that he probably owned as it matched the rest of his suit.

The boy smiled, a wide, teasing sort of grin, and came to a stop a few steps away from them. “Who’s chasing who?”

“We’re sorry if we disturbed you,” Leo said slowly.

“Oh no,” the boy said. “If anything, I believe I disturbed you.”

Finn frowned. What? “Um. That’s fine. We were just…” But he wasn’t really sure how to finish that sentence. Kissing?

He glanced towards his and Logan’s door.

“It’s all right, Finn,” the boy said. “I’m not going to hurt Logan.”

Finn blinked. Had he missed something? Had he been so dazed by Leo’s kiss that he’d missed Leo saying he knew this person? Did he know Logan? He looked up at Leo, but Leo’s face were just as slack. As Finn watched, his expression hardened.

“Do I know you?” Finn asked.

“Nope,” the boy said.

“Who are you?” Leo’s voice was more demanding.

The boy just smiled again. “Don’t worry. We’ll see each other again soon enough.” He dropped a wink at Finn. “You know, Leo, you’re just as handsome in person.”

With that, the boy put a key into the lock of one of the cabins across the hall, right across from Finn and Logan, and disappeared into his room. The door shut with a loud click.

“Do you…” Finn stared. “Leo—”

“Go back to your room,” Leo said softly.

“Leo—”

“Later.” Leo put a hand on his shoulder. He had that look in his eye that Finn had seen linger in Logan when he first came back from a trip. Something was wrong. “Finn, go back to your room. Pack anything you want to take with you. I’ll be there with the others in five minutes.”

“Do you know him?” Finn glanced at the cabin door. “He said our names.”

“No,” Leo said. “No, I don’t.”

#Christmas Eve will find me lumosinlove #Leo knut #finn o'hara #finnle #sunfish #spy au #ficmas

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