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writesowhatnext · 4 years

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if it wasn’t for you meddling kids // remus lupin

Summary: the boys are suspicious when Remus keeps disappearing… where is he going? Who’s he meeting?

Request: is it alright if i request a remus x hufflepuff reader? he has the biggest crush on y/n (poor boy is always nervous) and they hangout in the kitchens/sneak out to the astronomy tower then they kiss or smth. thanks!!

A/N: this was a cute request so I hope I did it alright :)))))

Reader: unspecified

Warnings: none??

Whilst by no means the smartest Marauder, Remus did have to give Peter credit for figuring it out first, even if he was just throwing ideas at a wall and seeing what stuck.

“Moony,” James drawled, lying upside down off of his bed when Remus finally got back to their dorm. He had a spring in his step and unfortunately, it seemed like all three of them noticed. “Where have you been scampering off to recently?”

“What?” Remus asked, declining to face his friends and have the pink blush of his cheeks give himself away.

He’d be teased mercilessly if they knew where he’d been disappearing to almost every night, the fool he’d been making of himself every time he met up with you in the kitchens. He thought about your nightly rituals fondly, but he made sure to not convince himself that they meant anything to you; he was the one with a crush, after all.

“Prongs is right, actually,” Sirius piped up, the ball he’d been throwing against the wall pausing in his hand.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Remus sat on his bed, pulling out a book under the watchful eyes of his best friends who apparently had nothing better to do than quiz him on his whereabouts.

“You keep leaving earlier after dinner,” James said, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“And you don’t come back until just before curfew,” Sirius said, matching James’ position as they both lay back over the ends of their beds. Peter watched curiously from under his sheets.

“I’ve had homework to catch up on,” Remus insisted, trying to keep his voice level as he hid his face in his book.

“You’ve done all the assignments due next week already,” Peter very helpfully supplied, wilting slightly under Remus’ annoyed scowl. Sure, Peter cared about what he was doing, but he was nowhere near as invested as James and Sirius, who were ironically enough like a pair of dogs with a bone.

“He’s got a point, Moons,” Sirius smirked, tilting his head to the side as his dark hair fell down towards the ground.

“So why,” James said conspiratorially. “Are you sneaking out and lying to us?”

“I’m hardly sneaking-“

“So, tell us where you’ve been going then!”

“Bloody hell, I didn’t realise I’d be in for the Spanish Inquisition tonight.”

“The what?” James and Sirius asked at the same time, only earning an eyeroll in response.

“I’m not doing anything,” Remus insisted, sliding his feet underneath the covers and huffing. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“C’mon Pads,” James said, grunting as he lifted himself up, leaning on his elbows and turning to face Sirius. “Time for a brainstorm. Now, why would Moony be gallivanting around and not tell us?”

“Maybe he’s a werewolf,” Sirius replied with a smirk, barely dodging the pillow Remus threw his way.

“Don’t be a prat, there’s no way Moons could be a werewolf.”

Remus would have nothing to sleep on if he needed any more ammunition to throw at his gits of friends.

“Maybe he’s meeting someone,” Peter provided, drawing a round of intrigued cooing from James and Sirius. Remus would’ve sent him another glare had he not purposefully been trying to avoid the conversation.

“You might be onto something there,” James nodded approvingly, stroking his chin with his hand. “But who?”

“Pince, maybe?” Sirius suggested, the familiar rhythm of his tennis ball hitting the wall resuming. “He’s always had a thing for the librarian.”

“Too old.”

“That Slytherin fifth year he tutors?”

“Too young.”

“What about that Hufflepuff?”

Peter was really starting to get on Remus’ nerves with all his helpful little suggestions. He gritted his teeth and pulled his bedsheet tighter over him, hoping they wouldn’t notice how right on the money Wormtail actually was.

“What Hufflepuff?” Sirius asked and Remus could practically imagine his confused expression, his brows drawn down and mouth pouting.

“The one you’re partners with in Herbology,” Peter said, nodding at James. Remus squeezed his eyes shut, not enjoying at all how dangerously close they were getting to the truth of how he spent his nights.

“Are you on about Y/N?”

Peter shrugged.

“Is this the same Y/N that saved your arse when you got hit in the face by that Bouncing Bulb?” Sirius asked, the smile in his voice louder than his words.

Remus couldn’t help but smile himself as he remembered that particular lesson and how adorable you’d been laughing at James.

“Excuse me,” James said rather indignantly. “I did not need saving!”

“Yeah, right, I’m sure.”

As they began to argue between themselves, Remus hoped that they would forget about the whole thing and leave him to have his favourite person all to himself for just a little bit longer.

He’d blame wishful thinking for his stupidity that following day. How he didn’t notice his friends skulking behind him with their stampede-like footsteps and constantly loud shushing he’d never know. Down every corridor and up every staircase they followed him, growing more and more confused as they approached the kitchens, surprised to see him disappear inside.

“Maybe he’s just there for chocolate?” James asked as the three of them peeked around a corner, their heads stacked on top of each other.

“Nah, Moony wouldn’t be so shirty about that, would he?” Sirius said from above him.

Remus really should’ve heard their loud bickering, but he was very distracted. Distracted, indeed, by you and that damn smile you sent him every time he walked through the kitchen doors to see you sitting there on one of the counters, surrounded by house-elves and looking like an angel. He realised very early on in your meetings that he wanted you to give him that smile everyday for the rest of your lives.

“Hello there,” you said happily, crossing your legs and leaning forward. He flushed under your stare and you couldn’t help but think of how completely adorable he looked with his pink cheeks and bowed head.

“Hi,” he replied softly, playing with the hem of his jumper and avoiding your eyes as he leant next to you on the counter. You smirked at his profile, biting your lip to hide your laughter at how awkward he seemed to be around you. Remus Lupin, the big brave Gryffindor, scared of little old you.

“How was your day?”

“Same old, same old. I saved your friend in Herbology again,” you sighed, huffing a laugh as you shook your head. “I don’t know why plants hate him so much.”

Remus laughed and the sound was like music to your ears, especially when he turned to face you with his head ducked, a sheepish grin on his lips.

“I think every species hates him a little bit,” he said, savouring the chiming of your laughter. His chest ached from how wonderful you looked, just sitting there so close to him. He couldn’t help but wonder how he got lucky enough to spend time with you.

“What about you?” you asked, picking up a sweet and popping it into your mouth, licking your thumb to get rid of the melted chocolate on your fingertips.

Remus’ eyes didn’t leave your lips until you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, suppressing a chuckle. He was met with the realisation that he’d been caught staring and his face turned an outrageous shade of pink, the blush disappearing beneath his collar.

“Uh-uh, fine, yes,” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Had a bit of an interrogation from my mates last night, though.”

“What about?” you asked, inching your hand closer to his. “Insurance fraud?”

“Yeah, exactly,” he grinned, copying your movements until your little fingers touched. “I should probably cover my tracks a little better.”

“I bet it was all those receipts stuffed between the pages of your textbooks,” you mused, raising your eyebrows. His eyes examined your face as you looked down. You were busy staring at your fingers as you lifted your palm over his, placing it flat on the wooden counter between his body and his hand. He swallowed at the proximity, both confused and hopeful about where exactly this little dance would take you.

“It was about you, actually,” he muttered, swallowing again.

“Me?”

He nodded, not trusting his voice all that much with his heart beating so loudly in his ears. You looked so beautiful and the heat from your hand so close to him made butterflies flutter in his stomach.

“They’re worried about me disappearing every night. Very suspicious, they reckon.”

“I suppose that’s my fault for stealing you away all for myself,” you said gently, slowly peeling his fingers off of the surface of the counter, interlocking your hand with his. You looked up at him proudly, grinning at the surprised look on his face. You held your breath for his response, your smile fading slightly at his shocked silence.

“Why would you want me all for yourself?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Well, I fancy you quite a bit,” you admitted quietly, dipping your head in embarrassment. “Thought it would be quite obvious by now.”

Surely, he was just playing dumb so that he wouldn’t let you down, right? Maybe how nervous he was had nothing to do with you, and you’d just misread the signals. The thought alone made your stomach churn. Maybe you were just being foolish.

“Sorry,” you said, pulling your hand away from his and resting it in your lap. “I thought-“

Remus frowned as you paused, his hand horribly empty without yours to hold. A lump formed in his throat as he decided that he had to be spontaneous for once in his life.

He didn’t think as he stood up straight, and you prepared yourself for him to just walk out the door. He didn’t, though. The way he turned to stand in front of you surprised you both, though not nearly as much as the way his shaking and scarred hand lifted your chin. You looked up abruptly and your breath caught in your throat as his mouth pressed against yours.

You didn’t have the time or mental capacity to reciprocate before he pulled away, his expression a picture of fearful anticipation.

“I’m so sorry-“ he started, beginning to lower his hand before you cut him off and returned the favour, kissing him and threading your hands around his neck. You barely registered the feeling of his arms either side of you, trapping you in as he leant forwards, slotting himself between your legs. Your insides squirmed at the feeling of his lips on yours, a warmth flooding through you.

“Wow,” he said breathlessly when you both pulled back. You laughed, chewing on your bottom lip as you looked into his warm green eyes, more than pleased with the events on the night so far.

“I am very glad that just happened,” he whispered, quietly proud of himself for his courage.

“Me too,” you nodded, pursing your lips together. Your eyes drifted to his hair as you looked over his face, very much aware of the way his arms were curling around your waist. A shadow by the door caught your eye and you found yourself looking behind Remus, slightly flustered to see your Herbology partner staring back at you.

“We have an audience,” you whispered to Remus, smiling at the way his eyes lingered on your lips as you spoke.

As your words sunk in, he frowned, his hands still on your waist as he turned around to see James, Sirius and Peter looking back at him very guiltily from the doorway.

“Hi, mate,” James said, waving awkwardly. Sirius elbowed him with a grimace.

With an irritated hum, Remus turned back to face you and whilst you could feel how tense he was underneath your fingertips, he smiled to see you so close to him, replaying in his mind what had just happened.

“Are you going to go tear them a new one?” you asked, your voice so angelic he had to laugh. He nodded reluctantly, his eyes darting back and forth from your eyes to your lips.

“Well,” you sighed, trailing your fingers from his neck to his chest, feeling the soft material of his jumper underneath them. “I suppose you must. Only if you give me a kiss, though, before you go.”

He beamed at your words, cheeks pinking as he leaned so close you could feel his breath on your face.

“You really don’t have to ask me twice.”

With that, he kissed you again and you thought, quite happily, that you would do anything you could to make it a habit. He pressed his swollen lips together when you both pulled back, his eyes roaming over your face once more before he stepped away, his fingers brushing your waist, not at all ready to let go of this moment. He let them drop as your eyes flicked behind him, no doubt watching his friends watching you.

“I might kill you guys,” he said loud enough for them to hear, his eyes never leaving yours.

You laughed at the sound of them scrambling away, the door swinging shut behind them as their bickering echoed down the corridor. Remus stepped backwards to leave, but only for a second before he lunged back towards you and pecked you on the lips, happy to remind himself that he was probably allowed to do that now.

You giggled as he legged it down the hallway, fairly chuffed with the fact that you’d just kissed Remus Lupin. You swung your legs back and forth as you placed another sweet in your mouth, very excited to recreate the experience the next day.

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criminalrambling · 3 years

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Checkers and Coffee

Pairing: spencer reid x reader

Rating: G , fluffy! Some mention of a stalker, typical unsub stuff but story does not take place during a case. Enjoy the cute!

__________________________________________

The Charleston sun was still rising, not yet heating the air to sweltering, and the morning smelled of coffee and salt water. Most people would have been asleep at their vacation homes at this time of day, but you happened to be seated in a cozy booth at the local diner across from a certain tall, tousle-haired Doctor. The rest of his team had left earlier that morning on their jet, but unrelated to their recent case, they were transporting two Marines back to DC and two people needed to wait for a later commercial flight… you’d all drawn straws, and the lucky agents to stay behind were yourself and one Dr. Spencer Reid.

You’d checked out of the hotel, but hadn’t wanted to go to the airport just yet. So you’d convinced Spencer to join you at one of your favorite places for a few cups of coffee and breakfast. It must have been the lack of sleep combined with lack of coffee that caused you to challenge someone with an eidetic memory to a strategy game.

“You really think you can beat me?” His brown eyes glinted as he raised his left brow and smirked.

You rolled your eyes and nudged the round crimson game piece one space forward. “It’s checkers, Spencer. Not chess.”

“True,” he responded, scooting forward a black piece of his own. “But there’s still a significant amount of strategy involved. Did you know that versions of checkers were played as far back as 3,000 BCE? Archaeologists found evidence of a similar game in the Iraq city of Ur, and there have been other versions played throughout history. Though I’m not sure any of those versions involved a fabric board…”

His sentence was cut off by a grey-haired waitress who took your breakfast orders with military precision and a smile. You didn’t place a dainty order either. If Spencer thought you were a gluttonous cow, then so be it… breakfast was the best meal of the day, and you didn’t make it to Fleetwood Diner nearly often enough. You were pleased that Spencer took your suggestion of pancakes as part of his order, though his were plain and not the blueberry ones you preferred.

“Playing checkers at the Fleetwood Diner is tradition in these parts. At least, in my family it is.” You countered, jumping one of his pieces and trying not to gloat as you snatched it off the board. “Your turn.”

“Well, if it’s a tradition in the Y/L/N family then I’m happy to partake.” he shrugged, and gulped down more coffee out of the stout, thick handled cup. “Is it just me, or does coffee taste better when it’s served in this kind of mug?”

You grinned and looked over your shoulder to see where your waitress was. “Not just you - I love diner mugs. In fact, a couple of Fleetwood ones may have mysteriously made their way into my kitchen cabinet.”

“A federal agent, admitting to thievery!” Spencer laughed. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

A warm, fuzzy feeling spread through your body at the sound of his laughter and the way his wide grin made his eyes crinkle. You hadn’t heard that laugh in several days, maybe even a week? Despite the busy workload in the intelligence department of the FBI, you’d taken off for South Carolina as soon as your sister had called asking for your help. The BAU had come down a couple of days later after you’d phoned JJ, the panic and emotion in your voice convincing her to bring the team to your hometown to help. The fact that everything had worked out… well, the fact that you were even able to smile was truly something to be thankful for.

Your sister’s 6 year old son James had gone missing from the University day-care that he attended after his half day of kindergarten. It turned out that one of her former students, now going by a new name, had targeted her. He was jaded since she’d turned him down shortly before her wedding 7 years ago and coveted the life she’d built. After 3 days of dedicated work on the geographical profile, James was found in an abandoned warehouse. He had been unharmed but was very dehydrated. The UnSub was located a few hours later as he was en route to the University, where he would have… well, done something terrible to your sister.

“I owe you one,” you smiled back, moving another piece. “And not just for keeping my diner mug secret. There’s no way I could have handled this one out without you and your team. It means the world- thank you.”

“Oh, I’m sure…” he started to brush off the commend, looking a tad sheepish before you cut him off with a look and placed your hand on top of his, squeezing gently. He gulped. “You’re welcome.”

You withdrew your hand awkwardly, hoping to whatever higher power there was that your cheeks weren’t changing colors. The two of you continued moving your checkers pieces, and you downed the last sip of your coffee before reaching for the pot the waitress had left on the table.

“The only flaw of these mugs… they aren’t nearly large enough.” You joked, trying to lighten the mood.

The corners of Spencer’s mouth turned up slightly. “I was debating doing some research through the biomedical engineering program at Johns Hopkins… There has to be a way to inject coffee straight into the bloodstream.”

“Might even earn yourself another PhD, smarty pants.” you played along, teasing him. You loved the way he lit up at the banter as you went back and forth.

“One can never have too many PhDs.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“No PhDs, and yet you’re winning at checkers.”

“Are you letting me?”

“No. Do you want me to?”

“No!” You gasped. “I like to win fair and square.”

“Oh, that’s too bad…” He smirked, and double jumped your pieces. “I might just have to make a comeback.”

“You son of a…”

“Pancakes!” chimed your waitress, swooping them down to your table. They looked perfect, as always, and your mouth watered. You knew they would taste even better. “And the blueberry, with extra crispy bacon. Syrup is on the table, anything else I can get you?”

“More coffee?” You and Spencer said in unison, looking at each other in embarrassment when you realized it had happened.

“That would be amazing, thank you.” You told the waitress as she took the empty pot from your table and said she’d be back momentarily.

You ate in silence for a few minutes - both due to the delicious food and also to take in what you were feeling. Of course, you felt relieved that your family was healthy and safe. Genuinely thankful for the smarts and skills of the BAU, especially those of the man across from you. You also felt… nervous? Oh dear, were those butterflies?

Of course, you knew Spencer prior to his arrival in Charleston to help with the case. You both worked at the Bureau and everyone knew the BAU team. You’d been with Spencer at a couple of functions (not together, just… there at the same time), and had gotten to know a few other members of the team over the years. Your department frequently passed cases their way, so you worked with JJ and Penelope most often. You’d always found Spencer handsome, but figured he was either already seeing someone, well out of your league or just… not interested.

But now, after spending the last several days in close quarters and under emotional stress, you felt that something had changed. The entire team was great, but Spencer in particular had been sweet, supportive and focused on helping you and your family. And when your nephew had finally been found, he'd been the one to talk to him, probing for details that would help in the UnSub’s capture. He'd pulled a magic trick to make James laugh, and you could immediately see how much he loved kids. Something about that combined with the extra time together… well, now that you weren't so anxious about your family, your attraction to him was ramping up into a desire for more than just the casual acquaintance you had before.

But did he feel the same?

The coffee arrived and you finished your last piece of bacon.

"So, uh.." Spencer started, fiddling with a sugar packet. "What time is our flight?"

"10:30.” you replied, sipping your coffee. It was just after 7:00. “So we should probably be there around 8:45 or so and it takes 45 minutes to get there…we can grab our checks if you want to leave a little extra time to grab our luggage from the hotel.”

“Okay, yeah. That would be good.” He flagged down the waitress quietly. “Can I get the check? Thank you so much.”

She handed over the seafoam green order slip, to which was paper clipped a crisp white receipt. He scanned the total briefly and handed it back with his card tucked inside faster than you could even move to pull out your wallet. You pulled it out anyway, feeling a bit flustered.

“What do I owe ya, Doc?” you joked, flipping through the cash in your wallet.

“Don’t worry about it,” he responded, the pitch of his voice rising ever so slightly. “My treat, Y.N. Besides, isn’t it normal for a gentleman to… well, not that this is a… um, never mind.” He looked back to your now-forgotten checkers board, his lips narrowed together in concentration.

You grinned, hoping that you had heard him right. “I love a breakfast date. Even better than a coffee date, really.”

His tongue brushed over his lower lip and he looked back up at you before responding.

“What about dinner and… well, it’s not a movie, but I happen to have an extra ticket to a poetry reading on Thursday if you’d like to join me and…”

“I’d love to.” You smiled at him, feeling absolutely giddy at the prospect of a romantic date later in the week.“We can figure it out while we wait at the airport.”

His whole face lit up, and he followed you out of the restaurant. A couple of hours later, your head would come to rest on his shoulder while you napped on the flight home, and Spencer would feel very pleased indeed that he’d switched straws with Morgan to get this extra time with you

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blowhandle77 · 3 years

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Fabinho, Thiago And The Ultimate Defensive Gamble Klopp Now Faces

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lostinfic · 4 years

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Self Indulgent prompts, huh? I love anything with artist Rose so something with that theme. I'm not picky about the Doctor- like my current obsession is Eight/Rose, but I'm perpetually in love with Nine/Rose and Ten/Rose too so whichever Doctor you're most comfortable with.

The Museum of Serendipity

Doctor x Rose, Wilf, male OC (Original Cat)

Rated E | 2300 words

Sorry this took longer than anticipated, I got sidetracked by research and 8th Doctor audio adventures ;)

I’m fulfilling your self-indulgent prompts

Of all the wonderful, celebrated museums in London, Rose’s favourite was an anarchic collection housed in a crooked Georgian house in Marylebone.

From ground floor to attic, over four storeys, shelves and frames lined the walls of every room, following a seemingly incoherent design. Part cabinet of curiosity and part celebration of beauty in all its forms, the collection was curated by an anonymous— and eccentric, Rose liked to imagine— philanthropist.

Its name, the Museum of Serendipity, summed up how the collection was put together. Or perhaps it indicated how this museum could be found: by sheer good luck, as it was not advertised anywhere. Rose herself had stumbled upon it by accident last September, when looking for a shelter from the rain. Quite a happy accident, since her art teacher had asked them to visit a gallery for their first assignment of the semester (she’d earned extra points for originality).

Despite few visitors, it remained open from morning to evening. More often than not, the elderly greeter slept in his rocking chair by the door, leaving Basil the cat in charge.

Its location near Regent’s Park, made it a perfect destination for a drawing session. On a beautiful spring day like today, Rose would walk along the paths of the park and draw the flora and fauna in her sketchbook. Then make her way towards the museum. Other days, after a long time indoors, she would enjoy the park’s fresh air and time to reflect on the latest collection piece she’d discovered.

Since her childhood, art had been a way for Rose to travel, around the globe and across time, a way to see the world through other people’s eyes and to share her own vision. A way to exist beyond the Powell Estate. The Museum of Serendipity transported her like nothing else.

Although she enjoyed the morning sun, she didn’t linger in Regent’s Park, too eager to get there.

The elderly greeter was listening to the radio in his small front office.

“Hello, Wilf!”

He jumped to his feet with an energy that belied his years.

“Ah, Rose, luv. Alright? How’s school?”

“Got another assignment to complete for art history class. By the way, mid-term break is coming up, if you fancy a holiday, I could cover your shifts here for a few days.”

He would be doing her a favour more than the other way around.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “We got a new piece came in.”

New pieces were simply added to the exhibition wherever a space was available. As they walked to the drawing room, Rose tried to know more about the museum.

“Who brought this new piece?”

“John did, just this morning.”

“John?”

“Yeah, John McConnell , the mailman,” Wilf said. “Here it is.”

On the mantel lay an artifact shaped like a metal glove without fingertips. Or a pan flute.

“Looks like something from the future,” she joked.

“Modern art, then,” Wilf said.

He left her to look at it a while longer. The pattern that covered it, both engraved and raised all at once, looked like scales. Rose pulled her sketchbook out of her messenger bag and drew it. Texture study.

Basil, the museum’s Abyssinian cat, greeted her, rubbing himself against her legs. She petted his long ears and ruddy coat. She followed Basil out of the room, and wandered the now familiar corridors and staircases. Her hand trailed along the faded floral wallpaper and oak paneling. The smell of candle wax and pine wood polish always hung in the air.

There was one painting in particular Rose always came back to, in the third floor library, just above a loveseat that once belonged to Marie Antoinette. Ahead of her, Basil jumped on the loveseat and looked at her expectantly.

Rose pulled up a chair to sit down, the museum was almost a second home now, she had no qualms moving furniture around.

With a dreamy sigh, she let her eyes roam the large canvas. It depicted a dozen people in elegant Edwardian clothing, visiting an art exhibition. She was transported back in times, it seemed. Back to la Belle Époque. Late 19th- early 20th century, in France. Among women in high-necked waist shirts, carrying white lace parasols and men wearing mustaches and straw boating hats. The era of Moulin Rouge and absinthe, of the first movie, of bicycles and Marie Curie, just to name a few. The era of Gustav Klimt, Toulouse-Lautrec, Van Gogh and Renoir, the artists whose work Rose had first fallen in love with. The painting itself blended elements of Art Nouveau and Impressionism (as she’d described in her second assignment).

But there was one character in particular that commanded her attention again and again. There, in the upper left corner. The painter had done this trick which makes it look like the subject’s eyes are on you wherever you stand in the room. Though unnerved at first, Rose now tried to master this technique. Countless time she’d drawn his thick, curly brown hair, the soft contours of his jaw, his blue eyes, the creases that bracketed his mouth. And that smile, a Mona Lisa smile, the hardest trait to capture.

His clothes also offered many details to work on: the sheen of his satin cravat, the velvet of his jacket, the pattern of his waistcoat.

At first, she only tried to capture his likeness in various mediums, but over time she tried to sketch his profile, his back. She depicted that gentleman in various poses and actions. He had taken a life of his own. What was he doing there that day? What was his relationship with the painter? Why was he looking at her like that?

Basil meowed.

“Alright, don’t be jealous. I’ll draw you first, you beautiful boy.”

“Thanks, it’s a new jumper. Do you like the colour?” said a man with a northern accent.

Rose started. He was leaning against the door, looking at her, with the smallest hint of a smile.

He picked up Basil and sat down on the loveseat, laying the cat on his legs crossed at the knees. Rose held back a quip about the similar size of their ears.

“Well, go on, then,” he said, indicating her sketchbook with his chin.

“Hold on, are you the director of the museum? Or the curator?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

At a loss for a reply, Rose simply got to work.

If Basil wasn’t running away, then surely this man posed no threat. Just a lost, slightly odd item, like everything else in the Museum of Serendipity. Including herself.

His face offered such striking features to draw, that bold nose, those sharp cheekbones. The cropped hair revealed the shape of his skull and the collar of his sweater, a beautiful neck. A face for charcoal, she thought, to capture the lights and darks of him, in loose, almost intangible strokes. Charcoal and dry pastels, she amended, she had to recreate the infinite blue of his eyes.

They chatted about everything big and small: cats, galaxies, her doubts about art school and his hopes for the future of humanity.

Time flowed differently when she was creating. In that moment more than ever. A sort of appeasing, melodic hum filled her mind, and everything, but her subject, faded away.

When she traced his eyes, she was surprised to find in them a spark, as if he knew her.

She looked up at him, and he smiled. “Hello,” he said.

Before she could think of a good way to phrase her question, he stood up and looked at the sketch over her shoulder. He gave an appreciative nod.

“We need someone to do a painting of the museum,” he announced. “Are you free to do it?”

“A painting? Are you taking the piss?”

“I’m serious. Great big canvas. Like this one.” He pointed to her favourite painting of la Belle Époque.

“I’ll need money to buy supplies,” she said, to test his good faith.

“Of course.”

He grabbed a tin box in a nearby bookcase; it was full of cash. He handed her the stack of pound notes without counting. Almost as if he was ignorant of their value. “Will this do?”

Rose nodded dumbly. She resolved right away to only spend a reasonable sum.

“I’ll come by next Wednesday afternoon,” she said.

“Perfect. See you, then, Rose Tyler.”

She spent the next few days in a state of disbelief. Her mind constantly replayed her encounter with the blue-eyed man. Several times, she opened her sketchbook to look at his portrait. The fondness it aroused in her took her breath away. She found herself doodling both him and the gentleman in the painting, over and over.

She bought a load of art supplies, but kept the receipt in a secure place in case she needed a refund.

On Wednesday, she arrived at the museum with a knot in her stomach. Wilf greeted her, as usual, but he was wearing a smart new uniform.

A moment later, the blue-eyed man skipped down the stairs, two at a time, and welcomed her with a bright smile. He introduced himself as the Doctor, just the Doctor, and Rose went along with it— after all, it wasn’t the weirdest thing about him.

He’d set up an easel and a canvas in the third floor library. She barely paid attention to his directives, she was distracted by the number of visitors in the museum, more than she had ever seen.

“Is this a prank show thing or what?” she asked.

“Why would it be a prank show?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you said it. Why a prank show?” he repeated.

“‘Cause to get that many actors and props, it’s got to be on telly.”

“That makes sense. Well done.”

“Thanks?”

“It’s not a tv show,” he said.

“But— why?”

“It’s the museum’s anniversary. We are interested in collecting unique pieces, and what’s more unique than Rose Tyler’s first commissioned artwork?”

“Maybe the last,” she mumbled.

“It won’t be,” he said, stating a fact rather than paying a compliment. “Coffee?”

The Doctor knew something she didn’t, and as irritating as it was, it incited her to stay and fulfill his request.

She laid a tarp on the floor below the easel, spread out her brushes and palette knives, picked the colours.

Basil, of course, wanted to be part of the painting. He lay down in the sunniest spot, on the window sill, looking ever so regal.

As she prepped the canvas, her brain ran ahead of her with ideas to best infuse her art with feelings this room evoked. Warm earth tones, old leather bound books, a thick Persian rug, but also glass cases to keep people away, artworks by undisclosed artists, mysteries all around. Inviting and distant all at once. Much like the Doctor.

She scanned the room for him. He stood in a corner of the library, surveying. As she traced his silhouette, she noticed the similarity, in his posture and smile, with the fascinating gentleman in the Belle Époque painting. She made a mental note to ask about that too.

Hours passed by, Wilf kept her comfortable with cups of tea, snacks, a stool, opening the window, closing the window.

Everyone had left. The sun had set. Only the Doctor and Basil remained in the room with her.

The artwork wasn’t finished, but it had everything she needed to continue another day. Yet, she didn’t leave. She didn’t want to. She stood there, wringing her paint-splattered hands waiting for something, anything, from the Doctor.

“I want to show you something,” he said. He took her hand and they both stood up on Marie Antoinette’s loveseat. “Look closely.”

Now inches from the Belle Époque painting, she saw it like she never had before. It shimmered and shifted. Like those 3D images you have to cross your eyes to see. She blinked. Looked closer. And drifted through the canvas.

Rose gripped the Doctor’s hand tighter. Behind them, there was no library, only a blue door. And in front of her, the painting had come to life. No— they weren’t in the painting, they were in Paris of the 1900s. Around her, people chatted in French, cigar smoke wafted to her nose, and through a window that wasn’t on the painting, she could see the brand new Eiffel tower.

The gentleman that had so fascinated her was there too. Thick hair, bright smile.

“Rose, we meet at last,” he said.

His voice sounded exactly like she’d imagined. She didn’t know until now that she’d imagined his voice.

“She’s all yours,” the Doctor said.

Rose didn’t let go of his hand.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be here to bring you back to your own timeline.”

He disappeared through the blue door.

The other man linked their arms together. A feeling of safety washed over her. He was a stranger and yet not at all. As if to reassure her further, an Abyssinian cat sauntered by.

“Is that Basil?” Rose asked.

“In a fashion. Cats have nine lives, as you know.”

“And you, Doctor, how many have you got?”

The Doctor smiled. “Ah, you figured it out, clever girl.”

That didn’t mean she didn’t have a ton of questions, but for now, she only wanted to soak up the magic of it all.

The Doctor showed her around the room. They mingled with the other visitors, admiring the artwork on the walls. Rose couldn’t stop grinning.

They stopped in front of a painting depicting another gallery, in another museum, in another era.

“Can we go through there too?” Rose ventured.

“Yes, but wouldn’t you like to see Paris first?”

“We can go out?”

“Of course. You know, my friend Claude has been pestering me about visiting his garden. Nice fellow, this Claude. Mind you, he’s a tad obsessed with water lilies.”

#ficandchips #Nine x Rose #Eight x Rose #artist!Rose #yes I'm still working on those #self indulgent prompts #lostinfic writes stuff #lotsofthinkythoughts

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altumvidetur · 4 years

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Hotch/Reid Fic Recs

Previously: Haikyuu!! Fic Recs, DCMK (Kaishin) Fic Recs

So, I was thinking about the coronavirus pandemic and what I could do to help people out. I’m isolated because I’m at higher risk, so I can’t really offer to go out for my elderly neighbors or my family… but I thought I could try to help keep people entertained.

Because I don’t have an AO3 account right now, I’ve been compiling fic recs for my own amusement for a year or so. And I thought – maybe that’s the time to share these with everyone? So everyone will have plenty of things to read while they have to stay at home, or even to escape anxiety a little bit if you’re forced to go out.

Of course, these cater to my own tastes, so you may find stuff you don’t like around here. I never include works in progress. The Mature and Explicit works will be in italic. I ask you to READ THE WORK’S TAGS before continuing, so you won’t find anything that makes you uncomfortable.

When it comes to Criminal Minds, I only had one OTP, one that’s been carrying me through the first seven seasons and which will, hopefully, carry me towards season 11 (and what am I going to do once Hotch leaves the show? I have no idea). So, here are my Hotch/Reid fic recs:

A Kiss Is..., by bowie28

For a Renaissance man such as Dr. Reid, a kiss can mean a lot of things.

First Kiss, by Lenore

To solve the case of who's targeting gay couples, Hotch and Spencer need to go undercover. But first, they have to practice.

Making Whoopee, by kuriadalmatia

12 days was the longest Hotch had been away from Jack since Haley's death. He's not adjusting well.

P is for Pie, by kuriadalmatia

Spencer knows what Aaron is doing: offering up a piece of himself—a very private piece of his childhood that never talks about—so that Spencer has the opportunity to reciprocate.

Nothing In Between, by travelinthedark

Aaron doesn’t know who he’s supposed to be anymore.

5 Mandatory Events at the FBI Regional Training Seminar, by travelinthedark

“Hey guys!” Jeff’s voice is just as upbeat as it was when he was telling the entire conference room about the wonders of community stewardship and his volunteer work as a ‘Big Brother.’ It’s also just as loud, and Hotch wonders if the guy realizes he doesn’t have to shout at people who are less than five feet away from him. “Are you ready to come up and add your ideas to the aspirations board?”

Conversations in Transit, by travelinthedark

Three conversations about (or sort of about) the way that Hotch and Reid are together.

Your Shadow at Morning, by travelinthedark

Aaron's world is a mess, and it falls apart more every time he tries to fix it.

Q is for Queen Bee, by kuriadalmatia

The last thing Reid remembered as he was speaking gibberish to Kimura as they raced to the hospital. Losing the capacity for language was terrifying...

L is for Lipstick, by kuriadalmatia

Aaron finds a cache of lipstick-imprinted business cards tucked away in Spencer's desk. He doesn't react well.

Catatonic, by bowie28

Spencer Reid is a man of habit.

The apple and afterward, by Lenore

What if Reid hadn't managed to kick his Dilaudid addiction? What if he needed a job on the side in order to afford his habit?

Five Times Spencer Reid Kept His Hair, and One Time He Didn’t, by bowie28

Why Reid finally had his hair cut.

Love Songs, by Gorgeousgreymatter

(Summary by me: Hotch pining for Reid, both of them getting together and being cute.)

The Tradition of Sprigs, by kuriadalmatia

Hotch holds the sprig of mistletoe by the stem, cocks an eyebrow, and waits for an explanation. Because, in the four months Spencer Reid has been on his team, Hotch knows that there’s going to be one. What he doesn't know is that it will become a tradition.

The Best for Last, by blythechild

This is a gift fic based on the prompt: "It's Hotch and Reid's first Xmas together and Hotch wants to get Reid a gift that he never received as a child - Jack suggests asking Reid’s parents about what he’d like."

House Call, by blythechild

Jack is ill and wants to be comforted by Reid instead of Hotch.

Not Included In The Brochure, by blythechild

[Crossover with Sherlock (BBC)] Sherlock was standing over the body… Sherlock finds himself in the middle of a B.A.U. investigation, much to his delight and John's frustration.

Something Less Ordinary, by blythechild

A year after Reid voluntarily leaves the F.B.I., Hotch discovers that Diana Reid is dead and he must find his former colleague and friend in hopes of setting a few things right.

we’re reeling through an endless fall, by bittereternity

lead me to the truth and I will follow you with my whole life. Back then, Spencer had replied, "I love you too. I love you very much." This could be a love story someday. [spencer reid, aaron hotchner, reid/hotch, reid/maeve]

Five Dinners Series, by Daylyn

(Summary by me: Hotch and Reid’s getting together, plus some moments during the series.)

The Moment In-Between, by Daylyn

In the Criminal Minds novel, Killer Profile by Max Allan Collins, there’s a scene where Prentiss sends Reid to wake up a sleeping Hotch and Hotch enters the conference room a moment later looking rather mussed. This is what happened during that missing moment in-between.

The Secret Marriage, by blythechild

Hotch has a new ring, Reid has a new tattoo, and everyone is wondering about everyone else's secrets.

yesterday’s seven thousand years, by bittereternity

“What if I can never love a child?” “If it’s your child, Spencer, he will be the easiest person in the world to love.”

Reid thinks about the idea of a child in his life, and turns to Hotch for help.

the lies we weave are oh so intricate, by bittereternity

Maybe they were always supposed to fall apart, because there was nothing stopping them from being happy. In a world where everyone is Dominant or submissive, Aaron Hotchner meets Spencer Reid, who simply wants to be neither. In the process of getting to know him, he never expected to a. fall in love b. fall in love with his team member and c. fall in love with a man so infuriatingly unwilling to reciprocate.

Written for the Criminal Minds Big Bang 2013.

Vigil, by red_river

"Part of Hotch knew Reid was an FBI agent, and perfectly capable of taking the bus. But the other part couldn't imagine letting him - not after this case, of all cases." Post LDSK, Hotch gives Reid a ride home, and which leads to pizza, old TV, and helping him face a few of his demons. Episode tag, S1E6, "LDSK." Friendship or pre-slash.

Refuge, by red_river

"She’s my mom,” Spencer murmured, and Aaron couldn’t help thinking how young that word made him seem. “But sometimes it’s like there’s…almost none of that person left.” In the aftermath of the Fisher King, Hotch flies to Las Vegas to bring Reid home, and tries to make something new out of all their broken pieces. Episode tag to S2E1, "The Fisher King;" friendship or pre-slash.

Call me whatever, I just want to be yours, by surrenderdammit

“Let’s get dinner, just the two of us, next time,” Aaron comments, helping her into her coat because he is ridiculous like that, and he is apparently partial to the fond exasperation he gets in return, which is usually in the form of her huffing or rolling her eyes.

A love story told in parts, from the first time they met to the first time they fall into bed together.

Serendipity, by red_river

"You've been watching over him." In the aftermath of a difficult case, Hotch searches for a way to lift Reid's spirits, and someone notices. Episode tag to 2x13, "No Way Out."

I Hope You Kept the Receipt, by blythechild

[Crossover with Sherlock (BBC)] Hotch and Reid get trapped in an elevator with Sherlock Holmes. And then Sherlock does what he's best at: pissing people off.

Speechless, by blythechild

[Crossover with Sherlock (BBC)] Reid has an uninvited guest at the worst possible moment.

Desert Mirage, by merle_p

Long story short, there is a high probability that he is doing it for altogether selfish reasons, but when Reid looks at him with an expression of such sincere, helpless gratefulness, he cannot find it in himself to regret.

Twice Shy, by blythechild

Seven years ago, Hotch and Reid had a brief affair. Now, Hotch wants to try again, but can they make it work with less impediments and more baggage? (Spoilers through season 10)

Three Letter Agency, Four Letter Word, by merle_p

The NSA is interested in Spencer Reid. They are not the only one.

Late Nights ‘Verse, by EloquentDossier

Summary by me: Hotch pining for Reid, Reid probably pining for Hotch, a lot of UST and people being dense.

Time-Out ‘Verse, by EloquentDossier

Summary by me: Hotch and Reid’s cute shenanigans.

Chain Reaction, by EloquentDossier

"(Mon 12:20 pm) Which is why you text the stranger instead of talk to coworkers.

(Mon 12:20 pm) Yes. (Mon 12:28 pm) Is that weird?"

xxx

A dialogue-only AU in which Hotch texts what he thinks is Rossi's new number but is actually the slightly eccentric stranger whom Hotch knows only as "Spencer." What follows is something neither man could have ever quite expected.

Golden Letters ‘Verse, by EloquentDossier

Summary by me: Soulmates AU in which everyone gets a tattoo with a sentence that their soulmate will eventually say.

Bright, by EloquentDossier

"There were several things in Aaron Hotchner's life that had never made sense to him. He didn't understand why nearly everyone in his family (minus his son Jack) couldn't quite fathom why he felt drawn to the BAU. He didn't get how so many people in the world had such depraved mindsets. And he wasn't entirely sure why he still hadn't drug-tested his team's tech analyst, Penelope Garcia. (He was also confused about her relationship with Derek Morgan, but he wasn't going to touch that with a ten foot pole.)

But what baffled Hotch the most was how someone who was as intelligent as Spencer Reid could be so inherently oblivious."

xxx

Written for the prompt: I've seen a lot of oblivious!Hotch fic, but how about Reid being oblivious of his own feelings for Hotch? Hotch is aware, and reciprocates. Fluffy journey of realization maybe? Bonus for Garcia being helpful.

Affinity, by margarks

Right now just a couple of drabble about the way Spencer and Hotch see each other, but it seems like I might add on to these, so I created this series.

Psychosexual Developments, by dissolvedingirl

Hotch and Reid, between all the moments you see.

Limbo, by kehlee

There's a place in between kissing and dating; there's a place between heaven and hell. This is it.

Just When You Least Expect It, Just What You Least Expect, by blythechild

Hotch has been Reid's boss for ten years, and his friend for almost as long. He thinks he knows him pretty well, but a random event during a random case has the chance to change all of that. It's just a matter of whether Hotch can accept it or not.

In Two Hours (And Not a Minute Later), by dissolvedingirl

Reid finally decides to confront Hotch about those intense looks he's been giving Reid for years.

The Wall, by blythechild

Hotch can't decide what he finds more shocking: going out clubbing at 50 or seeing a phone number he knows scribbled on the bathroom wall...

You’re the Boss, by blythechild

Hotch finds himself in the unfamiliar position of relying on Reid for guidance in their kinda/sorta/not really relationship. or Why casual sex is never all that casual.

This One Is Not Like The Others, by blythechild

(Summary by me: Tentacle-Monster!Reid. It’s way better than it sounds.)

Beneath, by blythechild

Everyone is exactly who you think they are until something comes along to throw your perception off track. After ten years, Reid and Hotch discover this for themselves.

Breaking Point, by EloquentDossier

There was this thing about Aaron Hotchner's voice.

Reid couldn't quite pinpoint when it had started. Perhaps it had always been there, hovering just beneath the surface and waiting for him to recognize it for what it was. Or maybe it had simply been a recent, sudden development. For once the "when" wasn't as much of a concern as it typically would be. No; instead Reid was more interested in trying to discern just what he was going to do about the fact that Hotch had discovered it so quickly. Possibly even before he himself had.

xxx

In which Reid really should have just admitted he liked Hotch's voice when he realized it.

Birthday Woes, by EloquentDossier

It didn't bother him when the call came in. Really, it didn't. Or at least not initially.

xxx

In which the team gets called away on a case and forgets Hotch's birthday.

Of Cowboys and FBI Agents, by severity_softly

Aaron catches Spencer in the act.

In the Silence, by Brumeier

Posted to LJ Comment Fic for Kink prompt: Criminal Minds, Hotch/Reid, silence is a big kink for Hotch

Two Seconds, by blythechild

Time catches up with Aaron Hotchner when he realizes that the person he's always wanted - Spencer Reid - is actually beyond his reach.

Maybe Tomorrow, by orphan_account

The one where Aaron Hotchner wasn't in love with Spencer Reid, until suddenly he was.

Give and Take, by blythechild

Everyone has human moments and for some reason Reid is hiding his. Because Hotch is who he is, he decides he needs to figure out why.

Shepherd of the Damned, by Deejaymil

They're called to Alaska on a desperate last-ditch effort to find seven missing hikers. They don't even think twice about going. This is their job. They put themselves in danger every day to protect the people that need them. But never like this.

They number six. It begins with one.

It's not going to stop until they're all consumed.

See The Love There That’s Sleeping, by blythechild

Reid didn't know that when he leapt into a burning building his life would change forever. But love is sneaky that way.

December 1st: Mistletoe or Give Us a Hug, by NimueOfTheNorth

Spencer may say he is getting enough cuddles, but Derek knows better. A mistletoe makes a convenient option to test both arguments. Derek gets quite a bit more than he bargained for.

Come Undone, by EloquentDossier

When Spencer Reid forgot to take his suppressants two mornings in a row, it really shouldn't have been a big deal. He had them in his bag at the hotel, and as long as he took one that evening, he'd be fine. What he couldn't have prepared for, however, was the lab the latest victim worked at going into an at least twenty-four-hour-lockdown while he was in it.

When Aaron Hotchner was asked to aid his subordinate through what would otherwise be an agonizing heat, he'd had several reservations, one of which had been the consent issue: Omegas couldn't legally consent to sex during a heat unless it was twenty-four hours in advance. With every concern rebutted logically (because of course the Bureau had an Agent Consent form in case of emergencies), he finally agreed.

Of all the possible repercussions, however, neither man expected the one they received.

xxx

Or that one time no one expected the Alpha to accidentally bond to the Omega while the Omega remained unaffected.

Fireproof, by blythechild

[Crossover with Supernatural] Hotch and Reid's friendship ends suddenly when Hotch abruptly quits the Bureau and disappears. But Reid won't let him get away with it.

Halcyon Mine, by Deejaymil

What if a lonely boy meets a friend in a lonely quarry... and what if he loses him without warning?

unmoored, by 28ghosts

“When it’s kids who end up our killers, you know,” Reid says, unprompted, pulling his coat close against his body, “I always end up feeling...bad, you know? I feel bad. I know I have no cause to, not really. I’m not one of them.”

Hotch stops for a second, walking down the airfield. The cold Virginia air whips around him as harsh as judgement. He’s surprised to see Reid, ahead of him, slow to a stop, head tilted back towards the gray sky.

“Let’s get a drink sometime,” Hotch says, before he can overthink it. “If you’d like.”

Indispensable, by Deejaymil

Dave's a damn good guardian angel, one of the best. And being one of the best means he gets the worst jobs: the important, the clumsy, the reckless, the difficult-to-keep-alive. The indispensables. But he's never before quite had anyone like Spencer Reid.

Within the first two seconds of meeting his new charge, the kid gets hit by a car; it really only goes downhill from there. His only consolation is that Emily is having just as much trouble with her new charge, Aaron Hotchner.

If only they could somehow combine their assignments...

Acutely Us, by Deejaymil

This is the part where a story is told. There are ferrets, mistakes, birthdays, apologies, and dances. There is Spencer and Aaron and Jack and the life they make together.

And it all begins with a goat.

Rise Again, by blythechild

Aaron Hotchner has been on the run for five years, but that all comes to an end on a beach in Australia.

Religiously Unaffiliated, by ghoultown

(Summary by me: Hotch/Reid with Reid deliberating about his atheism.)

Don’t Make Me Talk You Down, by ghoultown

The night was heavy because it was humid on top of the bridge in between highway I-90 and I-80, the semi-trucks that passed messing with his balance, almost toppling him over if it hadn't been for his grip on the railing.

Rain, by orphan_account

He almost died today, and Hotch is determined to ensure it doesn't happen again.

Against All Odds, by ghoultown

Spencer is upset because the way he and Hotch met and started dating wasn't as special as Hotch and Haley's story. Hotch begs to differ.

Under My Protection, by ghoultown

Hotch and Reid never met. Reid is in danger. The government puts Hotch in charge of Reid's safety.

Empty Places, by Mystical_Magician

All wishes have consequences, and when Spencer makes one to save lives, he knows and accepts the price. The rest of his team does not. What the mind forgets, the heart remembers, and in Foyet's wake they all know that something is missing. Aaron Hotchner refuses to ignore the aching, empty spaces.

Genuine Need, by NimueOfTheNorth

It would have been nothing more than Aaron buying Spencer a cup of coffee. Good thing Garcia is there to pull the right strings or those two would be lost.

Swan Song, by Deejaymil

At some point they’d become caught in each other’s orbits, lost in a sea of almosts. Neither of them realized that their time was finite, not until their world turned to flames and threatened to tear everything apart.

For Spencer Reid the grief was too big, too impossible to believe that four BAU members and a treasured friend had fallen in an instant. When faced with the opportunity to get back what he’d lost, he has to decide if it’s fate or madness that beckons him.

For Aaron Hotchner, madness would almost be welcome. At least then the world would become logical again, turning the impossibility of what had happened to them into something tangible. But even madness doesn’t change the fact that they’re trapped.

They’re not even sure if anyone is still looking for them.

i hope you’re waiting at the end, by soloecal

Sometimes, Spencer thinks too much. Post Season 12.

A month later, on a singularly insignificant night, Spencer sits Hotch down after dinner, and presses a ring into the palm of his hand. “This isn’t working,” Spencer says. “I think we should break up.”

Expiration Date, by blythechild

He goes to Vegas to meet a friend but ends up married. The time-honored way to make these kinds of mistakes is to do it while incapacitated, but Hotch waits and does it sober instead. An interesting choice...

Conclusive Proof That You Have a Terrible Boyfriend, by blythechild

Hotch is proving he's an awful boyfriend. Via text messaging.

He’s A Bad Boyfriend Too, by blythechild

Aaron and Spencer have a relationship issue that Spencer thinks is best solved via drunk texting. This is a sequel to Conclusive Proof That You Have A Terrible Boyfriend.

Apodyopsis, by NimueOfTheNorth

If he is forced to listen to boring lectures for three days, Spencer really can't be held accountable for his imagination going wild, now can he. Reality might proof even better.

(i know you’ve tried) but something stops you every time, by wintrs

Prentiss can't help but overhear Hotch and Reid's conversation on the jet.

Faces, by blythechild

Every three days, a man wakes up in a different body. There's no controlling it and no way to prepare for it. All he can do is make the best of his new face with the time he has.

First, by orphan_account

The first time Aaron tells Spencer he loves him is an accident.

L’Homme Mystere, by orphan_account

Even if he’d been waiting for this in a state of barely contained arousal since early this morning, when Aaron had bumped shoulders with him at the coffee pot in the breakroom and whispered in his ear about how he had a surprise for him later that night... well.

Spencer wasn’t that kind of guy.

How to Get a Hard Pass, by Deejaymil

There's an FBI trainee named Spencer Reid in the class Hotch is teaching, and that'd all be just fine if Hotch wasn't completely distracted by wanting to be in Spencer Reid instead. But there’s no way he’s going to give his student an inch - or eight - until he’s good and ready to do so on his own terms.

Spencer Reid has other plans.

The Longest Road, by Deejaymil

They’re taking the longest road to get there, but, in the end, it doesn’t really matter. What they are to each other has always been inevitable.

A Horse Named Rabbit, by Deejaymil

Aaron Hotchner is riding West on a borrowed horse, hiding the man he used to be behind a shortened name and a beard he only sometimes thinks of shaving. His desire to keep on running until he hits the setting set is waylaid by an unexpected meeting with a man on a mule who says he's looking for his lost luck.

When they part, Hotch realises that's a mistake. There's something about Spencer Reid that reminds him that he's more than just a man on a horse going nowhere—that he was once the kind of person who could help a stranger find what he's looking for. There's just one problem with that.

When Spencer had said he was looking for his luck, he’d never mentioned that he planned to steal it.

for mortals: there is a share, by ifnot_winter

Reid could find no precedent in his experience for so gentle a seduction. Or so effective.

An exploration of moments and intimacy through three consecutive fragments of text paired with fragments of Sappho's lyric poetry.

the safety of objects, by ifnot_winter

Fumbling his glasses right off the edge of the table, he managed not to step on them en route to snatching up the phone as the third buzz gave way to ringing. Bending to retrieve his glasses, he caught his shoulder on the corner of the nightstand and managed to press the answer button, cutting off the shrill electronic wail mid-ring. "Damn--Hello?" Glasses shoved firmly into place, he watched the cufflink skitter in concentric, diminishing circles across the scuffed polish of the hardwood floor and come to a leisurely halt a few feet away.

"Reid." Hotch.

Somehow the fragments of Sappho struck me as a great mental framework for CM fics. This was the first completed result, mostly an attempt at exploring Reid and flexing rusty writing muscles.

Pretty, by blythechild

Hotch thinks Reid is pretty and then is forced to explain it.

Good Enough, by blythechild

Aaron has plenty of kinks, but he can't figure out Spencer's.

#criminal minds #hotch/reid #aaron hotchner #spencer reid #fic recs #hotchreid #they need a better ship name #please warn me if any links are broken #and reblog it if you can so more people will see it #otp: what i want i'm not going to get

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scribeofmorpheus · 5 years

Text

As Fate Would Have It (Part 17)

Paring: WinterSoldier!Bucky x Spy!Reader

Catch Up here | Masterlist | Words: 2k |

Warnings: Themes of PTSD, brainwashing, terribly written action scene and some angst maybe?

Song: November by Mark Richter

Feel free to ask to be tagged, leave a like, reblog or comment ♥

Versailles, France

You paced about the room, trying to make sense of everything. Trying to understand how Bucky was alive. Somehow looking no different than he did in your dreams -your nightmares. Would he still be real if you dared touch him? Would he still be tangible? Whole? Flesh?

And what of the metal arm?

What of the imposing foreign object that shone like a piece of starlight, reflecting the amber licks of flame from the fireplace at you like a malicious taunt from the universe? Was that some twisted claim of re-genesis. It's joint held in place around scarred skin. A mark on his body, a permanent symbol of his rebirth. The receipt for what he’d lost. His pinkslip.

He was unconscious, arms cuffed to a radiator in your small little safe house, the fireplace keeping the biting cold at bay, though you suspected you kept shivering for a different reason altogether.

The teapot whistled over the stove, steam permeating the room in a haze filled with the scent of peppermint. After Germany, after the experiments, you had been prone to suffer panic attacks more frequently. Periods of time that would be swallowed whole, leaving you with gaps in your memory and uncontrollable shaking fits. Sal had been the first person to wrap you in a blanket and sit with you through the worse episodes. The smell of peppermint tea would always line the walls and fill your nostrils. It became a constant now. A coping mechanism.

You sat on the edge of the bed, refusing to pry your eyes away from the unconscious Bucky, even for a moment, a second. You were afraid that if you blinked, then so would he, except he would blink out of existence. A part of you ached to touch him, to caress his cheek and feel his hair twine around your fingers, but you were afraid to.

The man chained to your radiator was not the same as the cold-blooded killer you had fought before, but that didn't mean he wasn't another creature, an anachronism free from the confines of time. Maybe he wasn’t just one thing anymore. Maybe he was both killer and man.

If your prolonged life had taught you anything, it was never to poke feral creatures when you thought they were asleep. And as peaceful and docile as he looked right now, Bucky was indeed a feral creature, broken and pieced together until he didn't know who he was anymore.

"How are you real?" you spoke in an undertone, voice still raspy.

As you inhaled the steam, your mind backtracked to the moment you first found out of his demise.

***

You walked through dozens of faceless persons perusing through the museum, reading up on the great feats of Captain America and his trusted Howling Commandos.

Being here felt like you were trespassing on hallowed ground, an uninvited vampire in a church. You kept your head low, white hair hidden beneath a baseball cap as you made your way, almost on instinct, to a particular section of the exhibition.

Passing the glass display case housing Captain America's suit, a smile tugged weakly on your lips at the humorous thought of the scrawny little Brooklyn boy you had met at the diner fitting into that six foot one monstrosity. A part of you ached to see that pure smile of his again, it never failed to lift your spirits. That was a sentiment you'd been sorely deprived of lately.

You moved onto the next exhibition, this one displaying the life and death accounts of one James Buchanan Barnes. It was like a slap across the face, reading a memorial plaque in a damned museum in place of a KIA letter that started with the obligatory 'We regret to inform you'.

You had spent hours staring at the words inscribed on the glass display, torturing yourself with what if's and could have been's.

A whimper got stuck on its way out of your throat as your eyes fogged up with salty tears, your hand reaching out to touch the last photograph taken of Bucky. You would have cried right there and then had a small kid, no older than four, bumped into you.

"Jack, so help me God, if you don't stop runnin' off every five seconds I'm gon--" The woman's familiar voice was kept from finishing her sentence as soon as she saw the side profile of your face.

You plastered on a fake smile, turning to meet the boy's mother, "Don't worry about it, everything's–"

You froze in your tracks. Delicate pearls were strung around the boy’s mother’s neck, flat curls unwinding from the summer heat, bags under her eyes. Her right hand clasped the fingers of a girl a little younger than the boy. The two of you stood there, wide eyes glued to each other as drones of people moved passed in your peripheral.

The woman looked from the scars on your arms to the few strands of white that peaked from under your cap, straining to look at you properly as if she saw a ghost.

"Elle?" She breathed out.

Horror filled her kind eyes as you nodded rigidly.

"Yes Momma?" her daughter looked up at her innocently.

The first genuine laugh shook from your chest, "Hey, Sal."

***

A deep groan filled the empty space. Bucky was waking up. You set your teacup aside, bare feet softly trekking on the creaky wooden boards like a cautious cat. You grabbed a knife from your boot holster by the shoe rack as a precaution. As a habit.

You weren't sure who would wake up, the man or the killer.

"Where am I?" he looked around, unfamiliar with his surroundings. He tugged at his hands and noticed they were bound. Frightened, he looked up at you, lost and at war with himself, the lines on his forehead crinkling as his eyebrows crashed together. "You… You tried to kill me… I- I tried to kill you."

You took a step forward, "Bucky?"

He shivered, eyes forced shut, "N-no… I- I don't know."

You took another step and he recoiled further into the wall at the sight of your knife. You rose both your hands, setting the knife on the floor and stepping away from it.

"What's going on?" His head shook violently, he looked cold, even though sweat trailed across his face. It was like he was in withdrawal. In pain.

"Do you remember what happened?" You knelt a few meters from him.

His head snapped to the side as he took in a straggled breath. "I… had a mission. I have a mission."

"You recognised me earlier, you recognised your name: Bucky."

His head snapped the other way, "Hhhgg, no! I… that's not my- Arrrh!"

Your hand balled into a fist. God, you wanted to ease those crinkles and lines away from his beautiful face. You wanted to coax those beautiful ocean blues back from the treacherous depths of the darkened sea they had now become. But you couldn't. Not while he was in such a state.

"Maybe this will help," You pulled out a photograph from your back pocket and slid it over to him.

He peered at it through narrowed eyes, "That’s my face…and yours. We… we knew each other?"

"Yes," you sighed in relief. "We did."

"These other faces," his gaze landed on Steve. "Who are they?" He looked up at you now, a deep-seated melancholy pulling at his features. "Who am I?"

You inched a little bit closer to him, and when he didn't try to back away, you decided to move even further. "You are… James Buchanan Barnes. Your best friend was named Steve. You were a hero, the both of you."

"A hero..." he didn't believe the sentiment but you noticed his muscles unclench, "And how do we know each other?"

"We were… close, once. You knew as Elle. I worked at a diner you frequented."

"Elle..." His focus was drawn to your hair, "White. Snow. White snow in the mountains," he mumbled before grasping his head in his hands as he whined agony. "The rabbit…the rabbit got away… Into the forest. Into the dark. So dark… Failure to complete. Failure to complete. Spiders, spiders everywhere. Screaming. Make it stop! Make it stop!"

He was shaking violently now and you placed your hands on his biceps, trying to steady him. "What did they do to you Buck?" you mourned for the man who was no more, for the Bucky that was stripped down to this skeletal version of his old self.

"Red. Yellow. Hissing. So much hissing. The metal screams. It burns like fire. Like needles in my brain. They all scream. Make them stop!" His voice cracked.

"I'm right here, Buck. I won't leave your side. I promise," you smoothed your hands through his hair as tears began to well in your eyes. "Not again. Not ever again. You'll be okay."

He leaned into you, all his weight crushing your sternum, his shaking vibrating through you like seismic quakes. He whimpered like a kicked dog, eyes shut so tight you thought he was trying to will his sight away. The icy temperature of his metal arm felt warmer than his cries. Hands grabbing at his ears to block out the phantoms in his brain.

"Make them stop..." he cried, bottom lip trembling like a child’s.

You placed your forehead to his, feeling utterly helpless, "I don't know how."

After his shaking subsided, you found that now it was your hands that were shaking. You exhaled sharply, running them through your hair as you tried to calm yourself. Seeing him like this broke something in you and it felt like the walls were caving in. Choking you. Burying you alive. You rubbed your neck, remembering how it felt to be deprived of oxygen. You much rather preferred that to this emotional torture.

You stood, waving the tension from your fingertips away, heart beating like you’d run a marathon.

"Please..." he begged when you left his side. “Please don't go. The voices. Don't leave me alone with them. I don't want to see their faces."

Your teeth chattered, a quiver mangling with choked back tears of your own. Everything was so… overwhelming. And no matter how closed in you felt, you couldn't leave him to suffer alone. After all, wasn't it your fault he was remembering?

Maybe it would have been easier on us both if he had killed me, you thought.

"I promised I wouldn't leave you," you reminded him.

He was staring at the photograph again. "Tell me more. Your voice. It blocks them out."

You blinked rapidly, trying to dry out your eyes, "What do you want to know?"

"Did… did I have a family?"

A twinkle crossed your lips, "A big one from one I gathered." You returned to his side, sitting beside him so your shoulders touched and your head rested on the wall. "I never met them, but I know you had sisters. Maybe four. After the war… I looked for traces of you. I found a marriage certificate belonging to one of them. Her name was Lottie I think. She married a former air force pilot. They have a son. Named him James…" you turned to look at him, dark hair blocking his face. "After his uncle."

He leaned back, a frown growing, then he let out a frustrated sigh, "I don't remember her."

You decided to continue talking, it seemed to help him. "I found records of your mother too. Winnifred Barnes. Wife of George Barnes. She was a combat nurse during the war. When it was over, she volunteered with the Red Cross. She died a little over ten years ago, I think… Contracted some form of viral infection. Never shook it off."

Bucky shook his head, banging it against the wall, "I… I don't-"

You placed your hand on his metal arm, twitching when you remembered it being wrapped around your neck –which was now healing from the purple marks it left behind.

"It's okay," you smiled.

"Who is he?" he asked, pointing at the photograph.

You chuckled fondly, "That's Steve. In many ways, he was a part of your family too. He'd always get into trouble. A heart of gold, but not the best self-preservation instincts. One in a million. I'd never thought people like him still existed in this world."

Bucky swallowed loudly, "Is he...?"

"Yeah, he died too. He saved millions of lives in the process. It was a noble end."

“When… when was this photo taken?”

You chewed at your inner cheek, “A few years after world war two started.”

"Why do I look the same?" He turned his head to face you, panic peeling up his eyelids. "Why do you?"

"I… I-" you ground your molars together. You wanted to know the answers to those questions too.

Suddenly, a loud banging emanated from your door. Bucky returned to looking like a trapped animal, wiry eyes staring at the door. You held up a hand.

"Relax, I'll go see who it is."

You picked up the knife from the table and walked to the door, peering out through the peephole.

"Shit," you swore as you holstered your weapon. "Go away, Alexei!"

"You didn't check-in. The company sent me to look for you. I heard about the attempt on your mark." His thick Russian lilt coated his gruff voice.

"I'm fine Alexei, I just needed to lay low."

Bucky's spine curved as he curled into a ball, more indistinguishable mumbles breaking out as he spoke in tongues. You turned to him, worried.

"Who's that?" Alexei demanded, hearing the incomprehensible mutterings of a mentally crippled man.

"Nobody, Alexei. Go back. You found me, confirmed I’m well, mission accomplished."

"They'll come looking for me..." Bucky warned you as he watched a lizard crawl up the wall, its tail curled at the end.

"Who will?" you whispered.

"I don't know… but I don't think we want to find out."

"Y/N, let me in before I start kicking down doors!"

"Alexei, no!"

"You've got until I reach twenty," he warned.

You couldn't know what would happen if Alexei saw Bucky. He was still in the same clothes he wore when he tried to assassinate your mark –when he tried to kill you. There was a high chance Alexei would be able to tell Bucky was the assassin from earlier, or at the very least be able to make an educated guess. And as much as you trusted your partner, you knew he wasn't one for placing brains over brawn.

Alexei started counting down and you paced about, trying to figure out a way through this mess.

Bucky had gone limp, chin pointed high as he kept an eye on the lizard's tail.

"Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen..."

Bucky's entire body froze, his hands balling into fists. Then he muttered a single word, "Semnadtsat’."

"Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen..."

Bucky broke the restraints easily, standing off the ground in a measured motion, his shoulders squared like a soldiers. The scared, shaking, lost boy was no more. And when his eyes found to yours, they were darker than the night. Instantly, you knew he wasn't Bucky anymore and you felt him slip through your fingers all over again.

You gasped and reached for your knife just when Alexei broke the door down. The soldier attacked the big Russian man. His metal arm cracking and knocking at bones and vital organs. Alexei wasn't averse to a good fight, in fact, he'd been honed into the perfect soldier a bottle could cultivate, but he still wasn’t a match for such unbridled rage. Alexei retaliated, his punches slow but heavy.

You watched from the side-lines, unsure of how to proceed.

"Bucky, stop!" You shouted between the sounds of metal crashing into flesh and flesh hooking into flesh.

He kicked Alexei into the wall, a crack dusting up cement and then he turned to you, but for some reason, he didn't attack. He just stood there, a menacing wraith like before, except with a pang of sadness to him that he didn't have the first time. Then he stormed out of the room.

You let yourself breathe again, dropping the knife you had braced in a defensive stance as you rushed to Alexei's side. The photograph missing from the floor.

"You big brute, you should have listened to me," you wiped the blood from his mouth with trembling fingers.

Alexei groaned, his hand on his sides as he tried and failed to sit up, "Stop him."

It hit you then, why he never bothered to kill either you or Alexei. It was because you weren't the target. You weren't the mission.

When you arrived at the building where your mark was being guarded, you were greeted by flames. And Bucky was gone. Again.

Your breathing hitched, quick shallow breaths flaring at your nostrils as you were dragged into a state of panic. Your fingernails scraped at your scalp as you bit your tongue so hard a droplet of blood fell onto the pavement.

I failed you once, James Buchanan Barnes. I won't a second time. Mark my words, I will find you. We will cross paths again… Winter Soldier.

***

The Winter Soldier had completed his mission, his target was dead. The Major opened his red book and the mechanical hiss of the machine attached to the chair screeched through the hollow room. A flash of light seared through his ocular nerve. His hands gripped onto the armrests.

Sticking out between from a pouch in his armoured vest was the curled end of a black and white photograph.

A single phrase worming its way out of his subconscious.

"My safe harbour..." he whispered as they wiped his memory clean.

To be continued...

Tags: @fangirl-colo @dormousse @smallmarvel @ren-ni @sargentbucket @nikolett3 @wnygirl2012 @jentismyname @evilgeniuslabz-blog @myrabbitholetoneverland @sleepingspacedragon @500daysofbecky @reidreader

Permatags: @gruffle1 @thechickvic @notawarriorjustyet @savethehoneeybees

Adding counterpart tags too (lmk if this isn’t something you’re interested in): @ladybugsfanfics @ninaminaromina @xstevenat

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x you #winter soldier imagine #marvel imagine #sebastian stan #mcu #1980s!wintersoldier

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letterstolevi · 5 years

Text

roses are red

fandom: shingeki no kyojin

pairing: eren yeager/levi ackerman

rating: e

word count: 2,261

notable tags: alternate universe - modern setting, making out, making love, ereri valentine’s day exchange 2k19

summary: “It’s cold out today,” he whispers against Levi’s ear, words slinking past his lips like a fallen silk ribbon.

For the lovely Ms. Sarah-Jane ( @attraversiamo19 ) the EreRi Valentine’s Day Exchange <3 I’m sorry this is late ilu qhwehwdfk

read here on ao3

[ or keep scrolling to read on tumblr ]

Crisp winter air assaults their faces the moment they step outside of the mall, flushing their cheeks and ears ruddy. In hand, Eren carries a bag of assorted sweets, and he lets it hang low to sway by his calves. When he turns to face Levi, holding out his other hand to be held, there’s a small smile on his lips, and Levi thinks to himself that no one could be more handsome than him.

It’s Valentine’s Day. The day of love, as Eren likes to call it. The second they walk onto the promenade, they see the place is already bustling with festivities. A bunch of teenagers in the parking lot attempt to shower the sky with confetti coloured pink, red, and white. Heart shaped chocolate assortments decorate every store window, and each passerby holds gift bags with tiffany boxes to fill up their car’s trunk with. Love was most certainly in the air, that much is obvious. This day belongs to the romantics, and he is very much not one. Eren, however, is.

Unbeknown to him, Eren’s got his eyes on him, mischief twinkling in the hues of green.

“It's cold out today,” he whispers against Levi's ear, words slinking past his lips like a fallen silk ribbon.

They enter a restaurant that sits at the end of the avenue, one that Eren apparently made reservations for, and they’re seated just a short moment after arriving. The table is nice and private, not many people sitting around them, no window to distract them. It’s shaped like a crescent, which is perfect for more intimate dining. Even after settling in their booth they remain in silence, and Eren taps his lover’s hand gently to get his attention.

“Aw, come on. Indulge me for a while.” Eren tosses a smile Levi’s way, finger tapping the side of his empty glass.

“In which way?”

“Whichever way you want. You’ve been quiet.”

Levi shrugs his puffer jacket off and folds it over the side of the booth before scooting up, nudging the tip of his heeled boot against Eren’s converse clad foot. He rests his elbow on the table, cheek squished into the palm of his hand. “I’m sorry, I don’t have much on my mind.”

Eren barks out a short-lived laugh, a grin teetering onto his face. “Really? Considering you keep staring at me, I thought otherwise.” Eren begins to roll up his sleeves, revealing thick muscle and the dark tattoos that decorate his skin.“ Like what you see?”

Levi pulls his face into a small frown, averting his eyes downwards“You look fifteen,” He says, not answering the question. Eren’s sense of fashion varied, but today it includes a red plaid flannel with the top buttons undone to reveal a snug undershirt, and ripped black jeans with holes all the way down to the calf. He looks like he should be at a skatepark, not a costly restaurant, but fashion is fashion. Levi prefers to stick to his turtlenecks and slacks, and Eren secretly prefers it as well.

“Twenty-five isn't too far off from that.”

Levi rolls his eyes. “Eren, please.”

“Please, what?” Eren takes liberty and slides a hand up Levi’s thigh, caressing it with soft touches.

Levi looks a bit startled before his gaze settles back on Eren. A question stands still in his eyes, and it is answered by a soft kiss planted on his cheek.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, love.”

Levi bats his lashes, before returning the favour with a kiss on Eren’s lips. “Happy Valentine’s.”

☆

After their dinner they sit with drinks in hand, champagne of Eren’s choice, the flavour more like a concoction of cherry. They’re waiting for the waitress to return with his card, which they’re in no rush to get, or it feels that way.

The part of the room they’re in has mood lighting, soft and somewhat dull, not that they minded. Candles everywhere, weird soft instrumentals playing off of some speaker somewhere in the room. The atmosphere is set to be romantic, and it seems to be working, as Eren can’t keep his hands to himself. He’s mellow, allowing cheeky smiles to grace his lips, enjoying the lingering embarrassment on Levi's face as he slips a hand around his waist and under his shirt, thumbing over the outline of his hip. His other hand surely having made its way back on his thigh, fingers raking soft lines into fabric. Thank god for private tables.

“Eren…”

Before he can answer him, the waitress returns with his card, leaving the receipt and wishing them a blessed rest of their evening. Eren scribbles something on it and flashes sweet lips at Levi.

“Want to go back to bed?”

☆

They’re home, and Levi’s sitting at the edge of the bed waiting patiently, watching as Eren undoes his hair from it’s half bun-like tie, allowing his hair to flow free to his shoulders. He’s got his back to him, and Levi’s eyes wander over the canvas of his back. Observing his tanned skin, free of scarring everywhere but the nape of his neck and the purlicue of his left hand. His right arm plastered with a sleeve of tattoos, abstract shapes and designs drawn from shoulder to wrist. When Eren finally turns back around, Levi can feel his heart speed up, arousal stringing through his veins, and he lifts his head up in anticipation. When their eyes meet, the expression Eren gives him is near unreadable, but his gaze stays soft. He makes his way to the bed, propping up his knee to rest on the edge of it, in-between Levi’s legs, a silent cue for him to spread. Levi scoots further up on the covers, his breathing hitching as Eren climbs up, shoring over him.

“Beautiful. You’re beautiful,” Eren says, leaning them down into the bed, pressing soft kisses over the profile of his face, hands smoothing over the small of his waist. With his lips now pressed in the crook of his neck, he can feel the small shivers that emit from his lover's body, chilled and anxious— waiting, wanting— longing to be touched. He listens to his sighs that roll off, like the content purr of a feline, soft and unsteady.

Under Eren Levi relaxes, his eyes closed and lips parted as he breathes softly through his mouth. He lay there in anticipation, his eyes may be closed but he studies Eren's next move quietly, surely. Eren’s chest begins to crush into him with soft but ample force, his arms wrap around him, teeth nip at the soft skin of his neck. Eren’s hand finds its way pressed onto his ass, and Levi bites down into the fleshiness of his bottom lip. His eyes reopen half-lidded, the dark lashes that outline them sporting a soft sheen. He taps his fist on Eren’s collarbone, spreading it out into a flat palm to push Eren up off of him. With space between them, he slides his hands down Eren’s abs, ignoring the way Eren makes eyes at him, and grabs his cock through the material of his jeans, squeezing and kneading.

“Levi,” Eren breathes, eyes closed tight as pleasure trickles up his spine, warming him to the bone. He can feel as his cock stiffens and stirs against the fabric of his boxers, making it hard to think on anything other than what he feels and breathing. He affords a low groan as Levi palms his crotch from through his jeans, still squeezing ever so lightly every now and then.

“Levi,” Eren says again, desperate, teeth grit as he yearns to free his straining erection. Though his pleas yield no reward of relief, only a soft stare from loving eyes.

When Levi realizes he’s fully hard, only then does he abandon his bulging crotch to undo the zipper to his jeans, much to Eren’s delight. Once undone the bulge sags through the opening, and he hooks his fingers into Eren’s waistband and pulls the boxers and jeans down to his thighs, and Eren takes care of the rest.

On his knees, Eren tugs off Levi’s bottom garments as well, the soft crunching of fabric being removed from his legs making him feel harder than what’s possible. He musters a frown as he discards the clothes off to the side, “Your shirt is still on.”

“You haven’t noticed?” Levi thins his lips as Eren’s frown deepens in a dramatic fashion. He guides one of Eren’s hands under his shirt and onto his chest, biting his lip again as fingers sprawl out to squeeze over his nipple. “Take it off me…”

Doing just that, Eren works the turtleneck off, and into the pile with the rest of their clothes. “There,” he says low, hoisting up Levi’s thighs. He drags his nails over the pale skin, his erection unsatisfied with just laying heavy on Levi’s inner thigh. He dodges back downward, capturing his lips against his own, warm and reassuring. The kiss rings in their chests, awakening mutual need for tongue and teeth. Levi laps at Eren’s bottom lip, and Eren accepts, opening, welcoming him with subtle passion. Soft moans from around their lips, locked inside the hold of their mouths. Saliva strings from their lips when they let go, and Eren drags his teeth on Levi’s lip before straightening himself back up, hand rolling over his lover’s abs.

“Baby, hand it to me.” He gestures to the bottle of lubricant he had tossed on the bed a little after they entered the room. With swift movements, the bottle finds its way from off the bed and into Eren’s hands, and he pops open the top and squeezes the cool gel into his hand.

“Now, be patient,” Eren cooes, as he slathers the lubricant over own cock and Levi’s entrance, a finger pressing over and pushing inside. He draws a small but exaggerated breath from Levi, who’s arching his back ever so slightly, pushing down onto the single digit that prods in him. Eren watches his fingers curl at the bedding as he inserts yet another finger, watches the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he stimulates him so carefully.

Heat swarms Eren’s belly, zapping his cock with little zings of unfulfilled pleasure, driving him to his edge. He has half the mind to withdraw these fingers and stroke himself, but patience... patience. Push and pull, thrust a little harder, scissor then rub. He looks up to see Levi’s staring at him, eyes heavy, his cock leaking plentiful onto his stomach. He removes his fingers, tapping Levi’s inner thigh, and Levi gets the hint and wraps them around his waist.

“Keep your eyes on me,” Eren says, firmly with concentrated eyes as he aligns himself at his entrance, rubbing there before pushing with one good roll of his hips. A soft cry escapes Levi’s lips as Eren enters him, his head dipping back into the pillow as he lets out a long and shaky gasp. He braces himself on his shoulders, fingers card at the soft strands on Eren’s nape before slipping into the thickness of his hair.

Levi watches as he continues to push inside of him, and Eren can see the hunger in his eyes, in the way he bites his lip and furrows his brow. He can see the want and need Levi has to be fucked ravenously, and he’ll do just that, give it to him hard and vigorous, like a starving wolf met with unexpected dinner. Sweat beads on his forehead and rolls down on his temple, his eyes sharp, hands fastened at Levi’s hips. A low growl hangs off Eren’s lips, spilling over like honey. Levi’s hot, very hot, and the way he clenches around Eren’s cock isn’t helping in the slightest. He bends back over him, slamming his hips into him with harshness, but his words softer than feathers.

“Love, you’re gorgeous. So good for me.” Eren murmurs low against his ear, relishing in his soft whines, drinking in the collective gasps for breath.

The way Levi rubs his thighs against his hips is maddening, their strong grip warming his skin, making his eyes want to roll back into his skull. Eren drives his fingertips into the fleshy bit of one of them as he begins to thrust harder, his cock crashing into his prostate whenever he dives back in. He keeps pounding harder and harder, prompting out pleas for more, more, and more. They rock their hips together, grinding their groins in sweet sweet friction. His name rolls off Levi’s tongue like a prayer, soft to the ear, heavy on his heart. He can only let himself drown in all the sensations until he can feel his balls tighten and heat pool excessively in his groin. He buries his head where it lay, bracing himself with grit teeth as Levi’s walls bear down on his cock as he soars to his climax. Levi comes with a choked gasp, his mouth ajar, limbs trembling so slightly and back arched into Eren’s embrace.

Eren knows he can’t hold out any longer, and with a few last shallow thrusts, he comes hard inside him, his hips stuttering with the spasms of his release. After a moment's rest, he slips out and rests on top of him, holding him as close as their bodies allow him to. He places kisses on Levi’s face in silence, turning himself on his back, and hugging Levi to his chest.

“I love you.”

Levi sighs softly, his hand splaying down Eren’s abdomen. “I love you too.”

#ereri #riren #rivaere #ereri fanfic #ererivdayexchange2k19 #my writing

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letterfromtrenwith · 6 years

Text

A Feast for the Senses

A George/Elizabeth AU fic.

While hunting for a last minute gift, George Warleggan is drawn to the Cusgarne Chocolate Company, where he meets the chocolaterie's lovely owner, Elizabeth Chynoweth, and finds himself unable to resist returning...

George mentally cursed himself as he hurried down the street, turning up the collar of his coat against the chilly autumn wind. How could he have been so stupid? He could blame the chaos of the move and setting up the new office. Except part of the reason he had been so keen to move back to Cornwall was to be nearer his Aunt Joan, and now he had gone and forgotten her birthday!

For once in his life – and completely unintentionally – Uncle Cary had actually managed to be helpful, in that he had been the one to remind George, during the course of an otherwise all-business call.

“I suppose you’ll be out at your godmother’s tonight…I’ll tell you what, finding out she was born on Halloween wasn’t much of a surprise.” Cary had probably kept talking, considering he rarely let an opportunity to complain about Joan pass him by, but George had zoned out, staring in seasonally-appropriate horror at the date on his desk-top calendar.

He’d essentially just hung up on Cary, pulled his coat on and hurried out passed a bemused Margaret and Emma, saying he had an appointment and would see them in the morning. It was already just after 4pm, so he didn’t have long before the shops closed. The supermarkets would be open later, of course, but he didn’t want a cheap bunch of flowers and a bottle of Asti. Joan had been his mum’s best friend, and George had been close to her his whole life. She deserved something special.

Although he’d visited her several times while he’d been living in London, he hadn’t actually been into Truro proper for years, not even in the time since he’d moved back. He’d been too busy opening up the new branch. Almost all of the shops had changed from what he vaguely remembered, which did nothing to help him. How he could possibly have failed to remember the date became more bewildering as he went, considering almost every building he passed, and not just the shops, was covered in orange and black decorations. Now he thought about it, at least two of the other flats in his new building had had pumpkin lanterns outside their doors when he left this morning.

Even the little art shop he came to had delicate strips of black crepe trailing down its windows, framing several suitably gothic paintings. Knowing his aunt’s fondness for art, he went inside. Despite some difficulty extracting himself from the overly chatty owner, he considered it a successful visit, coming away with a very nice watercolour of Mousehole and a birthday card featuring a charming illustration of two foxes frolicking in awoodland.

George was just deciding whether to finish off with flowers or chocolates when the scent of the latter decided it for him. Warm and rich, the scent was fleeting but incredibly enticing. He managed to follow it to the entrance of a small courtyard, which was made up of half a dozen traditional shop fronts gathered around a paved square and big stone fountain, its water covered in the orange and yellow leaves which fell from two trees growing up between the stones. Directly in front of him was the obvious source of the aroma. Gold lettering flowing beautifully over midnight blue paint proclaimed the establishment to be The Cusgarne Chocolate Company.

Their window was also decorated for Halloween, but far more uniquely than the plastic skeletons and furry spiders in the other shops. Across the glass, delicate white cursive quoted Shakespeare: “Double, double, toil and trouble, Fire burn and cauldron bubble…” The display itself centred on a witch’s cauldron, which George realised was actually skilfully crafted out of dark chocolate. Green goo oozed over the side and orange flames burned underneath, both likely made out of sugar.

To the left was an odd assortment of chocolate creatures: bats, snakes, and what looked like lizards. He recalled the Macbeth reference – the ingredients of the witches’ brew. It also made sense of the little tableaux on the right hand side: trees made of chocolate and sugar, with tiny human-like figures hidden amongst them; the woods advancing on Dunsinane. The artistry and creativity of the display was truly amazing. Now, he wanted to go in as much out of curiosity as to buy something for Joan.

A traditional shop-bell tinkled over his head as he pushed open the door. Inside, the smell was incredible, and his stomach chose that moment to remind him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. At that same moment, a woman appeared behind the counter. He was about to say hello but then she smiled at him and he found he couldn’t say anything. She was tall with dark hair and soft features, and her smile took his breath away. The colour of her apron matched the décor outside, and the colour suited her.

“Can I help?” At her raised eyebrows, he realised he was probably staring at her like an idiot. He cleared his throat, gripping his parcel tightly. “Were you looking for something in particular?”

“Oh, er – “ George finally shook some sense into himself. “I want to get a present for someone.”

“Wife? Girlfriend?”

“No! Er, no – I don’t have – That is, it’s for my Aunt. It’s her birthday. Today.”

“Oh, last minute, hmm?” She smiled again, gently teasing and he couldn’t help but smile back.

“Well, I’ve just moved and – “ Why was he telling her that? “Never mind.”

“Let’s see what we have for her.” She indicated a display of chocolate in a cabinet in front of her and George finally left where he’d been standing awkwardly in the doorway. “I can make you up a selection box of a few different flavours.”

“That sounds nice.” He propped his bag from the art shop up against the counter. “I was just, er, admiring your window display. It’s very original.”

“Oh, thank you.” There was that flooring smile again. “But that’s Morwenna’s work, really. My cousin – and business partner. She’s the real artist, I just make the chocolates.”

“Well, they look lovely, as well.” They really did. The cabinet held an extraordinary variety – milk, dark and white chocolate in many different shapes.

“What does she like? Your Aunt?”

“Er – “ George had never said ‘er’ as many times in his life as he had in these last few minutes. “She likes liquors, and nuts, and dark chocolate.”

“Oh, a woman of taste! I can do her a box of 16, with four different flavours?”

“That would be great, thank you.” She fished in the pocket of her apron, coming out with a pair of glasses. Putting them on only made her more attractive and George had to glance away, pretending to examine a display on the other side of the small shop floor, although he barely actually took it.

“So, where did you move from?”

“Hmm?” He looked back to see her peering intently into the cabinet, considering the selection in front of her.

“You said you moved.”

“Oh, yes. From London. Although, I’m from Cornwall, originally, actually. But, I’ve been working for the family company, and we’ve opened an office here.”

“What sort of work do you do?...Would she like a gin truffle, do you think?”

“Er, yes, she would, and we do investment banking.”

“Oh, that sounds interesting! Dark chocolate salted caramel?”

“Yes, please, and not really. It’s just lots of numbers. I imagine it’s not as interesting as making chocolate.”

“Maybe not.” She flashed him another smile; she really was stunning. “Does she like marzipan?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then what about….pistachio squares and marzipan cherry deluxe?”

“Sounds delicious.” She finished packing the chocolates, neatly folding the lid of the elegantly embossed gold box closed then sealing it with an imitation wax seal bearing what George assumed was the company logo.

“I hope she likes them.”

“I’m sure she will.” After he had paid, she passed him the box, their fingertips touching as he took it. With her leaning forward, he finally got a good look at the name sewn into her apron. “Thank you, Elizabeth.”

“It was my pleasure.”

About a week later, George found himself loitering on the street outside the entrance to the courtyard, debating whether or not to go in. He did have a legitimate reason to go back to the shop, but still felt like a silly teenager, manufacturing an excuse to see a pretty girl again.

Pretending it was just out of interest, he’d taken the invitation on the little business card clipped to his receipt, which suggested a visit to the shop’s website. He’d learned that they’d been in business just a little over three years, and it was a family company, owned by Elizabeth and the cousin she’d mentioned, Morwenna, as well as a third girl with the same surname, Rowella. He’d heard of the Chynoweth family before; they’d been landowners a few hundred years ago, same as the Warleggans.

From a professional point of view, the business seemed very impressive. Aside from a small selection of unusual products sourced from around the world, everything they sold was handmade on site, using local ingredients wherever possible. All of their honey and edible flowers were sourced from the big Trenwith estate, which had its own organic farm shop now, according to Joan. They offered special ordering for occasions and even had a small online business, delivering to the local area. From their website, he found their Instagram profile, which included pictures of some of the window displays Elizabeth had credited to her cousin. They really were stunning. According to a post from a few months ago, the shop had won a Cornish Business Award, the three women posing proudly in evening dresses.

Macbeth had disappeared from the window today, replaced by a sugar bonfire and a chocolate Guy, flanked by brightly coloured candy Catherine wheels. At the sound of the bell, Elizabeth looked up from where she was adjusting a display next to the till.

“Oh, hello again! Did your Aunt like her present?” He had to admit to a slight suffusion of pleasure at the fact she remembered him, even though it had only been a few days.

“Yes, she loved them. I actually came back to get her some more of those marzipan cherry things.”

“Oh…” Her face softened, the corners of her lovely mouth turning slightly downward. “I’m afraid we don’t have any. We sold out but one of our suppliers has been having problems, so we don’t have the ingredients to make any more at the minute.”

“Oh. Well, that’s all right.”

“Is there anything else you’d like?”

“Yes, as it happens.” Just then, George realised they weren’t alone. A girl George recognised as Morwenna was talking to two women at the far end of the counter, in front of several copper pots warming on burners, something he somehow had managed not to notice the last time he was here, although they were clearly creating the wonderful smell that had brought him here in the first place. “One of my colleagues is going on maternity leave this week, and I’d like to get her something.”

“How lovely! When is she due?”

“In about six weeks.” Margaret finding out she was pregnant just after she’d agreed to re-locate to join the new office hadn’t been the best timing, but it was hardly her fault. Besides, part of the reason she’d agreed was that her and her husband wanted to get out of the City. Unfortunately, it meant that he and Emma had to take on her clients themselves at the same time as getting the new branch on an even keel. At least until they could find someone to cover her.

“Wonderful! What do you think she would like? Rose and violet creams might be nice for a new mum?”

“I think she would like those, actually. Thank you.”

“How are you settling in? To your new house? And job? If – er – if you don’t mind me asking.”

“No, er. It’s a bit hectic, but it’s going okay. I still haven’t unpacked at the flat, though.” There he went, talking too much at her again. God, it really had been too long since he’d had any kind of normal social interaction with anyone. Let alone a beautiful woman. Her laugh was wonderful. Suddenly, he became aware they were being watched. While they’d been talking, Morwenna had been pouring hot chocolate into paper cups for the other customers, and now she was finished she was looking over at him and her cousin with a quirked eyebrow. She probably saw men making utter fools of themselves in front of Elizabeth every day.

“Here you are. Um – I could, er, I could call you when we get more of those chocolates made, that your Aunt likes. If you’d like to leave your details, that is.”

“Oh, well, er, yes, that would be very good of you. Here.” Rummaging in his jacket pocket, he produced a business card. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She read the card with a hint of a smile. “George.”

“There’s a woman on the phone for you.” Emma waylaid George as he returned to the office from a meeting with some potential new clients. “Says she’s from some chocolate company?”

“Oh, put her through.” George tried not to sound too excited, even though he’d felt a little thrill knowing Elizabeth had called him, even if it was only to tell him that she had some chocolates in stock that his Aunt liked. God, he was pathetic.

“George? Hello, it’s Elizabeth Chynoweth here, from Cusgarne. I’m sorry it’s been so long, but we ended up having to find a new supplier. I think the new recipe is just as nice as the old one, but maybe your Aunt can be our official tester!” Even over the phone, her laugh was musical. “I’ve put a box aside for you.”

“Oh, thank you very much. I’m a little busy at work at the moment, but I’ll try to drop in – “

“I was going to say, we’re having a special evening at the beginning of next week – the 2nd - for the Christmas light switch on. When they do the late night shopping, you know? Well, I suppose you don’t – Anyway, would you like to come? We’re open until 8.”

“Oh, that would be nice. I’ll – I’ll see you then.”

George spent the next week in a state of eager anticipation, as if he were going out on a date, instead of dropping into a Christmas sale at a chocolate shop. He even found himself considering what he should wear, looking at his wardrobe on the morning of the 2nd and trying to decide which was his nicest suit. Crossly, he told himself not to be so pathetic, but still pulled out a dark blue one which Margaret had once told him complemented his eyes.

The shop was busy when he arrived just before half past 6, people milling about with glasses in their hands, some already carrying bags emblazoned with the shop’s logo. Clearly, the event was doing well for them. Christmas music was playing quietly and thankfully unobtrusively in the background, and the usual delicious aroma was even more so, layered with other flavours George couldn’t place.

“George! You came!” Elizabeth slipped between two chatting couples. Tonight, her apron was worn over simple black dress, which made her look even more stunning. Her smile was wide and welcoming and she seemed almost excited to see him. Considering the obvious success of the evening, she couldn’t be that keen to get one sale, could she? “Would you like a drink?”

“Er…”

“There’s mulled wine, or not mulled wine, or – “

“Or a chocolate martini. Here.” George took the glass, because it was presented to him so firmly he didn’t feel like he could refuse. He recognised the young woman who handed it to him as the third partner in the business, Rowella Chynoweth. Unlike Morwenna, who resembled Elizabeth quite strongly, she was more petite, with fair hair, but she was still unmistakably a Chynoweth. “I may not know much about chocolate, but I do know how to make a killer martini.”

Killer was right. It was very tasty, but also incredibly strong. One sip and George had to blink several times to feel like he could see straight again. Then again, he hadn’t had more than a single glass of wine to be polite at business dinners in he didn’t know how long.

“Rowella helps out in the shop sometimes, but she mostly deals with the business side of things for us.” Elizabeth explained, giving her cousin a look George was unable to interpret.

“I’m the brains, and they’re the beauty.” Rowella grinned. “So, you’re the famous George.”

“Er – “ He doubted that, somehow.

“Rowella – “ Before Elizabeth could say anymore, she was interrupted by a cry from across the room.

“George?! George Warleggan, is that you?” A petite brunette politely elbowed her way through the crowd towards him. It took a couple of moments to place her, although he didn’t know if that was because he hadn’t seen her in years or the effects of the martini.

“Verity? Wow!” George had gone to school with Verity’s brother Francis Poldark a long time ago, but they’d mostly lost touch after going off to university. “How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you! And you? I saw the new office, but I didn’t know you’d come with it!”

“Well, I have.” Wanting to get the conversation away from himself – especially as Rowella was still looking at him speculatively – George looked between Verity and Elizabeth. “Do you two know each other?”

“Verity’s one of our suppliers – Trenwith Organics.”

“Oh, of course!” He had forgotten that the estate belonged to the Poldarks. When they’d been at school, Francis’ father had been having some financial troubles with it, troubles which it seemed his children had managed to solve. “You’ve got the big farm shop now, haven’t you? I saw the signs for it when I drove down. How’s that doing?”

“Oh, great!” This thankfully led into a business related discussion, a topic George was much more comfortable with. It turned out the Poldarks were looking to expand their business even further by opening a full restaurant at the farm shop, and George was able to refer Verity to some financial people in that line. “You know, the Cusgarne range is one of our best-sellers in the shop. We can’t replace the stock fast enough!”

“Oh, well, you know – “ Elizabeth looked charmingly embarrassed at Verity’s praise, a wonderful soft pink blush creeping over her cheeks.

“And Morwenna made us a chocolate Trenwith for our birthday celebrations! It was amazing! She’s a true artist.”

“She is.” George couldn’t argue there. Tonight’s window was back to Shakespeare again – a Winter’s Tale complete with intricately painted chocolate bear.

This led onto talk of Cusgarne’s own expansion plans, Rowella explaining that they hoped to increase their online business, as well create some new product lines.

“Once we can afford the R&D, of course. I’ve made a contact with a local distillery, and we’d love to make a chocolate gin with them. We’ve done some small test batches, but we really need to put some more substantial time into it, which we just don’t have at the moment. We’ve been focusing on the beauty side.”

“Beauty?” George wasn’t sure he’d heard that correctly.

“Yes. Verity’s sister-in-law, Demelza, she makes her own line of soaps and hand creams and things.” It took him a moment to process the news that Francis had managed to get himself married. “She uses ingredients from the Trenwith estate, usually, but her and Elizabeth came up with the idea to do some cacao-flavoured products. We’re just testing the waters with them at the moment, but – Hang on.” Rowella hurried away to the other side of the room, Elizabeth watching her go with a smile.

“I’m sorry, she’s very enthusiastic.”

“That’s okay. It’s very impressive, actually. I meet a lot of business people, and not many have the kind of focus and vision you all seem to.”

“Oh, that’s so kind of you to say.” There was that blush again, and George feared a far less attractive version might be appearing on his own face.

“While she’s off, let me get you those chocolates for your Aunt, and I want to ask your opinion on a new recipe.” Verity excused herself to talk to someone else, and George followed Elizabeth over to the counter, on which sat several little platters of different chocolates, over which was a beautifully handwritten sign saying ‘Eat me’. Evidently Shakespeare wasn’t Morwenna’s only literary inspiration. “These are my new Christmas flavours.”

He saw White Chocolate Coconut Snowball, Christmas Pudding Truffle, and Milk Chocolate & Roast Chestnut, but Elizabeth picked up the tray marked Mulled Wine Truffle.

“I’m not completely certain about this one, so I’m canvassing for opinions tonight. Would you try one for me?” George shifted his now empty martini glass to the other hand so he could pick up a chocolate but, to his surprise, Elizabeth lifted one and held it out to him, close enough to his mouth to make her intention clear. Imagining she could probably hear his heart pounding, George leant forward and took the sweet, his lips just touching her fingertips. Since she wanted his opinion on the flavour, he tried to focus on that rather than the way his blood was doing its level best to rush away from his head. “What do you think?”

“I think – “ He coughed slightly. “I think that Morwenna isn’t the only artist in your family.”

“Oh, my – “ Just then, Rowella appeared again, brandishing a tube of cacao & burnt orange hand cream, which she insisted George try.

Later that night, the charming scent still on his hands and boxes of chocolates on the coffee table, George sat down at his laptop and pulled up a search engine. He needed to do some research.

Christmas shopping was his next excuse to visit the shop, which was almost as busy as it had been on their party night. Clearly it was a popular place to buy gifts, and the wintery weather which had settled over Cornwall made their hot chocolates especially appealing. Morwenna poured him an orange flavoured one, having failed to persuade him to accept a shot of brandy in it instead.

“I have to go back to work after this.”

“I’m at work,” she replied, adding a measure of Irish cream to the cup she had behind the counter. He assumed she didn’t drink on the job when she was doing her windows – today was a chocolate Santa’s sleigh filled with brightly-coloured sugar gifts, soaring over a white chocolate and powdered sugar snow scene.

“Yes, but you’re the boss.”

“So are you.” This was an excellent point, but he was saved from having to refute it by Elizabeth appearing with a welcoming smile. She was more than happy to help him pick out his gifts, most of which were either corporate ones, or for his employees. Cary got a bottle of whisky every year, and besides him there was only Joan to buy for on the personal side.

“So, what are your plans for Christmas?” Elizabeth asked as she made up a box of their different flavoured chocolate squares for a private trust the firm handled investments for.

“Oh, er, not much. Dinner with my Aunt here, but back to London for the day itself.” He’d probably end up working. Cary wasn’t the festive type, but for some reason he got grumpy if George didn’t come home for Christmas, despite the fact he usually spent most of the day drinking in his study. “Although I’m actually going to be there for a while.”

“Oh. Really? How long?” She made an odd expression as she closed and sealed the box, placing it with the others.

“Maybe a month. Just some things that need finished off back there.” With Margaret still off, Emma had been displeased to find George was going away for a month, as well. They had maternity cover for Margaret now, as well as support staff in place and a graduate trainee, so he was entirely confident Emma could manage.

“Oh, well. You won’t be away too long, then.”

“No.”

“Shall I gift wrap all of these for you?”

“Oh, I don’t know – “ He glanced at his watch, and then back at the door as two new customers jangled their way in. “I’ve got to get back, and you’re getting busy.”

“I’ll do them this afternoon. You can come back and collect them later.”

“Oh, thank you.” He paused. “Er – When I come back – from London, that is, there’s something I’d like to talk about, with you.”

“Oh?”

“About your business.”

“Oh.” Was it just him, or did she sound slightly disappointed? “Well, I look forward to that. I’ll see you later.”

It was oddly dismissive, and George spent the rest of the afternoon wondering if he’d offended her somehow. Maybe she didn’t want some corporate type interfering in her family business? He hadn’t considered that. How arrogant of him. Perhaps he should apologise to her. However, when he got back to the shop later on, he found Morwenna alone. Apparently, Elizabeth had gone out to see a supplier. George did his best to hide his disappointment.

“But she did leave you all these.” She handed him a pile of beautifully wrapped boxes, before placing a final one on the top which he didn’t recognise.

“Oh, that’s not.”

“It’s on the house, for being such a good customer.” She winked at him, and he wondered how many of those ‘special’ hot chocolates she’d had.

At home, he opened the package, finding inside a selection of poinsettia shaped chocolates flavoured with caramel, and a little note in soft, flowing hand which he knew instinctively was Elizabeth’s.

Merry Christmas. Good luck in London, and make sure to come and see us when you get back.

Underneath that was a phone number.

It ended up being closer to six weeks in London, and they were the longest of George’s life. He spent several days debating whether to call Elizabeth – she had given him her number after all. But why had she? Just because he’d said he wanted to talk business? He wanted to do that face-to-face. In the end, a few days after the New Year, Elizabeth settled it for him.

Hi. Hope you had a good new year. Your aunt came in for some more marzipan cherry. She’s found some new flavours she likes, too! :D

This led into them texting occasionally throughout his stay, George feeling a little blip of excitement every time his phone trilled a text alert, and then immediately scolding himself for acting like a love-struck teenager. A little while after the first message, he received an email from his aunt, mostly just her usual general chat, but with a small PS tacked onto the bottom:

You never told me that Elizabeth girl from the chocolate shop was so lovely – although I suppose I should have guessed by how much you were talking about her. Although, I’m sure she only keeps inviting me back so she can talk to me about you.

That couldn’t be true, could it? Surely Elizabeth just liked Joan – he could see why they would get on well. From Elizabeth’s messages, Joan had quickly become something of a regular at the shop. George imagined she would appreciate Morwenna’s ‘enhanced’ hot chocolates.

Meanwhile, in his spare moments , he worked on the proposal he wanted to make to Elizabeth – the business proposal. He was going to offer to secure investment in the business: to fund their research & development, maybe expansion to larger premises if they wanted, to take on extra staff so Rowella could devote herself full time to the management – and so they could increase production. George generally didn’t deal with a lot of small businesses, but the model wasn’t actually that different to larger companies in some ways. He did know about the failure rate of small businesses, especially food related ones, and they’d already beaten the odds on that.

He kept telling himself he was doing this solely because he was impressed with their work – and he was – but would he really be offering to find funding for some other nicely run little shop he might have accidentally wandered into, one where a beautiful woman hadn’t stepped out behind the counter and floored him with a single smile?

Well, it didn’t matter what his underlying motives were, he honestly did think the Cusgarne Chocolate Company deserved a boost, and a boost was really all they needed. He’d have to have a proper look at their accounts, but considering their current expansion plans they seemed to be operating on a steady financial basis.

A few days before he was due to arrive back in Cornwall, George sent Elizabeth a message:

Hi Elizabeth. I’m going to be back in Truro next week, and I was wondering if we could meet up? I’d like to discuss that business matter with you. If you’re interested, that is.

Every second until she replied felt like an age.

I’d love to. Friday, okay? You can drop by shop after closing. Any time after 6.

He gave the window a quick look – a sort of sculpture that looked like a mineral, painted purple. It was very pretty, and executed with Morwenna’s usual skill, but he couldn’t quite make out what it was.

The door was locked, and there was no sign of anyone inside, although the lights were still on. Perhaps they’d forgotten? Or maybe they were running late. He’d assumed Elizabeth would bring in her cousins – his aunt had managed to clarify the exact relationship between the three women, George not having liked to ask – since they were her co-owners in the business, and Rowella was the manager.

At his knock, Elizabeth hurried out from the back and came to let him in. Although it was not as strong as during opening hours, the warm scent of chocolate still lingered. It was such a comforting aroma, and George hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it while he’d been away. He knew how much he’d missed Elizabeth’s smile, however.

“Come in! It’s freezing out there.”

“It is.” He followed her through into the back. The kitchen was, as he’d suspected, rather compact; these old buildings usually didn’t have much space. It was actually impressive that they produced so much here. To his left, he saw a tiny office with a safe. Rowella’s domain, presumably. She was not there now, though. In fact, she wasn’t in evidence at all, and neither was Morwenna. “Are the others on their way?”

“Oh, they’re not coming.”

“Oh.” He didn’t know what to say to that. Was Elizabeth just here to let him down gently? It was kind of her, but she could have just told him they weren’t interested in whatever he had to say. He attempted to counteract his slight disappointment with a moment of levity. “I was hoping to ask Morwenna what her window is!”

“Oh, it’s amethyst. February birthstone.”

“Oh. Well, it’s very pretty.”

“Yes. I don’t know how she comes up with them all. She’s being very secretive about her Valentine’s Day one.” There was a slightly awkward pause as they stood facing each other next to a spotlessly clean metal bench. George decided to make one last ditch attempt at persuading her.

“Look, about my proposition – proposal.” Quickly – and far more nervously than he’d ever spoken even when addressing a conference hall full of hard-nosed hedge fund managers – he outlined what he wanted them to consider, and the potential for their business it could bring. “You could increase your beauty line, or even move into other foodstuffs, different merchandise, maybe even a recipe book…But, maybe you don’t want some bloke you hardly know interfering in your business and you’ve just kindly let me waste your time.”

“No!” Elizabeth had been listening in what seemed to him to be politely tolerant silence, but suddenly she became a lot more animated. “No, I’m – we’re – immensely grateful for your offer, and I know Morwenna and Rowella want me to snatch your hand off.”

“You’ve discussed it with them already?”

“Well, after you put Verity onto those restaurant venture people, I guessed what you might be going to offer us when you said you had something…and your Aunt tipped us off a bit.” George bit back a sigh. He loved Aunt Joan, but sometimes she could be as frustrating as Uncle Cary. By all rights, they should get along better, considering how much they loved to interfere in his life.

“But you have reservations?”

“Yes…” She stepped back slightly, glancing down as she trailed her hand over the surface of the bench. “Not because I don’t think it’s a wonderful plan, and not because I don’t think it’s incredibly kind of you to offer, but because – Well, you know what they say about mixing business with pleasure.”

“Wh – what?” George had to put his slightly rude response down to complete confusion at what she’d said. Having gone to the back of the room, Elizabeth returned with one of the shop’s golden boxes in her hands; a long, thin one. Standing in front of him again, she bit her lip – a gesture George struggled to tear his eyes away from – and flipped open the lid. Spelled out with individual letters on two rows of chocolates was a message: Be My Valentine.

“I mean – I don’t know how much more obvious I can be. The first day you walked in the shop, I asked if you were married; the next time, I asked for your number. Then, I invited you to a party, and gave you a present, and my number. I did my best to impress your Aunt, and I texted you for weeks, and now I’ve invited you here to see me, alone, at night and….Oh. You were expecting the girls to be here as well, weren’t you?” She pressed the box shut, suddenly looking distraught. “You’ve just been being polite this whole time, haven’t you? And now I’ve gone and made a complete fool of myself and I’m sure you’ll never want to give us the investment now – “

George leant forward and stopped up her tirade with a kiss, not caring that he crushed the box of chocolates between them. Elizabeth hesitated for a moment before wrapping her free hand around his neck and kissing him back. When they broke apart, they were both breathing heavily.

“What you said before – about business and pleasure – “

“Oh,” Elizabeth shook her head. “Whoever said that was an idiot. Besides, no matter how much I fancy you, Rowella would kill me if I turned you down. And Morwenna would help.”

Before he could reply, she threw the now hopelessly squashed box aside and wrapped both her arms around his neck, kissing him again.

She tasted like chocolate.

#poldark #george warleggan #elizabeth warleggan #elizabeth chynoweth #george x elizabeth #f: ge #f: au #au #fic #m: fic

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lovexdejun · 6 years

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🖤NCT Boyfriend Series🖤

- [🌃] WinWin

>>no warnings; suggestive

•one of the most beautiful men i have ever seen in my entire life •you’re working a summer job at this book store on a boardwalk when you meet him •he comes in looking like an actual god, not a drop of sweat visible even though it’s boiling hot outside •you watch with your face behind your book as he surveys the shelves •the way his face lights up when he finds the one he’s looking for is something you want framed on your wall •and the book is one of your favorites which makes him 100x more appealing •not getting his number was probably the biggest mistake you’d ever made •you thought •until one slow saturday morning you heard that bell chime above the door •the only reason sicheng came here the first time was because it was the only place known to carry his favorite novel (he needed a new copy after lucas and chenle decided to pelt him with paintballs while he read) •he didn’t even live nearby, cursing the two younger chinese boys as he sat cheek to cheek with complete strangers on the subway •but his mood had automatically shifted the moment he stepped into the air-conditioned vintage book store •you, hunched over a book with an obviously nerve-wrecking ending •he thought it was so cute the way your head shot up, eyes wide, as you pushed your thick hair behind your ear •when you shot him that bright smile tho, it was over for him •so he found himself making another hour trip to the same book store the very next week •even if it was just to buy a random bookmark in order to talk to you for a few seconds •over time, you learned a lot about him through his taste in literature •and after bombarding him with thousands of questions •he’s a foreigner who moved to your country for school on a scholarship bc he’s actually smart as hell •he learned a lot about you because you talk a lot •but he likes that •sicheng isn’t much of a talker, so it’s relieving to have you doing all the work •plus, he could listen to your stories all day •eventually you get sick of this cat and mouse game •so when he asks for a pen to sign his credit card receipt, you shake your head •”only if you promise to write your phone number down with it, too.” •this makes him blush sO HARD and he’s a giggling mess when he takes the pen from you and scribbles his number onto the paper •he gets so impatient waiting for your text that night that he begins to think he gave you a wrong digit bc he was so flustered •in all honesty, you were just trying to figure out what to say •you’ll settle on a mere ‘hey hope i wasn’t too forward back there lol’ •and his spirit will actually leave his body when figures out it’s from you •’no way! i should have made a move a while ago:)’ •you guys text almost 24 hours a day •both super fast responders •he’s no longer timid when he comes, actually talking instead of just admiring the way your lips move •he’d ask you on a date to this four-story bookloft downtown, closer to where he lives •you’d look so cute when he came to pick you up that he couldn’t speak for a good minute •you’ll look even cuter when you’re admiring the endless maze of books and standing on your tiptoes to try to reach the highest shelve •you turn to him and ask him to get if for you, but just he’ll hold it above your head and make you jump for it •when he finally lets you grab it, he’s pulling you into a deep, longing kiss, which he’s clearly been wanting to give you for a while •the rest of the summer is full of warm nights at the beach and early morning sunrises •unexpected kisses •drawn out, tenacious hugs that seem to say ‘i never want this to end’ •slow drives in the late evening with the windows down •the two of you love to feel the cool ocean breeze against your faces •you like the outline of his profile against the night sky when the moonlight hits his face •with him, there would probably be a lot of car sex •like when you go out on your little drives, you wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off him •so he’d pull over in a deserted park and climb over into the passenger seat as you reclined all the way back •if you had sex in the back seat, you’d just lay there and stare at the stars through the sunroof afterward •sex with him would be intimate and close, like jaehyun •you’re with him as much as your schedules will allow you to be •he’d drive the distance to see you, and every other day you’d take the subway to see him •when summer nears its end, you’re practically inseparable bc you don’t know if you’ll have time for each other when school starts •you’ll be in your final year of high school and he’ll be starting college •you try to make things work for the first few months but you end up breaking it off because you just want each other to be happy •although, neither of you begin to see anyone else in hopes that things will change •and they do •you both think it’s fate when you get an english scholarship to a university only a couple miles away from his •like you hadn’t even applied there, they just saw your work and wanted you •and suddenly you know for sure that what you have with sicheng is nothing random •you had never felt so free and complete until you met him and he never knew someone could make him feel so comfortable and warm with only smile •a relationship with sicheng would be such an aesthetic i swear. like he makes me think of midnight phone convos and hanging out on rooftops to stare at the city skyline. he would be so sweet and dedicated to you ughhhh •i’d throw him in with the soft and lazy lines and maybe a little bit of opposites attract.

>>how tf is sicheng even real ugh hes the king of bf pictures and literally spoonfeeds us boyfriend vibes i gotta go

>>no one will ever scream bf more than johnny tho and you can’t change my mind

A/N: so i thought i posted this earlier but i guess not lol hope you enjoyed it ilovesichengsomuchhe’smyactualbabyboyughsofuckingcute *screams*

nct | requests are always open!!

#nct boyfriend series #nct sicheng #nct winwin #nct reactions #nct scenarios #nct u #nct 127 #nct smut #nct #nct2018 #nct boyfriend #idol boyfriend series #kpop smut #kpop reactions #kpop scenarios

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harrydracompreg · 4 years

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art and banner by @llap115-reblogs

If you are having trouble opening the rules - you can also find them on AO3 on our profile page

Welcome to the 2020 Harry/Draco Mpreg Fest! TIMELINE: Prompting Begins: Saturday, Feb 1st Prompting Ends: Sunday, Feb 9th Claiming Begins: Saturday, Feb 15th Last Day to Claim: Saturday, April 25th Submissions Due: Saturday, May 2nd Posting Begins: Sunday, May 10th (US Mother's Day) Reveals: Sunday, June 21st (US Father's Day) RULES & INFORMATION:

What is the Harry/Draco Mpreg Fest?

This is an anonymous prompt-based fic and art fest focused on mpreg and the relationship between Harry and Draco. Please follow the three community rules found on our profile page:

• Harry/Draco relationship is a must.

• Harry or Draco must be one of the two to get pregnant.

• They must be male while pregnant.

How do I submit my prompts?

All prompts will be done thru a google claim form. Follow us on LJ or tumblr, and when the prompting post goes up - just click on the link and you will be taken to the google form. All claims will be available in a spreadsheet at least 2 days prior to the opening of claiming.

Please post one prompt submission to google forms. Please remember that this is a prompt fest (not a gift exchange). While the authors/artists will attempt to stick as close to your prompt as possible they are allowed some creative license, so please try not to make your prompts overly detailed and try to limit your squicks/dislikes to a minimum.

How many prompts can I submit?

You may submit up to

ten prompts

total per person.

Can I resubmit my prompts from past fests?

You may re-prompt past prompts, but only if the prompt in question is both yours and not currently prompted at another open fest. Also, please do not re-prompt something that has already been written or drawn in a previous fest, just so we can spread the love.

What if I really like a prompt made by someone else, somewhere else?

Give them a poke and ask them to prompt it over here! Or ask them if you can prompt it for the H/D Mpreg fest.

Can I submit prompts even if I'm not going to write/draw for the fest?

Yes, please do! We understand that not everybody is a writer or an artist, but we encourage your participation. You may leave a prompt without intending to claim one, and vice versa.

How do I sign-up for the fest?

We will make a post specifically with information for claiming. Please use the form provided on that post to claim your chosen prompt. Claiming will be strictly through google forms. You will be asked for your top three choices and you will be awarded your top choice as long as it has not been claimed by someone before you. Confirmations will be sent by email as soon as we are able. If you find that you have missed the claiming period and you would still like to join us, please contact the mods for more information.

How many people can claim the same prompt?

Each prompt may be claimed once for art and once for fic.

May I claim my own prompt?

Yes, you may claim your own prompt. In addition, if you don't see a prompt that you like, you may create one for yourself. If you're going to self-prompt, I suggest you do it when claiming goes live. This will help keep your identity anonymous.

What do you mean by "anonymous fest"?

Please do not tell anyone other than your beta(s) about the specifics of your story/art. We want the submissions to be kept as secret as possible. Once the fest is over, there will be a big reveal and authors/artists will be able to respond to all comments as well as post their submission to their own journal! Neither stories nor art may be crossposted

anywhere

else before the conclusion of the fest. You may only crosspost your submission any time after the fest masterlist and reveal have been posted. Please do not reveal which fic or art is yours until after that time.

What is the minimum length requirement for fic?

All entries must be

at least 2,000 words in length

. There is no maximum. Art must be the equivalent of 2,000 words – meaning it should show effort

Are all genres and ratings welcome?

Yes, all genres are welcome in this fest! Romance, pwp, drama, humour, dark!fic, flangst, fluff, hurt/comfort, family, etc. If you can write/draw it, we want it as long as the theme of the fest is respected. We welcome G to NC-17 ratings. As long as the couple is Harry/Draco and one of them is pregnant and male when then pregnancy occurs.

Can I write a story that's part of an existing 'verse or that's a sequel, or am I allowed to submit a WIP?

All stories submitted must be unique to this fest. We ask that they not be part of an existing 'verse or a sequel to another story. You may only submit complete stories; WIPs will not be accepted. Additionally, you may not submit a story that you have previously posted. We want shiny, new, surprise fic and art that will blow our readers away!

Do I need to include html tags?

Yes, please include all appropriate html tags in the body of your story. If you don't know what html tags are, please go check out

phoenixacid

HTML Guide

. All submissions will be directly uploaded to the 2020 H/D Mpreg collection on AO3 – we suggest you double check it when you post to AO3 to check your coding and spacing.

Does my entry need to be beta read?

Yes, all stories must be beta-read. If you do not already have a beta reader, you can try

hp_betas

and

hp_betas_wanted

or if you're on Drarry Discord, check there for a beta (again provide as little info as possible on a public forum). We will also put out a beta all-call before the due date. If you still have a problem locating a beta, please let the mods know asap. Mods reserve the right to proofread your submissions and return your fic/art to you if it is clearly not beta-ed and coded or if the header information is missing or wrong.

I'm done with my entry. Can I submit early?

Yes please! As soon as your entry is complete and beta read, feel free to email it to us. Once we've confirmed receipt, you are welcome and encouraged to claim an additional prompt if you so desire.

How do I submit my entry to the fest?

All fics will be posted to AO3, regardless of length. Authors will upload fest fics to AO3 themselves. This year all fic and art will be posted to our AO3 collection. All fic and art submissions will require that your header be emailed to the mod account. This header will be posted to our LJ and tumblr accounts with a link to the fic or art post.

There will be a detailed post on how to submit to follow.

What header should I use?

This will be in a separate post after claiming has started.

Will you offer extensions?

Extensions will be judged on an individual basis. Please try to keep to your deadlines. If you think you'll need an extension, please try to give us as much notice as possible. We mods don't love last minute panics, it messes with our pretty schedules! However, we do understand that complications sometimes arise. Even if you're having problems with your submission or need to drop out (which we'd like to avoid, of course!), please talk to us! Communication goes a long way! We're really quite nice and very pretty easy to work with. :) All we ask is that you please email us if you need help making the deadline, or if you want to cry or rip apart your work and you just need some love and encouragement! This will not only allow us to assist you, but it will also help us to organize the posting schedule. Please send us an email and we'll work with you to find a solution.

What if I need to drop out? What are the consequences?

While we'd like to avoid drop-outs if at all possible, hey, we do understand that sometimes real life gets in the way of fandom. If it turns out you do need to drop out, please send us an email letting us know before the deadline for submissions and there will be no consequences.

I have a question that's not answered here. Where do I ask it?

Please direct your comments, concerns, inquiries, comments, Howlers, compliments, etc to: [email protected].

If you intend to participate as an author/artist/reader, please join/watch

harrydracompreg

or follow us on tumblr at

harrydracompreg

If you are having trouble opening the rules - you can also find them on AO3 on our profile page

Thank you!

@sassy-cissa

kitty_fic

#2020 hd mpreg fest #mpreg fest rules #Harry Potter #mpreg #drarry mpreg fest #info mpreg fest post

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