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intrepidacious · 2 years

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brooklyn, thursday night

summary: It’s the third Thanksgiving after the Blip, and you’ve become a habit Steve’s unable to shake.

pairing: steve rogers x reader

word count: 4.4k

warnings: some angst, some fluff (i mean, it's me); one night stand to two night stand to fwb to lovers kind of situationship; implied sexytimes

please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

prompt: this was written for layla's love in verse challenge and i loved this idea so much!! i found inspiration in "thanksgiving 2006" by ocean vuong—or rather, the poem found me, as poems tend to do. you can find it in its entirety underneath the fic

a/n: i seem to be making a habit out of posting holiday fics when it’s not, in fact, said holiday, and i can't even feel sorry about it. @heavenlybarnes thank you so much for this beautiful challenge!! i missed writing for steve, and this was the perfect opportunity 💛

masterlist | read on ao3

Brooklyn’s too cold tonight, so Steve keeps walking.

The serum has a way of warming his hands, but not his heart, coursing through his veins with hot vengeance he doesn’t like to stop and examine. He suspects he wouldn’t like what he’d find, because at the core, at the very core of him, there is a numbness where all the world used to be, and he despises himself for it.

He hates that part of himself on nights like this, that soft, aching vulnerability no genius scientist with their experiments could ever cure him from, or even just protect with their chemicals and radiation, all their balancing, imbalanced bullshit. That was never the point.

It’s just that he doesn’t feel particularly good at the moment.

So he keeps walking.

It’s November again, and the winter air is just as ruthless as that gnawing feeling inside that for the third year in a row, Steve doesn’t have anything he feels particularly thankful for. For the third year in a row, he finds himself walking down these streets, but he can’t fool himself enough to pretend to be aimless anymore. His feet find the way easily.

("You like to keep moving, don’t you?"

A tired smile. "I just fear I’m getting my directions mixed up.")

The sound of a lighter seems to echo on the empty streets, buried between snow and lingering unease.

***

The first year, you’re a stranger, and it’s all coincidence.

No one on the planet, hell, in the universe, probably, feels particularly celebratory, and so most windows are dark by the time Steve takes the first step outside. He’s known these streets for the better part of a century, and yet he’s never felt more like a stranger in them.

He buried his parents and went to war, and yet he’s never known grief or guilt like this.

There’s a cut on his cheek that hasn’t quite healed yet, from when his hand slipped while shaving the beard. Or maybe he was just trying to feel something. Red blood spilled like a reminder that he could put on the Cap façade all he wanted; he was still just human, and he failed.

You just got off your shift.

You have your apron wrapped around your hand as you lean against the side wall, hands shaking as you try to light your cigarette. The lighter is broken. He can hear you cursing over the howling of the wind.

("I never used to smoke," you tell him later. "My best friend always said it calms her nerves. I get it now."

So does Steve.)

"Do you need help?" he asks, even though he doesn’t have fire, not the one you could use right now. It’s his instincts that are hardest to shake, even on a day like this.

"It’s fine," you say without even looking at him, throwing the cigarette into your bag. "This is all just great!"

There is a tremor in your voice that he recognizes, that pent up frustration threatening to boil up at a minor inconvenience. You let your head fall back until it hits brick so hard he almost flinches, but you don’t even seem to notice.

You blink at him like you’re only just realizing he’s real.

"You want something?" you ask, and your voice is so sharp he feels the cut on his cheek reopening, but your eyes are soft. It’s disarming, that combination.

Steve’s dumbfounded for a moment, because he doesn’t really know why he stopped, either. Now that he’s aware of it, though, it’s impossible not to keep looking at you. And there’s that instinct, again. That gut feeling that tells him neither of you should be alone right now.

If he were Bucky, he might have told you that, with that half-smile of his that used to bring half the city to its knees. Bucky used to say all kinds of things to the girls he went out with, back in the day, and the rare occasion on which that backfired never seemed to deter him.

But Steve’s just himself, and he’s starting to feel creepy now, so he just says, "I think you’re the first person I talked to today."

You stare at him, and there’s that shift in your eye when you recognize him and hesitate for a second as you evaluate if he’s a threat. He wonders if there’s any getting used to that.

"Wow," you finally say. "Not gonna lie, but that’s kind of sad."

Steve huffs. "Yeah."

It’s the heaviness in your gaze that betrays you, your jawline etched in the cool smoke your breath trails behind. You lost someone, too.

What a strange thing to pick up on, he thinks, when it’s rarer to meet someone who hasn’t, but he still feels sorry in a way that seems oddly personal. The question of who is almost on his lips before he catches himself. Before he remembers that he doesn’t know you, and that he has no right to that sort of information.

You tilt your head, and a small crease appears between your brows. "Aren’t you freezing?" you finally say.

He shrugs. "I’ve been colder."

"Yeah." You nod, but he can see the gears in your head turning. Finally, you seem to swallow something down. "You got a second person lined up for the night?"

His mouth twitches involuntarily and he shakes his head.

"Me either. Great Thanksgiving, huh."

There’s a pause as you shift on your feet and he clears his throat, but neither of you moves. It’s a little uncomfortable, or it should be, but you toss your apron into your bag and cross your arms in a way that poses a challenge. Steve swallows heavily.

"I should—"

"How about we move this someplace warmer?" The question is accompanied by a glance that makes him step a little closer, makes him lower his head ever so slightly as you both consider each other, both of you waiting to see what will happen next.

And, yeah, maybe it’s selfish of him not to make up an excuse and leave you to your unlit cigarette, but damnit, why can’t he be selfish for a change? After a year like this?

So he says, "lead the way," and his voice doesn’t shake a bit.

("You haven’t been casual a day in your life," Bucky would’ve said, and Steve would’ve glowered at him. These are the things he misses; he can’t even be casually mad anymore.)

It’s not a long walk, and the wind does most of the talking. Neither of you is much in the mood for it. You’re shivering by the time you try to get your keys out, and when he holds the door open for you, you just give him a small nod.

"It’s out of order," you murmur as you pass the elevator, already unraveling your scarf. Steve follows, close enough that he could smell the lingering remnants of perfume on your hair if he took a deep breath. He doesn’t.

The building is old, all high ceilings and broken floor tiles, colorless. Every step trails an echo behind. Your neighbor’s striped doormat is barely visible underneath the pile of unread newspapers. The air is so cold he imagines he could still see his own breath.

You force your door open with your shoulder and then halt in the entrance, as if just remembering something. "You’re not allergic to anything, are you?"

"Not since 1943," he answers. It’s odd to admit it like this, even though you know exactly who he is. Somehow, he feels like he’s going about all of this wrong, but the thought of leaving seems even worse.

"Good," you murmur before you let him in and close the door behind him. "That’s good."

The hallway to your apartment is cluttered, but in a homely, charming way. Vibrant art prints and knick-knacks litter the surfaces and jut out of cardboard boxes, all of it covered with a thin layer of dust. You don’t turn the lights on, and so Steve only puts it together when the soft pattering noise stops at his feet and turns into sniffing.

"You have a dog," he says, surprised.

"My roommate does," you say, and then you catch yourself. He can see the short pause in your movements, even though you continue with a lightheartedness that is familiar in how false it sounds. He knows before you say it out loud. "Well, I suppose she’s mine now."

He sinks to his knees, slowly, because he ran out of speed a while ago. The dog wiggles her tail.

"Her name is Leia," you tell him. "You know, like Star Wars?"

It’s another reminder that he still hasn’t quite caught up with this day and age. He is spared an answer, though, because you’ve already moved on to the kitchen, switching on the lights as you go. Steve keeps petting the dog.

"Drink?" you shout, and it’s strange, how casually you’re treating this whole encounter while Steve’s own thoughts are still stuck on a merry-go-round. He doesn’t know if he can ever get off this ride again.

"Sure," he says lightly, because he’s been acting for years.

All of it just play pretend.

("You don’t mean that," you whisper later, much, much later.

"No." He brushes the hair out of his eyes. "Sometimes.")

You drink, and you sit on the living room floor, just chatting, really, because this is a strange situation for both of you. There’s an uncertainty in the air that grows hotter with every passing minute, and when the conversation lulls to a stop, it shifts.

You look at him, then, anticipation of something so thick between you he could cut it with a knife.

Steve has lived through a war and two very different worlds colliding within less than a decade, but this is still so new for him. And yeah, maybe it feels like he’s breaking some sort of rule here, crossing some moral boundary he’s not supposed to even look at, because that’s just how he was brought up.

But times have changed, as he’s all too painfully aware, and you’re still looking at him, eyelids heavy, and Steve decides, fuck it.

His voice barely sounds like his own when he asks, "Can I kiss you?"

The second you take to blink and nod lasts an eternity, but when you do, he finally stops listening to that nagging voice at the back of his head that tells him he shouldn’t. Instead, he carefully pulls the sleepy dog off his knee and scoots over to where you’re sitting, watching, waiting. Steve looks at your face one more time, slowly, deliberate, and then he leans in.

He’s not gonna lie; it’s awkward for a good while.

The angle is weird, and he doesn’t know where to put his hands because this is the first time he’s touched you all night, and it’s just a simple fact that he hasn’t done this in a spell. But then you tilt your head just so, and his hand settles on your thigh, helping you into his lap and yes.

For a moment he remembers what it’s like to stop thinking, to stop running and just be.

And then your fingers thread through his hair, tugging slightly, and Steve’s brain shuts off entirely, consumed by the fire that courses through his veins. By the time your breath turns shorter, he knows your rhythm and he’s all too happy to take his time to match it.

He’s not ready for anything more than a distraction, and you’re not offering.

(You tell him to be gone when you wake up. "I have another early shift and I don’t want to have to kick you out," you mutter, snuggling closer. "Ruin my day."

Steve doesn’t sleep at all. He sneaks out once the early morning sunshine starts tickling your nose, shoes in his hand, his hands growing cold once again.)

***

The snow starts picking up.

There’s a message from Natasha on his phone that he’s stared at and then closed again about a hundred times. It was a response to him canceling their dinner plans, again, and this time she didn’t leave it at the sad little OK she would usually put. Her words have started to bleed into his very consciousness like a song stuck in his head.

I don’t know what’s different lately, but I think it’s good for you.

Steve’s not so sure.

The way he sees it, he’s setting himself up to grow attached to something he has no right to keep, and he’s seen how that story ends too many times in his life. It’s one thing to care for someone and a whole other thing to care about them.

("It’s nothing personal."

Of course it’s not. The marks left on his skin vanish within a few hours.)

There’s a bunch of unused brushes on his desk in the tiny apartment he calls home, more than twelve blocks away. Steve bought them last week, in a spur of almost giddy inspiration, and he’s only realized the ridiculousness of that when he unlocked the front door, receipt long discarded on the way.

Now they’re sitting there, waiting for something to change.

He’s been brought back to the city of the living, and he should be feeling more guilty about it.

***

The second year, you’re an indulgence.

He’s almost walked by your apartment several times now, mostly on early summer mornings or nights far colder than they should be, but he could never bring himself to actually cross the street, turn the corner, climb the stairs. He doesn’t come closer than a two block radius, really. Not until today.

The truth is, he’s thought about running into you so many times he’s forgotten what he wanted to tell you. Why he wants to see you at all.

But Brooklyn is too cold and too empty, and the feeling uncoiling in his chest tells him this was always how this was supposed to go.

You’re sitting on the steps in front of your apartment building, reading a book in the light of the street lantern. Your eyes are watery from the sharp sting of winter air, but you look undeterred. Unhurried.

"I thought you might come," you say, and Steve gets the strange sense that you’re pleased.

(It was a lie, you tell him later. You were waiting for a friend, to take you to some party you didn’t want to go to. "I didn’t think you’d ever come back," you mumble into his hair, fingers tracing invisible patterns on his skin.

As if he’s had a choice in the matter.)

"I aim to please," he says, even though that’s not true, has never been true. Maybe it’s the way you look at him.

You look sharper than you did a year ago, as if all that pain has carved itself into blunt edges and curt glances. But your hands are still soft. He stares at them as if he might be allowed to hold them again.

"Somehow, I doubt that," you say, tilting your head. "New look?"

Steve scratches his beard. "Old look. I’m still deciding which one to keep."

You snort, and it sends a tingle down his spine.

"What?"

"Nothing. That’s just the most serious way I’ve ever heard someone talk about facial hair." You look at him solemnly, like you’re about to break the worst news to him. He already knows. "You do realize it’ll keep growing back either way?"

If he were Sam, he’d have joked with you, in that dry manner of his, maybe winked at you afterwards to reassure you that it was all just teasing, good fun. There was a lightness to Sam’s interactions with people he cared about that had always seemed so precious in hindsight; like it couldn’t be shared enough.

But Steve’s just himself, and his eyes are as tired as his body, so he just says, "I didn’t want to be alone."

You watch his eyes with such intent he feels himself getting uneasy. Then, you take your keys out of your coat pocket and unlock the door. You don’t look back as you tell him, "It’s getting late."

It’s all the invitation Steve needs.

"What were you reading?" he asks, stepping into the damp, cold hallway after you. The elevator is still out of order.

You hand him your book without so much as a glance over your shoulder. He doesn’t really look at it, either, just keeps staring at the little bit of skin peeking out where your scarf has shifted down. He can’t help but wonder if it tastes the same.

("Whenever I’m sad and I feel like killing myself, I read something by Sylvia Plath."

He listens to your heartbeat. "And what if you’re sad and you don’t feel like that?" he asks.

Your smile is melancholy and contagious. "A children’s novel.")

"You know, you never told me your name," Steve says once you get inside, his cheeks burning.

"So I didn’t," you hum with a tilt of your head that’s already starting to feel familiar, even though this is only the second time you’ve met. There’s the same challenge in it, but the spark in your eye is new, mischievous, like you’re also remembering what things kept him from asking something as simple as a name the last time he was here.

You fill in his gaps.

The knowledge feels foreign. Like he’s somehow been allowed to see a whole new side of you, even though it’s just a name, and not much more.

He smiles softly at the sound of it, and then, before he can stop himself, admits, "I’ve been thinking about you."

Steve’s seen your lips twitch before, but he hasn’t seen you smile. Not last year, when everything was still so fresh the very air tasted like sorrow, not even when you lay next to him with hazy eyes and he wiped the sweat off your brow. But you smile at his words now, and it changes your entire face, all the harshness of it disappearing to show something glowing underneath, something more hopeful than he’s seen in quite a while.

You take his face into your hands and kiss him like an answer, carefully, as if he’s something precious, as if you have something to lose. It’s difficult for him to focus, to stop himself from telling you that he’s not, and you don’t.

But then his thoughts cease being so loud again, one by one, and maybe that’s why he’s missed your touch for a whole year. The endless echoes in his mind finally turn silent.

He pours his thanks into each kiss that follows.

("Text me," you offer this time, and even though he’s not sure what kind of invitation you’re extending with those two words, he clings to them like a lifeline.)

***

Each step crunches underneath his boots and Steve is starting to regret not taking the subway. But the air had seemed so nice tonight, and the streets are quiet in a way that should be lonely and yet is the opposite of that.

Three years, and empty spaces have been cautiously, regrettably filled.

("I hate losing things. It drives me up the wall."

How does someone move on from something like this? Little by little, or not at all.

The worst part, he thinks, is that anything new will never quite replace what’s missing. Only repopulate the void.)

The first time you came to his place instead of the other way around, you forgot your scarf, and Steve had to talk himself into returning it for almost a week. Fine. Ten days.

It just smelled so sweet.

"There it is," you said when he finally did knock on your door again, relief so clearly written all over your face as if he’s been returning a long lost child.

And then you carelessly tossed it aside and dragged him towards you by the collar.

Not that he’s complaining.

The snow, however …

Steve blinks up against it, at the familiar streets set against a dark sky. It’s a scene that begs to be painted, long shadows and milky streetlights caught in a whirlwird of ice. He looks at it for a long moment, and then he continues walking.

***

This year, you’re a necessity.

This year, it’s not been twelve months. In fact, it’s not even been two weeks, but he’s still missed you. Brooklyn sheds all of its colors this time of year, and on the dreariest mornings he finds himself craving your presence more than usual.

It’s terrifying, this sort of protectiveness he feels for you. It’s not what this is supposed to be, not what either of you needs right now.

("So what?" Sam would’ve said, and Steve would’ve lowered his head. Probably. He’s running out of scenarios to run through his mind, and so every time he tries, it feels like he’s chipping away at precious memories, distorting them, losing them. "So what?"

Maybe. The future has never felt less clear.)

He’s found out that he craves you like a drug, and he knows it can’t be healthy, he shouldn’t be doing this, but damnit, can’t he have one good thing to keep again for a change?

Like the taste of your hot skin bathed in a strip of moonlight, or that glimmer in your eyes that lets him forget the remaining half of the universe, reduces it only to him and you, and every shared breath between you. He keeps replaying those moments when he’s not with you, can’t stop himself, really. It’s easier now that he knows there will be a next time.

Not forever, of course, but now is enough.

("Enough already?" You nudge your nose against his shoulder. "I thought your ambitions were greater than that, Captain.")

Steve stops in front of the elevator, considers it for a moment, then takes the stairs anyway. Some habits are hard to shake, and perhaps you’re one of them. Though he doubts it; you’re more than just that.

He finds your door unlocked, which should be a reason for concern but somehow isn’t. Maybe it’s the smell. The lights are on in the living room and he can hear an old record playing.

("Leia loves it when I play them," you’ve told him before. "I think maybe they remind her of …" You trailed off, like you always do.

He still hasn’t learned your roommate’s name.)

He leaves his shoes by the door and follows the sound, like he’s done time and again.

Today, it’s Ella Fitzgerald, and you’re dancing in the kitchen.

The sight stops Steve in his tracks, because suddenly there’s an ease to his step he doesn’t like, can’t allow himself, even though it shouldn’t really be a surprise.

("Why not?" Bucky might have said.

"Live a little, man," Sam could have said.

He hopes, thinks, wishes.)

Nat’s message burns a hole into his pocket. Coward, it whispers, and Steve ignores it. He watches you swaying around and moving your arms in a ridiculously elaborate way, unaware that you have an audience.

Light. Pure light shining through all your edges, and softening them to his gaze.

Leia senses his presence first, waggling toward him with flapping ears and a cheerful bark, and so he lets himself be welcomed, sitting down on the floor with a quiet laugh.

You turn, and your hips stop moving, which is truly the biggest crime of all.

"Hey, stranger," you say, your smile so clearly audible in your voice it makes Steve bite his lip hard before he dares to look up.

"Hey," he says when his eyes meet yours, his body relaxing immediately at the sight of you. "What are you cooking at this hour?"

"Wouldn’t you like to know." You continue stirring the pot on the stove. "But you can set the table once you’re done charming my dog."

"That could take a while," Steve chuckles as Leia keeps licking his hand. "I’m very charming."

You roll your eyes, but the smile stays.

"Come on, honey," you say, pulling him to his feet again, and it might have just been a slip of the tongue, but damn if his heart didn’t just skip a beat.

Steve’s been called many names in his life, but he’s pretty sure none of them have ever sounded as right.

On impulse, he leans over to brush his lips over yours, softly, smiling when your mouth chases his as he pulls back.

"What was that for?" you whisper with a light frown.

He blinks. "Food," he finally says. "I’m starving."

("Get up, then."

His tongue traces delicate patterns down your throat. "Why would I need to do that?")

It hurts his brain, this softness of yours that’s close enough to touch and yet feels so off-limits.

He’s kissed you a hundred times before, languidly, feverishly, carefully, but never pointlessly. Well, not without a point he would admit to.

You choose not to dwell on it, thankfully, and go back to your pot with a hum. Steve runs a hand through his hair and pushes himself back into the role you’ve both agreed upon. Friends, for the most part. He can live with that, of course he can. He’s lived through worse things.

(Neither of you has ever wanted to fix the other. It was nice, for a change, being a little broken. It only meant finding new places to fit together.)

He wakes up a little over three hours after to find you wrapped around him, hugging his arm to your chest so tightly he can feel it rise and sink with each and every one of your breaths. He watches you for a long while, still half-asleep, every cell of his body screaming at him not to move an inch. To just keep you right where you are.

For a second, he wonders if he could get away with stealing one last kiss before he sets out on the trek home, like he always does. As if you’d heard him, you start stirring under his gaze.

"Stay," you whisper into the dead of night, and he can feel his eyes close almost immediately. Your voice cuts through the darkness like he’s already dreaming. "Steve. Don’t go, please."

And so he lets himself settle into your side, pulling you closer, breathing you in, his lips touching your forehead, and you sigh.

Maybe next year, he can be thankful for something.

thank you for reading!! if you liked this fic, please consider leaving a comment and/or reblog 💛 to see more of my writing, check out my masterlist or follow @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications!!

Brooklyn's too cold tonight & all my friends are three years away. My mother said that I could be anything I wanted -- but I chose to live. On the stoop of an old brownstone a cigarette flares, then fades. I walk to it: a razor sharpened with silence. His jawline etched in smoke. The mouth where I reenter this city. Stranger, palpable echo, here is my hand, filled with blood thin as a widow's tears. I am ready. I am ready to be every animal you leave behind.

Thanksgiving 2006, Ocean Vuong

#loveinversewritingchallenge #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fic #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers oneshot #marvel fanfic #mcu fanfic #brooklyn thursday night

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theshotsheardacrossworlds · 4 months

Text

Insult

Lady Agnes Wildheart gets insulted by a certain wizard at the start of their adventure. SFW.

“Agi?”

Agnes turned to her newest companion and smiled as he said her name. He’s got such a lovely voice and kind eyes. “Yes?”

“You’re not versed in magic, are you?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Of course I am, I have as much magic in me as you.” What is he getting at…?

“Oh, I do apologize. I meant to ask, are you studied in magic. Namely, are you a wizard? Which you are not.” ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!? “If you meet any elder wizards, let me know. There is a matter I’d like to seek advice on from a master.” Oh I’ll show you a master all right. UP YOUR ASS!

She and Gale did not speak for the rest of the day.

***

“Hmm, Astarion have you seen Agi? I was hoping to speak to her about something.” Gale asked, a hand absentmindedly rubbing his beard. He had not seen the dwarf since they arrived back at camp over an hour ago. “She isn’t in her tent. She’s not with anyone else. Perhaps she wandered off?” His eyes widened. “Gods, what if a vicious beast got her?!”

The pale elf rolled his eyes. “The last I saw her she was stomping into the woods. She seemed quite peeved, but understandably so after you insulted her.” His ruby eyes narrowed at the wizard. “That was uncalled for, by the way. She may not have gone to some fancy university or academy, but from what I’ve seen of her fighting…” Pearly fangs glinted in the sun as he grinned. “She’s talented. Powerful.”

“Which direction did she go?” His heart was racing, gripped in panic.

He waved a dismissive hand. “Follow the smell of singed plants. Her hands were crackling with electricity. Quite the sight.” Astarion watched as Gale left, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Oooh, this is going to be fun!”

***

“I’ll show you, Gale of fucking Waterdeep. I’ll show you!” Agnes snarled, lightning hitting yet another tree stump. How dare he! After I pulled his sorry ass from that portal, invited him to join us, and he says that! “Are you a wizard? Which you are not.” No, I’m not. I’m not an arrogant ass who just says stupid shit to people. “Fucking piece of shit, book-obsessed twat!”

A heavy sigh startled her. She turned suddenly to see Gale with his hands up.

“Forgive me for disturbing you, but this piece of shit, book-obsessed twat would like to apologize for earlier.” He smiled ruefully and got on one knee. “You’ve been nothing but kind and hospitable not just to me but all of us, and I’ve repaid you with—”

Agnes crossed her arms over her ample chest. “Being a twat—”

He nodded. “Yes, being a twat. An extraordinarily massive twat, which is why I’m begging you for forgiveness.”

He seems really sorry, and I’ll accept his apology…right after this. “You know, I did have a tutor---Floriant Beliveau, a famed sorcerer in the Gate. I learned from him starting when I was toddler,” After I accidentally set a chair on fire. Oops. “It was him who taught me, him who showed me how to control the magic surging inside me, him who encouraged me not simply to rely on my gifts alone and keep my mind open to all possibilities. So, do not ever presume that I’m a stupid little sorcerer.” Holy shit, I think I sounded like Mum.

Gale squeezed his eyes shut, and when they opened again, they were full of pain. “I-I didn’t mean to imply that you are, and I’m truly so very sorry. It won’t happen again, I assure you.”

To his relief, Agnes smiled. “I accept your apology, Gale. Now, let’s have a hug!” Sorry, I’m a hugger! I love hugs! She stepped forward and embraced him, hearing him heave a sigh as he enveloped her. “Friends?” Gods, he’s so warm and…comfy. No, Agi! No! He’s not interested in you, and you were just pissed at him! But he’s sorry and apologized and got such a lovely voice—

“For as long as you’ll tolerate me, my dear.” He whispered. When he pulled away from her, he winced. “Pardon me, my knees are screaming. Ugh,” he rose to his feet, grimacing. “It’s not easy getting old.”

“Gale,” she giggled. “you’re not bloody old.” He can’t be more than thirty-five? Thirty-four? Around there, I think.

He laughed nervously. “You’re so kind. I, erm…I’m approaching my forty-first nameday.”

Her mouth hung open. “Wait, what?! No, you’re messing with me, right?”

More nervous laughter. Oh dear. “Absolutely not. I’m afraid you’re traveling with a washed up, middle-aged wizard.”

Agnes shook her head, reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze. “No, I’m traveling with a friend who happens to be a very talented wizard from what I’ve seen.” She looked up at him and smiled. “I’m twenty-five, by the way. Just had my nameday party before…you know.” You know---when we got abducted and had parasites put in our eyeballs. That’s a hell of a sentence.

He returned her smile, and she could feel her heart flutter. “The happiest belated nameday to you, Agi. Shall we get back? Don’t want the others to worry.” She nodded, and they walked to camp with Gale telling her that her teacher once guest lectured at Blackstaff Academy. “If I remember correctly, he had quite a dry sense of humor.”

She wrinkled her nose and giggled. “He did. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss him.” He and Da…on the same day…no. Don’t think about that right now, or you’ll start crying.

“Oh, forgive me, I had no idea he passed.”

Nodding, she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I was his last student. Mum practically begged him to take me on---he was semi-retired at that point---and I’m so glad he agreed. Master Beliveau was tough but fair. He taught me so much about magic and how to use it to protect others…or attack. Either one!”

Gale chuckled. “If I may make an observation, you seem to have a preference for offense.”

“To be fair, Gale---fireball is one of the best spells ever.” She giggled. “And I happen to be very good at it.”

Squeezing her hand, he chuckled and lowered his voice. “Maybe we can compare our fireballs, my dear?”

Agnes’s face turned as bright red as her hair. Okay, is this flirting? I think it is? Perhaps? “What? To see whose is bigger?”

“Bigger, brighter…maybe see the passion we put into creating giant balls of fire?” When her glance met his, he winked at her.

Okay, so he’s got giant fiery balls of passion? I am totally here for it! The sound that escaped her was a squeak.

“Patience. All in good time, dear lady.” Gale murmured, squeezing her hand one more time as they arrived back at camp. “I never make claims I cannot prove. After all, I can back that up with considerable evidence.”

What the fuck do I even say to that?! “Regardless, I’d like to go through all your evidence. Very thoroughly.” Ooooh I think I’m good at flirting! “And don’t worry, Gale---I can be quite patient.” Letting go of his hand, she twirled, now facing him. “When I want to be, that is.”

Agnes giggled as she watched Gale stumble towards his tent.

Because he was trying to hide the tent in his trousers.

#agnes wildheart #gale dekarios #astarion ancunin #dwarf agi #pre relationship #these two fucking dorks #oh gale agi is never going to forget this #awkward dorks are awkward #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fan fiction #gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale #astarion wants to see agi fireball gale's ass #dwarf tav #plus size tav #sorcerer tav

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padmeanddorme · 1 year

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Padmé’s Perspective in song lyrics….

Heart of Stone, from Six the musical

I feel like this song relates to Padmé in many ways. This song has lyrics such as ‘but I took your hand, promised I’d withstand any blaze you blew my way’ that represent Padmé’s everlasting love for Anakin and her ability to see the good and hope in all situations. Furthermore, the repetition of the phrase ‘heart of stone’ indicates that the values Padmé holds close to her heart, such as peace and prosperity for all, are unchangeable and are ingrained in her behaviour. Additionally, the verse that hints to Padmé’s tragic, untimely death suggests that her legacy, love and hope lives on in her children and in her handmaidens.

You’ve got a good heart

But I know it changes

A restless tide, untameable

….

You came my way and I knew a storm could come too

….

But I took your hand, promised I’d withstand

Any blaze you blew my way

‘Cause something inside, it solidified

And I knew I’d always stay

You can build me up, you can tear me down

You can try, but I’m unbreakable

You can do your best, but I’ll stand the test

You’ll find that I’m unshakeable

When the fire’s burnt

When the wind has blown

When the water’s dried, you’ll still find stone

My heart of stone

….

You say we’re perfect

A perfect family

….

And when I say you’re the only one I’ve ever loved

I mean those words truthfully

….

You can build me up, you can tear me down

You can try, but I’m unbreakable

You can do your best, but I’ll withstand the test

You’ll find that I’m unshakeable

When the fire’s burnt

The wind has blown

The water’s dried, you’ll still find stone,

My heart of stone

….

Soon I’ll have to go

I’ll never see him (them) grow

But I hope my son (twins) will know

He’ll (they’ll) never be alone

‘Cause like a river runs dry

And leaves it’s scars behind

I’ll be by your side

‘Cause my love

Is set in stone….

My heart of stone.

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song2lryics · 2 months

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youtube

[Verse 1: Joe Hawley] Don’t go in there, you’ll become one Freaky creatures, monster party Eyes of yellow, scales and feathers Tails and tethers, turn the lights off Bend the nightmare, you control it Artful dodger, easy does it Shut the closet, get under the covers Snakes and lovers, turn the lights off

[Chorus: Joe Hawley] Everybody likes to get taken for turns To see how bright the fire inside of us burns And everybody wants to get evil tonight But all good devils masquerade under the light

[Verse 2: Zubin Sedghi, Rob Cantor, (Joe Hawley), ( Rob Cantor and Joe Hawley)] Here’s the pinky, there’s the kinky Everybody, complicated Man and woman, baby child Calm and wild,turn the lights off Don’t remember (Day’s gone), what we look like (Night’s on) Younger holding (Day’s gone), one another (Light’s passed) Paper colors, (Day’s gone), tangle streaming (Night’s on) Tangle screaming (Light’s gone), turn the lights off [Chorus: Joe Hawley] Everybody likes to get taken for turns To see how bright the fire inside of us burns And everybody wants to get evil tonight But all good devils masquerade under the light [Verse 3: Joe Hawley, Zubin Sedghi, (Joe Hawley)] Can’t they take it? Should be stronger Books abandoned, breathe the water Mind distracted (Bad girls), sons and daughters (Good boys) Out for slaughter (Bad guys), turn the lights off [Bridge] Sparkles and shines on the water (Bet you’ve got a bone to pick with me) Seeps through the cumulus brume (Bet you’ve got a bone to pick with me) Tingles and tears while we’re gazing (Bet you’ve got a bone to pick with me) Vanishes soon after bedtime for good (Bet you’ve got a bone to pick with me) [Verse 4] Don’t you like it? (Day’s gone) I know I do (Night’s on) How about you? (Day’s gone) What do we know? (Light’s passed) Tiny patterns (Day’s gone), hypnotizing (Night’s on) Terrorizing (Light’s gone), turn the lights off [Chorus] Everybody likes to get taken for turns To see how bright the fire inside of us burns And everybody wants to get evil tonight But all good devils masquerade under the light [Outro] Chroma diamonds, twinkle brightly Dance in darkness, blow the nights off Sleepy child, spark desire Walk the fire...

#Tally hall #turn the lights off #Lyrics #music #Youtube

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deantvlove2018 · 11 months

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THE EXTRAORDINARY WORLD OF DEAN RODNEY JR

Hello and this is a special story of Dean Tv love. Titled the extraordinary world of Dean Rodney Jr, this title is based on an idea from an article from the wire magazine about me and the cowboys. 3 days left until the album launch, can’t wait to see everyone coming. Right on with the extraordinary world of Dean Rodney Jr. The begins as Dean finished training with his team for the grand final of S ball, he went into the bedroom looking at the poster that says The S team versus the Dean Tv team. But one day he sees a portal appear next to the bed. “What is that?” he thought. The portal made strange sounds like thunder, in the other room. Louise heard thunder, she thought the weather changed for some reason. She looked outside, there is nothing. In the bedroom the portal pulled Dean into the portal and closed. Pulling into the extraordinary world of Dean Rodney Jr. The extraordinary world of Dean Rodney Jr logo appears on the wall after the title sequence and the theme tune too. The extraordinary verse take place in a city called New Rodney city or N.R.C for short, it is similar to New york city. Dean in his bed sleeping, his alarm went off by the sound of the raven bird. Dean gets up. “What’s that noise?” he asked. “It’s only me Dean” said the raven. He looks at the raven and the Rodney shield with a black bird in the middle which is a raven. Dean walks towards it. “I’ve seen this before” he said. The raven opened the draw, it shows the uniform what Dean will be wearing. It has the raven bird symbol on it. “So what time is it?” asked Dean. “7:30 in the morning so far,breakfast is at 8. Have to be in uniform in that time too” said the raven. So Dean gets ready, he wears the uniform and made he’s way to the canteen joining the members of the Rodney knights. Dean sees Louise wearing the same uniform he’s wearing. But different because the raven symbol is red, that’s for the ladies and for the guys the raven symbol on their uniforms are black. “You’ve got a red one” said Dean. “Yes I know” said Louise. Dean looks at her identity badge, it says that Louise is one of the red ravens. Dean is one of the black ravens. They all have breakfast, after that the team went to work. Dean is the leader of the black ravens, he is training the new members. How to be a member of the Rodney knights. Till one day the alarm went off. The villain are causing trouble in the city, Dean and his knights went out to save the city. Dean and his team went on their flying bikes that looks like horses. They flew across the city avoiding flying cars and buses. One of the knights Vicky spots the bad guys in a truck. Flying away, the knights joined her. The villains start to fire at the knights with laser zappers, Dean tells the knights to fire at the villains. With their zappers firing from their bikes. The laser touched the truck and the truck slowly went to the ground. Dean and his knights went to see the bad guys. Dean and his team arrested the villains, the villains were collecting computer chips. The villains were taken inside a van. The van flew away. Dean and his knights went back to the Rodney knights headquarters. During break time Dean and Louise are outside in the garden. Dean sees a portal opens up. Louise of the real universe comes out of it. “There you are, I’ve found you” said Louise. The other Louise sees her other self for the first time. “Hey she looks like me” said Louise of the extraordinary verse. “That is you” said Dean. Dean sees the portal. “We must go now” said Louise. Dean nodded and waved goodbye to the other Louise. The other Louise waved too. Dean and Louise went into the portal to get back into the real world. The next day Dean starts to write about the extraordinary world on papers, he drew the shield with the raven bird in the middle. Louise sees what he’s doing. Meanwhile in the other world Dean is training the new members to drive a motor bike.

The End

1:34:06.67

#dean tv love special

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flynnaldridge23 · 1 year

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What sort of Party Wall May help Block Noise

When you've ever had a new party at the house, you'll learn how noisy they can acquire. But Party Wall Experts London might not have considered how a party wall can help prevent the noise. Simply by understanding a several basics, you can use choose the right party wall for your own home. Noise by party surfaces Get together walls are routine throughout residential properties. These are designed to divide two units, provide extra privacy and even fire protection. Although sometimes the noise through these walls is indeed a problem. The particular key to soundproofing party walls is usually a thorough strength and acoustic changes. Fortunately, there will be many options available. A single of the many effective ways to further improve the insulation of any party wall through installing an insulated liner. This style of liner is definitely insulated and fixed in order to the ceiling and even floor. If you're searching for a quick fix, you can in addition upgrade the walls with soundproofing panels. You can choose between direct-to-wall or perhaps general-household panels. Even so, soundproofing a gathering wall is a more complex project, and you should need to prepare carefully. Firstly, you should decide whether you want to soundproof the walls itself or include insulation. Either way, you'll need to be able to close off the gap between lining and even the party wall. Sealing up the space with green stuff, acoustic sealant or other standard making material can help. Injuries in lieu of making good Right now there are many reasons why a Building Operator may decide to pay Damages within lieu of producing good. This is definitely often the most cost effective way of resolving an issue. Nevertheless , it's crucial to understand precisely what is actually involved. Typically the first step in order to a claim is to serve a Gathering Wall Notice. A Party Wall Discover will contain a discover of the suggested work. Once the neighbour receives the notice, they have got 14 days to reply. If the neighbour will not respond in order to the notice, the particular Building Owner will need to take further procedure for resolve the matter. Including paying the particular surveyor's fees and even enclosure costs. An additional way to pay a dispute is to get a party wall award. This will allow the particular Building Owner to be able to carry out construction works. It is definitely also an chance to redress any damage that occurred during the works. This can become a very costly process. However, this is often the ultimate way to settle the issue. Distinctive line of junction observe If you are planning to construct a new walls or extension, you should consider a Range of Junction find. The line regarding junction is a great imaginary boundary line between adjoining properties. This line of junction is definitely a helpful tool for representing intent to protect your neighbours. Nevertheless, should your proposed extendable doesn't follow the legal requirements from the Party Wall Act, you may find yourself inside a challenging position. The Gathering Wall Act consists of several different sorts of party wall notices. Each one offers a specific purpose and serves a particular function. According to the type of wall structure you would like to build, an individual may be necessary to serve a Line of Verse notice. The most important thing to note is of which the party wall membrane act doesn't in fact determine whose land is whose. An individual will still need to consult with the neighbours and appoint surveyors. Building up in order to a Line associated with Junction (as contrary to building over the Line involving Junction) is the particular right of method. It entails constructing a wall inside 0 to 10mm of the legitimate boundary line. Conventional party wall principle If you're looking to build a wall structure, there are a few important points to bear in mind. You should consult an experienced you or surveyor just before you start virtually any work. Getting a good expert's advice may save you time and money. When building the party wall, really important to maintain your structural integrity of the wall in thoughts. You'll be able to additional insulating material into a party wall membrane to make certain sound from the adjoining device doesn't disturb the neighbors. In most cases, you need to have a great agreement in place that sets out and about what the required each party will be for maintaining the particular wall. This could cover structural issues and also routine upkeep. Your agreement might also spell out the particular repercussions in the event the some other party fails to fulfill their obligations. Usually, you'll will need to give see to the additional party before you start virtually any work. Section two of the Act requires that a person provide notice when the work expands past the center line of the particular party wall.

#Party Wall Experts London

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andacrylikebreakingglass · 2 years

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𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞.

--Angel follows you into the bathroom during a party. This is complete smut. I've also added a couple content warnings in the tags.

There’s a party going on when you and Angel reunite. He’s sitting with a bottle blonde perched on his legs like some exotic bird. She thinks she’s got status since she’s promising him pussy later. Like his dick is a throne that makes her a princess, but he’s not promising anything at all. The celebration’s for a brother who’s just returned after doing a bid, and he’s getting even more ass thrown his way. “California Love” bumps in the salvage yard through modified speakers while Angel’s fingers knead the woman’s skin in a way that made you cross your legs tight.

You’re more than familiar with the pressure of those fingers. Know the exact size and length. The way they curl and flex. Once everyone’s reciting Tupac’s verse, you make your way to the clubhouse to steal away inside the salvage yard restroom. You’re cooling your neck, using your purse as a clunky fan when someone knocks at the door.

“Someone’s in here,” you inform the person on the other side, but another knock sounds. Three slow raps rumble against the wood. You know it’s trouble before you even open the door, yet you still open the door. Trouble’s not something you’ve ever been good at keeping away from.

“You don’t need to be in here, crying over me,” he quips, wearing away at a toothpick between his teeth.

Everything about Angel is worn. From the overused denim jeans, faded at the knees to the cracked and dusty leather kutte. When he isn’t smirking, you can recognize the weary gaze settled into the corners of his eyes. You catch him staring at everything and nothing at times, weighed down by all the shit he’s done and the ghosts he’s made. And he was damn good at acting like he had no hang-ups. Got really good at drinking, smoking, and doing whatever the hell else made him feel good.

“I’ve never cried over a man,” you throw back much too eager. “Especially over no asshole like you.”

Angel smiles, knowing he’s got your number. You want to smack him when he begins to nod as if he’s figured out some great truth he’s unwilling to share. He flicks the toothpick to the floor. “The lady doth protest too much.”

“You’ve never read a single Shakespeare play in your life–hey!” you whisper sharply when he steps into the bathroom with you. You take a few steps back, standing on your toes and flattening your butt against the counter in the small space. Mild panic catches you by the throat, “The fuck are you doing? We shouldn’t be in here together.”

“Make up your mind,” he says, kissing his teeth. “You tell me to stop coming around, but you’re getting all pissy about some pass around?”

Your eyes make a slow roll, “You think I’m jealous because I went to the bathroom? The world doesn’t actually revolve around you.” He reaches up to palm the side of your face with his road-weathered hands. With his middle and forefinger, he drags at your bottom lip. You swat his hand away because any longer, and you were going to take his fingers into your throat.

He feigns injury, frowning as he shakes his hand. When the façade drops, he reminds you, “I’m not the one who broke this shit off.”

“Right, but you had no trouble movin’ on, though.” The jealously you swear you’re incapable of experiencing is leaching into your voice.

“That’s real cute comin’ from you, mama,” he says, squinting a little. His hand is back on you, palm flat against your bare chest. His touch leaves fire in its wake as he drags a heavy hand over your neck, easing off when he catches the thin fabric of your dress between his fingers. “You wear this for me?”

“Nope,” you say with no attempt to sound convincing.

You’d went out and dropped money you didn’t have on a new dress the moment you’d heard about this homecoming. It’s not incredibly practical to wear dresses to these types of things, especially not one this thin. And shit if it isn’t thin. You feel your nipples straining against the material and know he can see it, too. He smiles at this, then looks up at your face with his jaw set. Angel is pulling down the spaghetti straps until your breasts are bare.

“If someone comes in here–”

“Mm, like that doesn’t excite you,” he says, leaning in. You throw your head back, expecting to feel his lips on your hardened nipples, but he retreats a few paces. “Turn around.” You’re about to protest when his smile dissolves into a hard glare. “Don’t make me say it again.

Despite wanting to know where disobedience will get you, you follow orders. You face the mirror, and you can see him dipping to the floor in the mirror’s reflection. Between your dress rising over your ass and your underwear being pulled down to your ankles, your chest heaves with anticipatory breaths.

“All that talk, but I still got you drippin’,” he says. You’re about to toss a witty reply over your shoulder when you feel his tongue against your heat. There’s no room in the small space for foreplay. Yeah, Angel knows how to make himself feel good, but he’s even better at pulling pleasure from you.

More than pleasure, though, the feeling of his tongue heavy on your clit also gives you a peculiar sense of comfort. He grabs hold of your thighs, taking a firm grip of your flesh. His tongue makes a mess, licking a trail from your clit up your ass where he spends some time probing the puckered flesh before slipping back down to lap at your entrance. You arch your back a little– more. He pushes his tongue inside, and you gasp again, biting your lip. Gripping the sink for leverage, you put a little more curve in your back so you can rock back and forth. So you can fuck his tongue.

He's moaning between your legs. A yearning hum comes from deep in his chest as he runs his firm, lithe tongue inside before enclosing his mouth around your clit. Angel could do this all night, if given the chance. He enjoys eating you out almost as much as he enjoys fucking you. Almost. He stands tall in the next moment, snaking an arm up to your throat from behind. You twist your body uncomfortably for something that’s way too sloppy to be called a kiss. No tenderness. Just the two of you tasting the raw lust on each other’s tongues. His other hand pulls at his buttons and buckles as he sucks and bites at your bottom lip. He pulls away again, placing a forceful hand on the center of your back before easing your chest down onto the counter.

With your ass is in the air, he pushes himself in deep, greedily bottoming out on the first stroke. He manages to keep his voice to a restrained curse while your own moan rips through the space. It’s muffled by a Jadakiss song, but you know that was too damn loud. Encouraged by your voice, he finds a harsh rhythm, crushing your hips, stomach, and thighs into the countertop. It’s a pain you’ll feel in the morning, but right now, you’re drowning in your own desire. You revel in the stretch each time he sinks within you. He grasps a fistful of your dress, and you hear the fabric threatening to come apart.

“You’re ripping it–” Your lazy voice is clipped as he lifts your bent knee up onto the countertop. How deep he gets now…God, it’s like he’s punishing you.

One glimpse of yourself in the mirror, and you realize how pitiful you look. Jaw slack and eyes half-open. Your eyes meet in the mirror while he’s pushing into you. “I’m gonna make you feel me all night.”

You grip the unfinished undersides of the sink, mewling at Angel’s cruelty. You never want this penance to end, but he’s almost over the edge. You can tell by the change in rhythm and can see the hardness in his face soften. Your own pleasure approaches in fiery waves that erode your senses. Your cries sound like they’re outdoing the music with each forceful thrust Angel sends up and into your cunt. A little while longer…just a little bit slower, and you can get there with him.

With one hand gripping your waist, and the other clutching your breast, he fully sheathes himself again and again. “Sh-shit…”

The room drifts from around you just then. This angle lets him touch a place that brings tears to your eyes. A spot only Angel knows how to find. You’re a damn mess, whimpering and begging him to drive it out of you. Just when you’re on the precipice of shattering, his hips still. Just like that, your high is ripped from you, and you’re crashing back down to the room with lead tied to your limbs.

Angel spills inside you, grunting his release. The next moments happen like flashes of a dream. He pulls away from you, out of you, leaving you bent over, cold, and wanting.

It’s sluggish, the way you stand upright, wincing at the soreness settling in your bones. He’s moving at double the speed, fastening his belt in record time. You reach for the napkins at the edge of the sink, but he disapproves.

“Unh uh,” he shakes his head. “Pull ‘em up.” The realization comes a half-second later as he’s pulling your underwear back up. He wants you to go back out there like this. Marked up and tainted. “There you go, pouting again.” You catch the slight frown, but you’re too flustered to soften your face. “If you wanna get yours–” he holds you by the neck, pulling you in for another vulgar kiss. “–you got my number, huh?”

He’s on the other side of the door, and you give yourself exactly thirty seconds to snap the hell out of it. There’s no time to let frustration or a pesky thing like shame haunt you. You examine yourself in the mirror, pulling the straps back up over your shoulders and straightening the dress as best you can. If it’d been a little earlier in the night, a more sober eye could probably catch your swollen lips and the way your dress fits a bit looser in places where the stitches have popped. Just a few sprays of perfume from your purse are enough to conceal the smell of sex souring on your skin before you make your departure.

The party is still in full swing when you get back to the scrapyard. You feel like you’ve been gone all night, but it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes.

Walking is damn near unbearable. He’s careful not to leave any permanent marks, but that doesn’t mean his words don’t ring in your ears. Phantom touches are all over your body, and the worst of it? Angel’s slick is soaking into your panties. I’m gonna make you feel me all night.

You pull two beers from the cooler and pass by Angel with the bottle blonde on one of the picnic benches. She’s sewing a patch on his leather jacket, and you wonder how long until you can give him a proper congratulations for his new rank in the MC. You find your place on the arm of a beat-up chair that’s been dragged out for el presidente.

You offer the man beside you the other beer, and he accepts it before popping the top. He leans in, taking a break from shooting the shit to throw an arm around your waist.

“You good?” Obispo asks, stroking your arm with his cold thumb.

You nod, leaning in for a quick kiss.

While Obispo returns his attention back to the boys, you steal glances at Angel who appears to have been leering at you for some time now. His stare is intense, reminiscent of the way he’d been glowering at you in the mirror when he had you bent over.

“All good.”

#angel reyes #mayans mc #black!reader #angel reyes x you #angel reyes x black!reader #black reader #reader insert #mayans fanfiction #mayans fanfic #black writers #content warnings: mention of slut-shaming; infidelity

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takesarms-blog · 6 years

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a smile is slow to form on her lips, a tiny laugh on her lips. hazel eyes bright and playful as she looks up at him. ‘ aw’ ya remember me birthday ! ’ she grinned. ‘ i’ll ‘appily take that christmas wrapped birthday present. ’

❛ contained from / @violentarts

#❛ you’ve got a fire inside / verse one.#❛ verse one / interactions.#violentarts #madebymiz #❛ interactions / madebymiz.#❛ madebymiz / in some things you just can’t help but falling.

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scuttling · 3 years

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Paper Rings

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 10,191 Tags: SFW, Fluff, Literature, Friends to lovers, Everyone thinks they're dating, There was only one bed, Some angst with a happy ending, Confessing love in the rain, TW fire and blood/wound Summary: Some of my favorite tropes rolled into one cute fic inspired by Taylor Swift's Paper Rings. (lyrics and music) Link to A03 or read below! “Good morning, my friendly neighborhood crime fighters,” Penelope says as she enters the briefing room, wearing a dress that is bright bubblegum pink, with fingerless gloves and glasses to match. You, Derek, and Spencer groan your replies, because you just got home from a case last night, with less than seven hours between arriving at your apartment and returning to the office, and that is everyone’s least favorite thing.

You can’t deny that her typical sunny disposition makes you smile a little bit brighter, but you’re still exhausted, and even your usual extra large travel mug of breakfast blend is barely taking the edge off.

That’s probably why, when Aaron enters with trays of steaming espresso drinks from the cafe down the street, and a striped box of donuts, you act like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Oh my god, I love you. Thank you, I love you.” He got an array of basic drinks based on everyone’s usual orders, and you scan for one that has something with latte, but he takes one out and hands it to you, smiling when you take a sip and sigh—okay, he’s smiling with his eyes, but you are well versed in his body language and facial expressions, and he’s practically grinning at getting your order (triple one pump hazelnut extra hot latte) correct.

You are not the only one to notice.

“Get a room, you two; it’s just coffee,” Derek says, taking the white mocha from the tray and drinking half of it in one sip. “Now if you tell me there’s a bear claw in there, I’ll confess my undying love too.”

“I don’t know; I asked for an assortment,” he says, and it’s clear he did, but your cup has your name on it; you cover the ink with your hand and take another grateful sip. “I do know there’s a plain glazed in there, though,” he says a bit lower, just for you, and you smile, give his wrist a squeeze, and dive for it before Jennifer Jareau can get her hands on it.

That’s all the morning meeting consists of—bickering and bantering and caffeine and carb consumption—and when the group disperses, you follow Aaron to his office and sit down in the chair across from his.

“Thanks again for breakfast. You definitely raised the morale of the troops,” you say with a sip of your perfect latte, and he shares the hint of a smile.

“You’re welcome. It helps that you’re all so easy to appease.” He flips open his bag, pulls out a small, worn, paperback book, tosses it toward you. You pick it up, run your hand over the well-loved cover, and hum.

“The Call of the Wild—this made it into the Aaron Hotchner Nightstand Collection?” He arches a brow.

“It’s so overrated that it’s underrated; no one ever actually reads it, they just assume they know what it’s about. It’s a great book, if you’ll give it a chance.”

“Hey, you’ve read all of mine without complaint; of course I’ll give it a chance.” You take the last, sad sip of your latte and stand up, point out the door with your thumb. “Speaking of, mine’s still downstairs on my desk. I’ll be right back.”

Exchanging books started as an offhand comment one night, on a flight home from Georgia, when he’d mentioned that he never buys new books, only cycles through the same ten or twelve he’s been reading since college. He knows what he likes, finds something different in the text each time he reads, and you’d found something so profoundly beautiful about that that you’d asked for the list. You wanted to know more about the books that tug at his emotions enough that he’s read them day in and day out for over twenty years with no boredom in sight.

He’d done you one better, said he’d be happy to lend them to you, if you’d like, and that was an offer you couldn’t refuse. Seeing college-aged Aaron’s notes in the margins of battered paperback novels was a prospect too good to be true.

Of course, you couldn’t accept the gesture without returning one of your own, so you’d offered to share your favorite books with him too, only... you don’t exactly give him your favorite books. You purposefully buy the cheesiest romance novels you can get your hands on, pass them off to him while he hands you poignant, classic novels that have won literary awards and Nobel prizes.

Today’s is called Lord of Scoundrels, complete with a shirtless man on the cover, kissing a woman with dark, flowing hair and a light blue dress; you snicker the whole way to your desk and back up to his office—earning curious glances from the rest of the team—and when you drop it on the desk in front of Aaron, you watch closely for a reaction.

As usual, he doesn’t really give you one, just flips the book over, skims the summary on the back, and nods.

“Sounds interesting,” he says, and your heart does a little flip.

He could easily hand the book back, laugh in your face, refuse to read something so clearly out of his wheelhouse, but he thinks these novels are important to you, and he never fails to read them, offering his favorite parts the same way you do for his.

The world probably doesn’t deserve Aaron Hotchner; you definitely don’t.

“I think you’ll really like it. Sebastian and Jessica start out kind of indifferent toward each other, but the more they interact, the more they find they have in common. It’s very acquaintances to friends to lovers, if you’re into that.” He looks up with an expression you place as uncertainty, even if you’re not quite sure the reason for it. You smile softly. “I should get to work, but thanks for the book. I’ll see you at lunch?”

It’s been so nice lately that you started taking your lunch outside, sitting on a bench beneath a huge, shady oak tree, and Aaron had taken to doing the same; you both quickly realized it was stupid to sit outside together, apart, so you meet up in the bullpen now and walk out side by side, spend the hour talking about your books or the team or Jack or life in general. He shakes the uncertain expression, nods his head.

“Of course. Thank you,” he says with a wave of the book, and you head back downstairs to start your day.

You’ve become mostly accustomed to the feeling, but it still surprises you a little when all that gets you through the day is thinking about your next conversation with Aaron. A week later, you’re on a case in Pittsburgh, and you and Aaron are paired up to room together. That’s nothing unusual—it seems like you’ve been rooming together more often than not lately, which is fine by you; he’s tidy, quiet, always interested in a late night snack, pretty much the perfect roommate—but when he opens the door and you step inside, the single king size bed in the middle of the room takes you by surprise.

“Uh… do you think it’s a mistake? Or maybe they just ran out of doubles?” you suggest; he's kind of frozen in place, and while it’s not ideal, you know it’s not actually going to be a problem. You’ve shared a bed with JJ before, and Spencer, and even though you don’t feel the same way about them as you do about Aaron, you think you can manage a couple nights in close quarters.

“Probably just ran out of doubles,” he agrees after a moment; he doesn’t bring up calling the front desk to ask for another room, so you don’t either, just hang your clothes and head into the bathroom to change into your pajamas and do your nightly routine.

It’s a little awkward at first, and you don’t know why; over the last six months or so, he’s actually become your closest friend on the team, and conversation usually comes easily, but silence settles over the room uncomfortably as you slip between the sheets on your side of the bed.

He goes into the bathroom, does his own nightly routine, then comes out in his pajamas and turns on CNN.

You take out your book, pay no attention to Aaron, but the longer he sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the news ticker on the television screen but not actually watching it, the more you wish he’d just get over himself and come to bed. If he’s trying to wait for you to fall asleep, he’s going to be waiting a while.

“So you were right; I love Buck,” you say as a way to start some conversation, to bring some normalcy to this unusual situation. You hold up the book you’re reading, the one he let you borrow. “His struggle between remaining loyal to his owner and answering the call of the wild—I love dogs, but I never imagined a book about a dog could be so moving.”

He turns back with a soft smile, then switches off the tv and heads over to his side of the bed; he pulls back the comforter, slides between the sheets, meets you toward the middle of the bed.

“I told you you’d like it; what chapter are you on?” He leans over to look, so close it wouldn’t take much to lift a hand and brush it over his hair; it looks unfairly soft, and part of you wants to card your fingers through it, to tug on it and mess it up a little. He probably wouldn’t even mind if you did.

“Chapter 7—I only have a few pages left.” You snuggle more comfortably against your pillow, lean into his shoulder, and move the book so it’s more evenly between you. “Want to finish it with me?”

He does, and you read silently at a similar pace; he reaches up to turn the pages, and you think about how these hands have flipped through this book so many times before, what he might have been thinking, feeling, while reading. It’s a more intimate act than you’ve shared with anyone in a really long time.

When you finish the book, you sigh, let the feeling of reading a really great story envelope you; you turn to face Aaron, and he’s looking at you… and then there’s a knock at the door that startles you both.

He gets up, walks over and checks the peep hole, then opens the door.

“Are you sure?” you hear JJ ask, and he steps back so she can enter the room; when she sees you tucked snugly into the middle of the bed, she shoots you a soft smile and mouths you’re welcome, which makes absolutely no sense without context. You’ll have to bring it up to her later and ask what exactly you’re supposed to be thanking her for.

“So you said the detective called?” Aaron prompts her, and she looks away from you, nods.

“Yes, he wanted me to ask if we could have a few agents meet him at the second crime scene tomorrow instead of the precinct, figured it could save a little time.” Aaron looks confused, like he doesn’t see why this couldn’t have waited until tomorrow, but he ultimately agrees.

“Sure. You, Reid, and Prentiss can head straight there, if that’s what he wants. I’ll let them know in the morning.” JJ nods, and looks over at you, and then back at Aaron, who makes a kind but curious face. “Was there something else?”

“Huh? Oh, no, that’s it. I just didn’t want to forget. I’ll let you guys go—enjoy the rest of your night,” she says with a smile and a wave, and when he closes the door behind her, you both exchange a look.

She’s definitely acting a little weird, but it’s late, so you give her the benefit of the doubt.

You scoot over to your side, put the book on the nightstand and switch off your lamp; Aaron climbs back into bed and switches his off, too, and he turns to face the wall while you lay on your back and stare at the ceiling.

It takes about half an hour, but he falls asleep first; you turn to face him, watching his back, following the rise and fall as he softly breathes in sleep, and the peaceful rhythm lulls you into submission, and you drift off as well.

When you wake up a couple hours later, he is on his stomach with his face pressed into his pillow, and you are draped over his back with your cheek against his t-shirt. It’s soft, and warm, and smells like him, and you glance at the clock and realize it’s too early to do anything but get comfortable and fall back asleep, so that’s exactly what you do.

The next time you wake up, to light creeping in between the curtains, Aaron is no longer in bed, but you’re holding his pillow, still warm beneath your cheek. He doesn’t act weird when you get up and start moving around, just pops out of the bathroom with his toothbrush dangling from his mouth.

“Got you a latte,” he says around it, gesturing to the desk and the pair of paper cups that sit on it, and you grin.

“Seriously, you’re my favorite human,” you answer, and you grab your coffee and lean against the doorframe, sipping and sighing until you’re a little more clear-headed. “Sorry if I crushed you; guess I was restless last night. I usually don’t move around that much.”

He just shrugs, spits out a mouthful of foam into the sink.

“You didn’t crush me. I’m pretty solid, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’ve noticed,” you tease, looking at him over the lid as you take another sip. “Now hurry up and quit hogging the bathroom if you want to leave here at a decent hour.” He rinses, zips up his toiletry bag noisily for dramatic effect, and slips past you, rubbing a hand over your unruly bed head as he goes. The day passes quickly, with lots of interviewing witnesses, following dead-end leads, and bad police station coffee. When Aaron calls it and tells everyone to get some dinner, you all split off into smaller groups—Spencer and Derek go for Chinese, JJ and Emily opt for pizza, and you and Aaron end up at a retro diner with burgers and milkshakes and a plate of fries between you to share.

“I think we should be focusing more on the docks,” you say, dipping a fry in ketchup and taking a bite. “Even if that’s not where the bodies end up, it seems to be where the unsub is meeting with the victims. We could stake it out tonight, maybe. If you want.” You never want to step on his toes, because he is the boss, the leader, even if you’re friends too; you try to be careful how you phrase things, especially in front of other people, because you don’t want your comfort to look like disrespect, however unintentional.

“That’s a good idea. You and I can head down there after this; I’ll let the others know to patrol nearby, in case we need backup.”

He dusts off his fingers and pulls out his phone, types out a text, and you look around the restaurant—the place looks like it was ripped right out of the 50s, with a checkered floor and lots of red vinyl, a shiny jukebox in the corner. Out of place is a flatscreen tv behind the counter; during the day, when it’s busier, it might play news or sports, but you two are the only ones here at the moment, so the staff is hanging out beneath it watching a movie. It’s Titanic, you realize, when the iconic ‘Rose floating on a piece of debris’ scene plays, and you snort, take a long drag of your chocolate shake.

“I always hated this part. They could have found a way for him to survive, too. Unnecessary death for the heartache factor,” you say, and Aaron looks up from his phone to the screen, makes a sound of contemplation.

“I always thought it was kind of romantic. When you love someone, you’d do anything for them to be okay, even at your own expense. Even if it’s stupid.” You look over his face, study the features you know like the back of your hand, and you guess you can kind of see that, but you can’t say that, so you just sigh.

“I suppose you think Romeo and Juliet is romantic, too,” you tease, and he looks back at you, rolls his eyes.

“It’s very much of its time; it's a lot harder to suffer a miscommunication like that these days. And there is something to be said for star-crossed lovers—people who shouldn’t be together, for one reason or another, but can’t help but drift close anyway.” You swirl your straw in the metal cup, thinking briefly of how that happens to describe the two of you, and when you look up at him, you think you see a hint of that same thought on his face.

More likely, that’s just wishful thinking.

“I like the sword-fights,” you say to lighten the mood, and he laughs, and you both polish off the rest of your food and then head for the docks.

Two hours in and absolutely nothing has happened, but just when you’re ready to complain, or suggest playing I Spy or something, there’s movement from one of the shipping containers to your right. You nudge Aaron, point to the container, and you both creep closer, trying to make out the situation.

When you’re just around the corner, it’s clearly two men fighting, but you obviously don’t know if this is your unsub, two random guys having it out on the docks, or what, so you mutually agree to wait until you have some kind of sign that this is your guy. When one of them pulls out a hunting knife that looks vaguely similar to your murder weapon—as close as you can tell in the dark, anyway—you raise your guns and identify yourselves as FBI.

The unsub drops the knife, but fists his hands in the other guy’s jacket, manhandles him to the edge of the dock, and shoves him into the water, then jumps as well. You swear, and Aaron takes off his jacket, throws it on the ground, then his phone on top of it, and looks back at you.

“Stay here and call for backup,” he instructs, and then he jumps in too; you call the team from your comms, get a response from Emily, and then toss your phone onto Aaron’s jacket and follow him.

He, of course, went for the victim first, so you look for the unsub, who is not visible above the water. You completely submerge yourself, feeling for more than looking for him, because the water is cloudy on a good day and pitch black at ten o’clock at night; when you pop your head up for air, you see Aaron getting the victim up onto the dock, and the unsub bobbing a bit further out. You swim to him, limbs aching, and he seems to know it’s time to give up.

He’s winded, gasping for breath, so you keep him above the water to your own detriment, dragging him by his wet jacket instead of cuffing him, because you’re not trying to kill the guy or lug his unconscious body back to shore. You just barely keep your own head above water most of the time, coming up for big gulps of air when absolutely necessary.

You finally make it to the dock, and your team has arrived, so Derek pulls him out of the water, makes sure he’s alright, and puts some cuffs on him. Aaron’s hands are on you right after, getting you up on the dock, wrapping a towel around your shoulders.

Despite the warm spring breeze, the water was freezing, and you can feel your teeth chattering. He rubs your arms for warmth, crouches down to look you seriously in the eyes.

“Thought I told you to stay here,” he says with an arched brow, a scowl you can tell is more concerned than angry. You wet your frozen lips and try your best to smile.

“You jump, I jump, Jack.”

He looks at you like you’re an idiot, but fondly, if that’s possible, then hugs you so tightly, guides your face to press against his warm neck. How he’s not teetering on the edge of hypothermia is anyone’s guess.

“Your lips are practically blue. Stupid,” he murmurs, but his mouth dusts over your temple in what is unmistakably a kiss, and when you’re able to feel your lips again, you reciprocate, press them a little harder against his throat while you shiver in his arms.

It doesn’t mean anything except I’m happy we’re both alive. Probably.

That night in bed, he faces the wall, and you stare at the ceiling, but you wake up with your nose against the back of his neck. The way he’s breathing tells you he’s not asleep, and when you wrap your arms around him, he holds them tight. Things don’t change after Pittsburgh, and that’s okay. You are comfortable with the way things are, and you love what you have—lunches under the oak tree, the exchange of books, late night texts when you both can’t sleep, hands brushing when you walk to the parking garage, glances shared across the jet. All those things make it easy not to focus on what you don’t have, what you’re not even sure Aaron would want anyway.

You exchange books again on Friday at lunch: he hands you Beloved by Toni Morrison, a book you already know and adore, and you hand him Ravished by Amanda Quick.

“Dubbed the Beast of Blackthorne Hall for his scarred face and lecherous past, Gideon,” Aaron shoots you a glance—“that’s purely coincidental”—“was strong and fierce and notoriously menacing. Yet Harriet could not find it in her heart to fear him. For in his tawny gaze she sensed a savage pain she longed to soothe... and a searing passion she yearned to answer.”

You hold back a smile.

“It’s a modern retelling of a classic story—Beauty and the Beast,” you add, taking a bite of your sandwich. He looks you over like there’s something he wants to say, but he just tucks it under his arm and steals a piece of melon from your lunch.

“I have Jack this weekend, so I probably won’t get to read much, but it sounds intriguing.”

“Well I hope you like it when you read it. Tell him I said hi; it’s been too long since I saw him. I bet he’s looking more like you every day,” you say, popping a piece of melon into your mouth. He smiles softly.

“A little, but Haley says she sees her father in him, and I have to agree. We may have to wait a few years until he looks like me; he’s too cute for that now.” He doesn’t sound self-deprecating, just fond, but you can’t let a comment like that stand, regardless.

“You’re cute; the difference is that kids are cute all the time. You’re an adult, so sometimes you’re handsome, sometimes you’re cute, sometimes you’re hot… it can be hard to reconcile.” This time, he looks you over with something light and playful in his eyes, and it’s something you want to explore, but the timer on your phone goes off, indicating that lunch is over, so you just exhale softly and pack up your things.

You don’t talk much after that—his Fridays are usually busy with meetings, and he leaves in a hurry to pick up Jack, which is understandable.

Emily, JJ, and Penelope invite you out for drinks and dinner—“because we know Hotch is busy,” Penelope says, which has literally nothing to do with your weekend plans, but you don’t correct them—so you don’t linger either.

You go out for Italian, so you are sleepy and full of wine and pasta by the end of the evening, and you smile at your friends.

“Thanks for inviting me out tonight, guys. I had a really good time.”

“Of course,” Emily says, taking her last sip of Pinot Noir. “We barely see you anymore; it was long overdue.”

“Definitely,” you agree. “I should really try to drag my ass out of bed more often.” You can’t help it, though, that after a long day, your bed and a good book just call your name. You’ve always been introverted in that way. JJ laughs softly, chin in her palm, elbow on the table.

“Honeymoon phase. Give it another couple months and you’ll be past that.” You do have a new memory foam mattress that has made sinking into the pillows and blankets all that more indulgent, but you didn’t think JJ knew about that. And you’ve never heard of a honeymoon phase for a mattress before.

“Eh, I don’t think so. There’s literally nothing more satisfying on this earth.” The three of them exchange an amused look, but your phone vibrates, and that catches your attention; you smile when it’s Aaron, sending you a photo of Jack with a toothy grin and his hands covered in fingerpaint. You look up to the sound of chairs scraping against the floor.

“Alright, we’ve lost her. See you all Monday,” Emily says, pulling you in for a hug; when she steps back, she smiles. “And tell Hotch we said hi.”

“I will,” you promise as you hug the other two. You hang back a moment, type out a reply—Looks like you’re having lots of fun without me!—and get into your car to head home.

You change into comfy clothes, drink a glass of water, and climb into bed with Beloved, and at around 9:30 you receive a reply.

Having the most fun we can without you. Maybe next time Jack is over, we can tempt you with dinosaur chicken nuggets and fingerpaint?

You smile, the happiest you’ve been all night—and that’s saying something, because you really did have a great time—and send back, It’s a date. Come Monday, you’re feeling pretty good, well-rested and relaxed from probably too much time in bed, but Aaron looks upset when he walks into the morning meeting. He keeps it short and sweet, and everyone disperses quickly, giving you sympathetic looks as you hang back to try to have a word with him. He clears off the white board, tidies up the table that doesn’t need tidying, and you place a hand on his back, gentle and comforting. He sighs, and you can feel the tension leave him almost instantly.

“Hey. What’s bothering you?” you ask softly, leaning around to try to catch his expression; he looks tired, sad, and maybe a little conflicted, leans into your touch.

“Taking Jack back to Haley’s was rough last night; it always is, but yesterday was really bad.” You know a little about this from weekends past, how Jack always cries when Aaron has to leave, how he feels terrible about it for the rest of the evening, but it must have been extreme for him to still be so upset. “And Haley…” He sighs again, runs his hand through his hair. “It’s like it’s one step forward, two steps back with her sometimes.”

“Why don’t we go sit in your office and you can tell me more?” You want to continue discussing this—that’s what friends are for, and he’s clearly in a bad state emotionally, you think it could help—but he just shakes his head.

“No, I… it’s okay. I don’t want to weigh you down with my problems.” You take your hand off his back, lean a hip against the table and look up at him.

“I’m not just your friend when it’s all easy breezy, lunch in the sunshine, talking about our favorite books,” you say with a sad smile; he reciprocates a little, which is more than you expected. “I’m here when things are complicated, when you have bad days, too. The Monday blues especially.” One of his hands rests on the table, and you cover it with yours, lean in to press your forehead to his shoulder. “Let me be here, okay? Even if all you need me to do is listen.”

It takes a moment, and his eyes are wet when he finally responds; he inhales deeply, nods, and brushes his free hand over your head in something of a hug, murmurs a rough, “okay.”

You sit in his office for an hour—which, again, is more than you expected—listening to him talk about his weekend with Jack, how heartbreaking it was to take him back to Haley’s, how he tried talking to her about taking him more often and she just wasn’t sure she could trust him to do what he says he’ll do. He understands where she’s coming from, knows he’s been unable to keep his word in the past, thinks he doesn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt; he hasn’t asked for advice, seems to just want to vent, so you just listen.

“Then I mentioned you, that you might come for dinner next time he’s over, and she was worried about that,” he says, exasperated, and you frown.

“Why would she worry about that? I’ve been around him lots of times.” It doesn't make sense, because Haley has always been nothing but sweet to you; Aaron looks up at your question, and it seems a little like maybe he hadn’t meant to say that part, though you can’t imagine why.

“It’s just different now… because he’s older,” he says after a brief moment of hesitation. “She doesn’t want him getting attached to someone who might not always be around, you know.” You sigh softly, because if that’s all it is…

You lean forward, take his hand, squeeze it tight.

“I’m always going to be around, Aaron. I can talk to her, if you want, tell her that.”

“No, it’s—you don’t have to do that.” He squeezes your hand back, closes his eyes for a beat. “Just hearing you say it, it makes things easier. I’ll talk to her again next time.”

You talk a little more, and he seems a lot better afterward, even if he is a bit less expressive during lunch; you figure any progress is good, but it makes you sad to see him so down, so naturally, you formulate a plan to help get him back to the Aaron you know and love.

At the end of the day, when he makes his way to the bullpen, you spin around in your chair, take him by the sleeve.

“You’re coming home with me tonight,” you say in no uncertain tone of voice. “For a few hours. I’ll bring you back for your car.” He agrees with a fond look, and you lose yourself in the expression for a moment, then stand up, grab your things, and walk with him out to the garage.

Rush hour traffic is what it is, and you leave Aaron in charge of the music, which means you get The Beatles and The Who, Rolling Stones and Neil Diamond, and you’re both singing along and so much happier by the time you pull into the parking lot of the bodega nearest your apartment.

“Just running in for provisions—be right back,” you say with a grin, and when you return with two paper bags of loot, he looks at you like you might be his favorite person in the world with an age in the double digits. It’s a look you love putting on his face.

“Do I get to see what provisions you’ve acquired?” he asks, teasing, but you shake your head and tell him he’ll see it when you get there.

With a pit stop in your apartment to grab a blanket and a few throw pillows, you take him up to the roof and get things ready for your makeshift picnic. There is white wine, still mostly chilled; cubed cheese, far from gourmet but no less delicious; crusty french bread that was fresh this morning but at this hour is a little extra crusty; blueberries, because they didn’t have grapes; dark chocolate, because you share a fondness for it; and paper cups for the wine.

Aaron takes a look at your bounty, spread over the blanket, and smiles the first real smile you’ve seen all day.

“Fancy,” he teases, and he takes off his jacket, gets on the ground with you. You pour each of you some wine, pop a blueberry in your mouth.

“No, but I thought a meal—and I do call it that loosely—under the stars might do you some good.” You lift your paper cup and tap it against his, brush your fingers over his hand. “To the best boss, best dad, best friend I could ask for.” You take a sip, but he doesn’t at first, watches you with something simmering behind his eyes.

“Do I get to make a toast?” he asks after a few beats, and you smile, nod, and hold up your cup. “To the only person stupid enough to jump into a freezing cold river after me. To the only person I would consider eating a bodega dinner with. To the only person who sees me the way you do.” You both take a sip, which is hard to swallow around the lump in your throat. He looks into your eyes, then breaks the dark chocolate into slivers and hands you a piece like he didn’t just say the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to you before.

You eat, and talk, and drink, and when you’re done with dinner you put everything back in the bags and lay back on the blanket, side by side, and stare up at the stars. The moon is high and full, shining while the stars twinkle around it, and you can’t think of a single time you’ve ever felt more at peace.

“This was really perfect,” Aaron says, almost a whisper, after about twenty minutes of companionable silence. “I can’t thank you enough for being there for me today.” You turn to face him, hands curled up under your chin, and he turns toward you as well. He’s so handsome in the moonlight your heart almost aches.

“You don’t have to thank me. I just wanted to see you happy.” You feel your eyes well up with tears, because he deserves to be happy; you sigh, blink them away, and he leans in and presses his lips to your forehead, rests them there for a long time. When he eventually pulls back, you bring a hand to his hair, brush it back at his temple, and then the creaking of the door makes you pull back, sit up.

It’s your neighbor from 422, who you’ve seen on the roof a handful of times, sneaking away from his wife to smoke a cigarette. He squints in the dark, recognizes you, and waves.

“Hey, 418! You’re not alone tonight.” Aaron sits up too, and you laugh softly.

“Nope, but we were just leaving. The roof is all yours.” Aaron stands, pulls you up, and you grab the blanket and pillows while he grabs the bags, and the two of you head back down to your place.

It’s after ten when you get the groceries put away, and you stand next to Aaron in your small kitchen, contemplating what you want to say next. Your mouth betrays your brain, says what you’ve been thinking but weren’t quite sure how to approach.

“It’s late; I know I said I’d take you back to your car, but you could stay here if you want. I have a spare toothbrush, and I know you have a spare suit at the office, and it’s not like it’s the first time we’ve shared a bed before.”

You’d completely understand if he’d rather go home—you hate when your plans are changed at the last minute, and you prefer to do your full nightly routine for your sanity’s sake—but he only nods, and you lead your way to the bedroom, show him the master bath.

You are in your pajamas, tucked into bed, when he comes out in his boxers and undershirt; he hangs up his suit in your closet where you’d left him some space, then climbs in beside you. He looks over at you, then past you, at your nightstand, which has a stack of books on it—none of them romance novels. You grin, busted after months of book exchanges, and he leans over you to look at the titles.

“Persuasion, To Kill A Mockingbird, One Hundred Years of Solitude—Beloved.” He looks from your copy of the novel to his, which you hold in your hands, and you shrug sheepishly.

“I like reading the notes you put in the margins,” you say meekly, hoping he’s not angry, but all he does is laugh.

“Let me guess: you don’t actually like romance novels.” He leans back against your pillow, and so do you, resting the book on your lap.

“I mean, I don’t not like them… but I’ve been buying those just for you.” The smile on his face is brilliant, and only makes you yearn for him more; things you have been purposefully not feeling are flooding your heart and mind and body now, with him so close, laughing over this stupid secret you’ve been hiding for so long. “And you, sweet man that you are, have been reading them, and discussing them.” You put your hand on his shoulder, and he ducks his head to laugh again.

“Since we’re being honest… I didn’t read all of them. I tried,” he says when you act offended, shoving the shoulder you’re resting against, “but some of them were so bad. I just flipped through, found something I thought could pass as my favorite part, and hoped to hell you didn't ask too many questions.”

You both laugh until you’re breathless—he is so different from how he was this morning it makes you want to cry—and when your laughter dies down you look at each other, sharing breath, two heads on one pillow; is it any wonder you bridge the distance, pull him close for a warm, gentle kiss?

When you break the kiss, you are instantly worried about what Aaron will do—you aren’t drunk, aren’t even tipsy, so you know he can’t be, so much bigger and more solid than you, but will he think it’s a mistake? He kissed back, you’re pretty sure, but maybe that was an accident, something done on autopilot—

He leans in for a second kiss, mouth deceptively soft, and you curl your arm around his back, press into it with lips desperate not to let this end now that it’s started. When you separate, you are both looking into each other’s eyes again, breathing a bit heavily, and you meet in the middle for a third kiss, the best kiss you’ve ever had in your life.

That kiss ends when you yawn in his face, and he chuckles softly, leans over and switches off your bedside lamp; you smile at the ceiling, and he wraps his arms around you, presses his lips to your shoulder, and tells you good night. The next day, the two of you arrive at work early so he can shower and change into his fresh clothes without anyone on the team noticing—not that you think they would really care, but they’re nosy, and a little annoying, so you both agree that’s probably for the best.

You don’t talk about the kisses, even though they’ve been the only thing running through your mind since they happened; you promise to discuss it at lunch, though, and that’s such a sweet, romantic prospect that you think you prefer it better that way anyway.

Only, you don’t ever get to lunch, because there’s an urgent case in Minneapolis, an all hands on deck situation, meaning even Penelope joins you on the jet. You debrief on the flight, hunker down in the conference room, and split up to cover more ground; you barely get to speak to Aaron the whole time you’re there except to be given instructions and to fill him on what, if anything, you’ve learned.

You don’t even make it to your hotel that night, working around the clock to catch the people responsible for terrorizing the city. It takes not one, but almost two full days, and when you board the jet on Wednesday evening, everyone is dead on their feet. You barely remember the flight or the trip home, and you fall onto your bed fully clothed and crash just like that.

Thursday is your birthday, which you almost forgot, and so you assumed everyone else would too. You should have known better, because even if your team can be annoying, they are still your friends, and they love you, so you are well and truly spoiled.

You are treated to a latte and bagels from Emily, purple cupcakes with silver sprinkles from Penelope, a piggy back ride from Derek, a book of poetry you’ve had your eye on from Spencer, and a card from JJ—really, it turns out, from all of them.

“Enjoy a romantic getaway on us?” There’s some kind of certificate in the card, and when you flip it over, you discover that it’s for a hotel and spa that offers couples massages, mud baths, intimate aromatherapy? You arch a brow. “Uh, thanks, guys. Are you trying to tell me something here?” JJ’s face falls a little and she points to the card.

“It’s a romantic getaway. For you and Hotch? Since things have been so hectic lately,” she says, but your ears are kind of ringing and your brain is stuck on the for you and Hotch part.

“Oh. Um. Sorry—it’s just kind of soon, I think? How do you guys even know about that?” you murmur. The two of you haven’t had time to discuss Monday yet, and you haven’t spoken a word to anyone; you wouldn’t have guessed Aaron would have either, but there is a gift certificate for a romantic getaway in your hands, and you’re kind of spiraling.

“Well come on, we haven’t exactly been pretending we don’t know,” Emily says, and you can feel the confusion in your features when you look up at her. “And you guys haven’t been exactly secretive. We’re happy for you, though.”

“I mean, we haven’t been secretive, but we haven’t really had a chance to talk about it yet. It’s only been three days.” You are met with looks similar to the one on your own face.

“What do you mean, three days?” Spencer asks with a frown. “You and Hotch have been dating for almost two months. Right?” he says, looking at the others, and they nod, but it’s tentative. Your first reaction is to flush, and you close the card, fan your face with it.

“You guys think… You guys thought…” You look at them, then up at Aaron’s office; there’s no way he can know that you’re having a moment, but he chooses then to come downstairs, coincidentally. He’s smiling at first, but it falls when he looks at your face.

“Hey. Is everything okay?” He presses a cool hand to your hot cheek, flicks his eyes over yours, and JJ makes a noise; when you glance over at her, she’s gesturing between the two of you.

“I’m sorry, we were wrong? What were we supposed to think?” Aaron frowns, not following, and you take a deep breath.

“They got me a gift certificate for my birthday. To a spa. For you and I to have a romantic getaway, because they were under the assumption we’ve been dating… for two months.” The way he pulls back quickly makes your stomach ache a little, but you say nothing. You should have known.

“You say I love you,” Derek begins like he’s listing evidence. “You have lunch together every day. You’re always smiling at each other.”

“Seriously, some of the softest, gooiest smiles I’ve ever seen,” Penelope adds.

“You eat together on cases, you’re texting all the time when you’re not together.”

“I’ve been pairing the two of you up in hotels since I first figured out you were dating,” JJ says, and the whole ‘you’re welcome’ thing suddenly makes some sense. “I booked you that room with just the one bed so you’d maybe feel more comfortable about us knowing, so you’d see that we don’t mind.”

“You’re always looking at each other, always touching,” Spencer says. “In Pittsburgh—that was the first time you really hugged or kissed each other in front of us. We were trying to pretend it wasn’t a big deal, but it was kind of a big deal.”

You look over at Aaron, try to gauge his reaction, but for the first time in a long time you can’t tell what he’s feeling. You can’t really tell what you’re feeling, either. Sadness. Worry. Loss? But what have you lost?

“We’re friends,” you say, even if it sounds weak to your own ears. “We’re… close.”

“We wouldn’t exactly make sense as a couple, would we?” Aaron asks rhetorically, and your heart clenches when he says that. He told you this morning that he’d made dinner plans for you, both for your birthday and to discuss the kisses, what they mean, where you go from here, but that doesn’t sound very promising anymore. “We’re just—”

“Star-crossed,” you say, but you feel like your eyes are vacant. You can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears. You’re stupid for kissing him, for letting yourself think he could feel the same way you feel, have felt for a while. Isn’t friendship enough? Don’t you already have this special bond so unlike what you have with anyone else in your life? Why press your luck? You know better than that. “We should get back to work.”

You don’t look at Aaron, so you don’t know whether or not he looks at you. JJ does, and you can tell she knows you’re upset, but she just nudges everyone on their way, and you take a seat at your desk—it’s covered in balloons and streamers, the Penelope special.

You’ve never felt less like celebrating.

At lunchtime, Aaron stops at your desk, and the two of you walk out to the bench, open your bags in silence. You’re almost halfway through the hour before he tries to speak.

“Uh. I. About earlier,” he finally gets out, looking down at his sandwich, and you shake your head even though he’s not watching you.

“It’s fine. We don’t have to.” You take a bite of your salad even though you don’t taste it. “You’re right, it doesn’t make sense. You are who you are,” smart, sweet, handsome, tender, caring, “and I am who I am.” Too quiet, too young, too impulsive, too silly, too emotional. He nods, looks at your face for the first time in a while, swallows.

“Right.” You’re due to exchange books back—his is on your lap, yours is on his—and he picks them both up. “I’m like this,” he says, holding up Beloved. “Faded cover, dog-eared pages, scribbles in the margins: middle-aged, divorced, a little broken, barely holding it together for the kid I don’t get to spend enough time with. You’re like this,” he says, holding up Ravished. “Fresh and glossy and shiny and new, with your whole life ahead of you, the whole world ahead of you. You could do anything, with anyone.”

You frown, because this is not what you meant, at all. How could he think that about himself, when the well-loved cover and the dog-eared pages and the scribbles in the margins are all the best parts of him?

“Aaron,” you say, but it sounds like pleading; you reach out to put your hands on his arms, but he pulls them back. His eyes are rimmed red, lips pressed together to hold back everything he’s not saying.

“I think lunch is almost over.” He packs up his things, leaves you with tears in your eyes and a wilted salad and a brand new romance novel you’re never going to read.

Later, he cancels dinner, says something came up, and you go home to your empty bed and watch Titanic and bawl your eyes out when Rose tells Jack she’ll never let go. Friday, you get another case. Weekend cases are no one’s favorite, but especially not yours, when you desperately needed that buffer of time away from Aaron to sort out your feelings and get back to some sense of normalcy. Instead, you’re flying to a small town outside of Nashville to catch a serial arsonist, and when you get to your hotel, you and Aaron are sharing a room.

At least there are two beds, this time.

You go with Emily and Spencer to a crime scene, walking around a house that was once picture perfect and is now all charred wood and ash, and you quickly tell yourself to get a grip and not look for metaphors for your own life while trying to solve a case. What kind of investigator are you? Pathetic, apparently.

You work until evening, and when it’s time to break for dinner, you buy a sad looking assortment of items from the police station vending machine and eat in the conference room by yourself.

It’s a good thing you do, because they get a call about the fire while everyone is still away, and you and a few locals are the first on the scene.

It doesn’t start out bad, mostly located in the back of the house, but you know how quickly these things can spread, and the fire department is working hard to put it out. One of the officers is talking to the family, and the mother is crying, so you come closer to figure out why.

“She said the daughter was supposed to be staying at a friend’s, but sometimes she changes her mind at the last minute and comes home. She can’t get ahold of her,” the officer says, and you nod, thinking.

“Where would she be? The front or the back?”

“Her room is in the front, second floor; if she’s here, that’s where she’d be,” the mother says, wiping her eyes with a tissue, and you tell the officer to stay with them, that you’ll take care of it. You talk to the firefighters—this town is so small there are only two that were able to respond, and they’re both busy trying to put out the fire, but they clear you to go in if you stick to the front of the building and get out of there as fast as you can.

Your team isn’t here yet either, too far out for comms to be effective, and you can’t get ahold of Aaron, so you make a judgement call and head inside.

The front of the house is so eerily normal it’s almost easy to calm your nerves and pretend the back isn’t in the process of being destroyed. You open the front door, run up the staircase, and call out for the girl; she answers, not from the front of the house, but the back—a bathroom maybe? Flames lick up the wall beside it, but you can get to the knob, and she comes rushing out, into your arms, terrified. You weren't expecting that, and you both fall back: your head hits off the floor, but she seems okay, so you tell her to run out the front door and find her mom.

You press a hand to the back of your head, and it comes back tacky with blood. There’s ringing in your ears for a couple of minutes, and then your favorite voice in the world comes through.

“Where are you? We’re here, where are you?” You’re getting hotter, and when you crane your neck up, you can see why: the fire is getting closer, creeping toward the staircase, creeping toward you. You inhale, cough, and press your walkie button.

“I’m upstairs in the hall; hit my head. It’s not safe.”

“I’m coming for you.” You groan. Stubborn man.

“It’s not safe, Aaron.” You hear the crackle of static, hope maybe he heard your warning and will wait until more firefighters arrive—but knowing him the way you do, that’s just wishful thinking. His voice rings out again, and despite the pain, you can’t help but smile.

“You jump, I jump, Jack. Just stay put; I’ll be right there.” You close your eyes, drift in and out of consciousness; when you see him, all you can think is how ridiculously in love with him you are, and that you really hope you’ll be around to tell him. You are, of course, fine. Your head is the worst of it, even the smoke inhalation was mild, and the fire didn’t touch you, so there are no burns. Aaron doesn’t leave your side the entire time you’re being checked over, looks serious and concerned, though he smiles when the mother comes over and squeezes you so tightly you wince a little. It starts to rain, making the firefighters' jobs a little easier, and it feels oddly cleansing, after the day you’ve had. Someone offers you an umbrella, but you decline.

The fire is successfully put out, and the half of your team that didn’t respond to the scene responded to a call for suspicious activity, which ends up being your unsub. You are all happy no one was killed this time, and since you’re staying the night again, the group decides to grab a drink to celebrate. You don’t have a concussion, but your head still aches, so you pass, and Aaron passes with you.

You head to the hotel, park in the lot, but you don’t even make it halfway across before you stop, a hand on his arm.

“I need to say something,” you tell him, and he looks up at the dark sky like, right here? Right now?, even though you’re both already drenched. You nod, because if you don’t do this now you might never—almost dying always gives you an unhealthy amount of confidence, which you attribute to equal amounts of adrenaline and stupidity. “When we first met, I didn’t think we’d have a lot in common. We’re both quiet, but in wildly different ways, and I’m quick to trust and let people in while your guard is almost never down.”

He looks a little sad at that, and you realize you’re kind of doing what he did, putting the two of you into completely different categories, emphasizing the ways you don’t belong together. But that’s dumb, so you don’t give him time to focus on that for long.

“But being your friend, Aaron—the more time I spent with you, the more I came to feel like no one has ever understood me the way you do. No one has ever seen me the way you do.” Rain is pouring down all around you, beating against the pavement, flattening your hair against your head, but you don’t care. Regardless of his reaction, this is actually kind of perfect. “I didn’t mean to fall in love with you—that was an accident, I admit. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” You step closer to him, put your hands on his waist; he doesn’t pull away. “I don’t need shiny, glossy things; you're the one I want—faded cover, dog-eared pages, notes in the margins. I love you exactly as you are.”

He is gorgeous in the rain, water in his hair, dripping off his nose. His expression looks hopeful, and you pray to god that’s not wishful thinking.

“Say something, anything,” you beg, anticipation killing you, and he presses his hands to your cheeks and pulls you close for a deep, passionate, soulful kiss that says it all.

The words are nice to hear, though.

“I didn’t mean to fall in love with you either,” he breathes against your lips when the kiss breaks. “I told myself it was just a crush, because someone so young and beautiful was paying so much attention to me, treating me like more than just the guy giving orders. But the more time I spent with you, the more undeniable it became. You are everything good about the world—bright, optimistic, caring, funny, sweet. How could anyone not fall in love with you?”

You swallow hard, lean up to press your lips against his again.

“When you said we wouldn’t make sense as a couple…” He shakes his head.

“That was just me chickening out. After we kissed, I was all but ready to ask you to go steady,” he says, and you both smile, because he’s such an old fashioned dork, but god, do you love him. “And then we found out that the team thought we’d been together for months, and you looked freaked out, so I freaked out. I’m sorry. I should have made us talk about it sooner.”

“Classic pointless miscommunication,” you say with a laugh, and he chuckles too, kisses you again.

“Let’s go inside and get dried off; there’s a birthday gift in my bag I’ve been meaning to give you.” He takes your hand, and you head up, duck into the bathroom to change into dry clothes, squeeze the water out of your hair. There is a small, flat, wrapped present on your bed when you emerge, and you smile, sink down to open it.

It’s Romeo and Juliet, a brand new copy, but when you flip through it, there are blue inked notes in the margins. Aaron comes to sit beside you, touches your face like you’re something precious.

“The course of true love never did run smooth,” he murmurs, and you smack him on the arm with the book.

“That’s from A Midsummer Night's Dream, and I know you know that,” you say with a grin. He nods in admission, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, lean in for a warm, loving kiss. When you pull back, it’s with a soft smile. “Give me my sin again?”

“My pleasure,” he whispers, and you sink into his embrace and promise never to let go. The following week, you both leave work at noon on Friday so you can enjoy your romantic getaway. You drive to the spa, and Aaron reads over the brochure on his phone with a tone you find hilarious.

“Mud bath—I’m not bathing in mud. That’s counterintuitive.”

“It’s special mud; more like clay,” you say, but he snorts, scrolls.

“Seaweed wrap—nobody is wrapping me in seaweed. That sounds like a nightmare.” You laugh softly and take your exit.

“It’s supposed to be rejuvenating. JJ recommended it.”

“JJ weighs fifty pounds. It would take all the seaweed in the Atlantic to wrap me,” he says, and you roll your eyes, jab your finger into his ribs.

“But what if I get to unwrap you?” you ask, eyebrows raised; you briefly glance over and he makes a face of contemplation.

“Okay, that’s a maybe. Intimate aromatherapy—what does that even mean?”

“I think it means we do something that makes us smell good and then we go back to our room and kiss and stuff.”

“Now that doesn’t sound half bad,” he murmurs. “Foot massage? I’m not letting a stranger touch my feet, that’s weird.” You look over at him, squinting.

“You literally plugged someone’s bullet wound with your finger yesterday, but someone touching your feet is where you draw the line? Will you do anything on the list?” He scrolls down it, and his extended silence makes you laugh.

“Meditation. Couples massage,” he says, reaching over to rest a hand on your thigh. “There’s a sauna.” You think of him, sweat-drenched in a fluffy white towel, and take a deep, calming breath. “I bet the room is nice; did you bring a book?” You smile indulgently, reach out a hand to brush through his hair.

“Yep. It’s called A Duke’s Wild Kiss…” He gives you a mildly withering look, and you lightly tap the bridge of his nose. “Just kidding. I brought To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf.” His answering smile is brilliant.

“Are you serious?” You nod, and he gestures to the backseat, where your bags are. “That’s what I brought, too.”

You spend too much of your romantic getaway in your room, but it is really nice; you do the couples massage, though, and aromatherapy, and the sauna, and then you take turns giving each other a foot massage while the other reads To the Lighthouse out loud.

The world probably doesn’t deserve Aaron Hotchner; you definitely don’t, but somehow you get to keep him anyway. A/N: Though I snuck in a few parts of a few different lyrics, two lines in particular inspired this fic: 'Now I've read all of the books beside your bed' and 'I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this.' A lot of my fics lately have incorporated books... guess I better get reading!

Taglist ❤️: @thaddeusly @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc @wishuhadstayed @averyhotchner

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #hotch x female reader #hotch x reader #paper rings #inspired by #taylor swift

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hrbertwest · 2 years

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Crash Landing On You

Summary: Technically, though, you did sign up for this - this, being one of the protectors of this city and its people. Getting shot is nothing but your usual workplace hazard. But getting shot at with a fucking rocket launcher to the head by one of Kingpin’s henchmen was new.

It was fucking overkill.

What the fuck.

OR: You're a fledgling heroine who landed in a strange place after almost dying. Doesn't get less strange from there, to be honest.

Set vaguely in the Raimi movie-verse but will have mentions of other characters that weren't present in those movies. Or even the same franchise. || Doc Ock x (f)Reader

A/N: a few months ago i saw doc ock on the nwh trailer and uh... this happened. lol. so please enjoy this self-indulgent mess. feedback will be greatly appreciated, heheh. the reader is filipino-coded so buckle up and i hope you like sinigang. but i'll try not to overdo it, lol. Also on AO3

TW: slight gore, body horror, canon-typical violence (maybe even more?? who knows!)

Chapter 1:

I didn’t sign up for this shit!!!!!!!!!!! multiple exclamation points and all, was what was going through your head while you were freefalling.

You would have screamed if you could. Or maybe you had been screaming? You weren’t sure. Any sound you would have made had been swallowed by the wind. It shrieks inside your ears, inside your head, like the wailing of a banshee.

Your necktie is a white mirage that you can barely focus on as it flutters in the air.

Your long hair whips around you.

You don’t know how long you‘ve been falling.

Technically, though, you did sign up for this - this, being one of the protectors of this city and its people. Getting shot at is nothing but your usual workplace hazard. Normally - usually, you could handle being shot.

A bullet or two (or an entire round) to the leg, to the chest? To the head? Why not. Fire away, assholes!

It fuels the satisfaction that surges through your veins when they continue pulling the trigger even though they know they’re empty and you’re still standing. It’s even more fun when you smash their faces in. Nothing too fatal, you’re not a killer, geez -

It’s not like you couldn’t feel it, on the contrary, you could already tell what type of bullet you’ve been hit with depending on how painful it is. But you have a healing factor like nobody’s business - one of the perks of being a capital H- Hero, so you limp back to your apartment just when the sun is about to rise, sleep it off, trudge to your day job, and fight crimes at night.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

But getting shot with a fucking rocket launcher to the head by one of Kingpin’s henchmen was new.

It was fucking overkill.

What the fuck.

You’re lucky that your mask - a magically reinforced porcelain - was able to take the brunt of the impact. While it’s still attached to your face, a good chunk of it was shattered beyond repair, and you really don’t wanna know what your face looks like right now. You’d go as far as guessing that it’s at least mangled, based on how intense the pain is, nothing that won’t completely heal, but it feels like you high-fived a bullet train at full speed with your face.

Going after Kingpin and his men by yourself was a stupid move, and you could do without Spider-Man looking all smug once you see each other again - he’s actually quite expressive, despite the mask! He wouldn’t be mean about it, but you know he’ll be giving you that look from under his mask that’s not so different from when Sr. Rosario would guilt you into confessing why you got into a fight at school for the fifth time that week.

“Don’t go in alone, Skytoucher.” You remember Spider-Man saying from the other line, shortly before your phone call informing him of what you discovered ends. “ I’m almost there. Wait for me, okay?”

But Kingpin’s thugs were about to escape to another state and you didn’t know how almost there your red-and-blue clad friend was, so…

It was pathetic how those lowlife lackeys were able to swat you away like a fly. You barely got a glimpse of the big man himself, dressed in a pristine white suit, his bald head shining with perspiration and his eyes burning like coals as he watched you fall like a puppet whose strings were cut.

Some hero you are.

'Skytoucher In A Suit Saves A Family From Fire!’ was the first official headline that The Daily Bugle had for you, complete with a grainy picture of you in the air, an old lady in your arms. You had on a cheap plastic mask then, like the ninth member of the Jabbawockeez that just got out of a job interview.

Your copy is sealed inside a ziplock bag, buried deep within your closet. You remember being unable to wipe off the stupidly giddy smile on your face that day because come on, while you literally just rushed inside a bodega that has leftover Halloween masks, Skytoucher sounds cool. Of course, the next time your name appears on the paper, you were described as the suited menace - because you were wearing a suit, see? - and the article is basically a 500-word insinuation that you’re secretly in cahoots with the group of robbers you literally just stopped.

Now, though, you weren’t doing much in terms of touching the sky . Your healing factor is most likely on overdrive. Overtime..? Over whatever - The point is, your body is more focused on healing you as fast as it can than keeping you in the air after being shot by - and narrowly avoiding - a fucking rocket launcher. And honestly, even if you were able to fly at the moment, you’re not sure you weren’t gonna crash into some billboard or building because you’re pretty sure you’ve got a concussion.

You weren’t sure how high up you still are, but you could just make out the growing brightness of the city far below with your right eye.

All you can hope for is that you’ll crash somewhere with not a lot of people around.

Damages incurred by New York’s newest hero aren't covered by insurance policies yet, after all.

You're still falling. Miles above you, distant stars twinkle lazily.

Your head hurts.

You allowed the darkness to take over, letting yourself be swallowed back by the city that never sleeps.

The force of what might have been a hundred wrecking balls shook the entirety of the dilapidated, abandoned warehouse that Otto Octavius now calls home.

Perhaps someone figured out that the old abandoned warehouse is where the Octopus has been hiding. Maybe it was someone he’d hurt in the past, and they found him and decided to settle the score. It was something that he’d been expecting, hell, he’d been more or less waiting for any form of retribution, ever since Spider-Man - the memory of him almost squishing Parker’s head like a watermelon made him wince - was able to barely fish him out of the river.

Or it could very well be a new masked individual on the playground, someone who might have figured out that the old Octopus isn’t dead after all and would like to prove their worth by killing him.

He walked to where the commotion was, slowly, silently, keeping as far into the darkness as he can; jaw clenched and actuators hidden but poised to strike if (when?) necessary.

The roof of the corner of the warehouse that he reworked as a kitchen/workstation has collapsed into a pile of rubble, broken concrete, and splintered wood. He didn’t know what he expected, honestly, as he glanced around the wreckage for a sign of… anything. Demolition machinery. The Green Goblin on his hoverboard, bone-chilling laughter included. A squadron of NYPD, ready to bring him to jail. A crater caused by a meteorite.

But aside from the hole in his roof, the place was empty and quiet. No hollow cavity on the ground.

He finds nothing until a strange movement above him catches his eye, and he looks up, preparing for the worst.

A good few meters above him, he sees a pair of legs, clad in dark pantsuit, dangling from the edge of the hole.

What the hell…

Was a dead body disposed of on the roof of his warehouse? It doesn’t make sense. The crash was way too loud for the conclusion to be that simple. Unless… unless it came from a much higher location?

Otto almost jumped when the legs began twitching. He stared in disbelief, wondering if he’s witnessing some sort of cadaveric spasm, and it took him a second too long to realize that whoever this person is, they’re still alive - it’s not post-death spasms because the movement carried on far too long for it to be the remaining flecks of someone’s life.

And they’re actively trying to shimmy down the hole.

They were probably trying to find somewhere they could slot their feet into, legs pinwheeling in the empty air, but there was nothing - they were a good three meters in the air, for heaven’s sake! - and they were moving too quickly. Enough for them to lose what little balance they have.

Faster than his brain was able to catch up with his body, Otto had lunged forward, his human arms raised as the person on his roof crashed down on him, lower actuators anchoring themselves into the floor just in time to support both him and his unexpected guest.

He looks at the person in his arms and sees the familiar blank porcelain on their face and he takes in a breath because -

It’s you -

Another pest that bothered him while Spider-Man went on a brief awol.

Sky… something. Skyhunter ? He remembers you cornering him in a skyscraper in Manhattan, and to get away from you, he’d wrapped an actuator around your leg before hurling you against the window, only for you to stay afloat, a hand on your waist and your head cocked sideways as if saying, “I can fly, stupid.” A flash of phantom pain from the kick you gave his jaw as payback flares up along with the memory.

Another time, you had caught him in one of his… darker moods. Shame and regret twist his gut as he remembers one of his actuators impaling your stomach. You looked down on your wound, and he could imagine a look of shock? fear? behind your mask. Only, you look back up at him, white porcelain impassive as always, before saying, “At least buy me dinner first before penetrating me, you fucking prick.”

Looking back, he could have reacted better, but in the heat of the moment, he responded by pulling off the heavy steel vault door and casting it in your direction. You dodged it by somersaulting backward. He barely escaped the bank, the broken nose he sustained and the almost severed lower-left actuator had nothing to do anything with the unease that lingered in his mind. He felt his actuator go through you, he remembers seeing your bloodstain the white marble floors of the bank when he pulled out his limb…and you mouth off on him a few seconds later like it was nothing, whereas the bank's security guards that received the same treatment lay dead.

A groan escapes from under your mask, and it brings him back to the present. He always knew you were on the shorter side, barely reaching his shoulders and he’s made fun of your height more than once or twice during your skirmishes, but right now, it's like he’s holding a broken doll in his arms. Something like pity stirs up inside him.

Your mask dissolves into nothingness with a faint hiss and an even fainter violet glow. The scientist in him was curious - how were you able to do that? Was it a hologram of sorts? That might explain the glow. But it did not look like a hologram - and from all of his encounters with you, he's pretty sure he'd smash your mask more times than he could count and he knows it’s solid.

Another groan, a little louder this time. Flo peaks over his shoulder as he checked for any injury, and the image feed that was projected to his head almost made him drop you -

“Christ!” He blurts out, adjusting his grip on you to make sure you don’t get any more injured as you are now.

While half of your face is unscathed, the other side could only be described as nothing more than a mass of torn, gory skin and a partially exposed skull - and an equally dark, circular mass where your left eyeball should be.

Just what in the world happened to you?

And then you stir, your eye fluttering open and Otto Octavius was now a hundred percent sure that the remaining vestiges of his sanity finally snapped because you were gazing up at him with an eye as black as midnight.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, - I’m…whereammi?” You slurred, pulling yourself upwards, craning your head as much as you could to take a look at your surroundings. It must have been too dark for you to see anything. You slump your head into the crook of his arm, gazing up at him with a void-like eye. “Wazzat on your shoulder?”

A pause, and then -

Flo clicks behind him.

“That’s a tentacle, right?” You asked. “Wait - Doctor Octopus?”

“It’s Octavius.” He released a heavy sigh. “And it’s called an actuator, Skyhunter.”

“Skytoucher .”

“Skytoucher, of course. My apologies.”

“You’re supposed to be dead - wait, wait, wait, this suuuucks … a-am I dead?”

“You’re not dead. I think.”

“Oh. That’s... yeah. Okay. Cool,” You said, nodding to yourself. “Wait - you think ?”

“You landed here, Skytoucher. In my house. I’m not sure exactly where you fell from, though.”

“I got shot out of a helicopter. Did I break something?”

Did you just say… helicopter? He didn’t know if you were aware of the extent of your injury. Instead, Otto shifts a little, still carrying you in his arms as he turns the both of you to where you landed.

He feels you wince below him. “Sorry I broke your… house, Doc. I can help fix it if you want,”

“You don’t have to, it’s -”

“Did you catch me?” You interrupt.

“What?”

“You said - you said I fell. I… remember falling. Did you catch me?”

For all of his brains, Otto has no idea where this conversation is headed. “Not exactly, but you could say that I suppose. Do you think you can stand?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

He sets you down gently, slightly uncomfortable with how close the injured side of your face is to his, but he hovers nearby to make sure you stay on your feet.

“Spider-Man says you died. In the river.” You said quietly. “Does he know you’re…”

“He does. He’s the one that pulled me out of the water.”

“Right,” You scratch the back of your head, feeling the awkwardness settle between the two of you. “Sorry, are - you’re like, not gonna hit me with a car or something, right?”

He frowns. “Why would I do that?”

“I just… it was your thing before? And I uh… discovered your hideout so… I just wanna know if you’ll do something because I’m honestly kinda fucked up right now? So if you just, not do that? Hit me with a car, I mean?”

He snorts. “Like you need more damage to your face?”

“Ha?” You asked sharply. The shadows of his dark warehouse didn’t help make you look less unsettling. “A-anong … damage? What damage?”

“I think it’s best for you to see for yourself, Skytoucher. There’s a bathroom down the hall. Second door to the right.”

Your face hardens as a humorless laugh escapes you. “You think I’m dumb enough to fall for another trap? I almost got my head blown off by Kingpin and I conveniently land here? With you? When you’re supposed to be dead? Spider-Man wouldn’t lie. Have you been working for Kingpin? He tells you to finish me off? Another rocket launcher-holding bastard is waiting for me behind door number four, is that it?”

“Work for? No, I don’t! Why would I work for - ” Otto felt his temper rising at your question. Work for? He can already tell a headache is forming, and the chittering of his actuators certainly doesn’t help. He takes a deep breath, pressing the bridge of his nose, holding it in for a few seconds before exhaling. “I’ve been hiding here for the past two years, Skygirl . I am not working for anybody. Definitely not for that crook. And if you must know, your skull is out. Kingpin got you real good, didn’t he?”

It was almost comical, the way your eye widened as you bleat, “W-what?”

“I said -”

“No, shut up, I heard you!” You cried, a hand now gingerly tracing the side of your injured face. Upon feeling your soft, tender muscles, your features twisted into a grimace. Otto wasn’t doing much better. “ Eeeew, is this my bone? Doc, you gotta tell me, is it bad - No duh, of course, it’s bad! I know it’s bad! Why wouldn’t it be bad? I mean - heh - I literally got shot in the face with a rocket launcher!”

“A what?” He interrupts.

“Rocket launcher! One of Kingpin’s goons shot me because I was chasing them!”

“I thought you could fly?”

“I can fly! Weren't you listening? I got shot, Doc! They were on a helicopter! And I was flying after them! It wouldn’t have mattered if it was a normal gun! But it was a rocket launcher, Doc! Like, what the fuck!”

Well. That answers where you came from.

But you were hyperventilating, hands combing through your long hair as you started breathing rapidly, mumbling in a foreign language he can’t understand. Hesitantly, he puts a hand on your shoulder to get your attention. “Skygirl, I need you to calm down, can you do that for me?”

You keep mumbling under your breath, not looking at him.

“Skygirl, look at me,” He tries again, actuators snaking to your sides before they lift you a couple of feet off the ground and giving you a gentle shake. As much as he didn’t want to touch others with his actuators, it was effective enough for you to look at him. "Skygirl, are you listening?”

“I - I am,” Your tongue peeks out to wet your lips, but the sight is made gorier because he can see inside your mouth from your open wound. For the first time, he’s lucky that he skipped out on dinner. “I’m listening.”

“Good. You’re fine. I know you can heal, do you feel yourself healing?”

You nod meekly.

"Do you need anything for uh, something you help with your -” He gestures to his face.

You shook your head.

“Do you want to use the bathroom?”

“Please.”

He sets you down before answering, “Second door to the right.” He even jerked a thumb over his back for good measure. He watched as you limped to the direction he pointed you at, worried that you might collapse. Or attack him. He'd really, rather not hurt you.

You made it to the bathroom without further incident, and he waited for the soft click of the lock before walking to his study, trying to remember where he hid the hastily scrawled phone number Spider-Man left him in case of emergencies.

** "Ha? A-anong.." is translated as "Huh? W-what?"

#Doc Ock x Reader #otto octavius x reader #once again i am subjecting people to my horrid writing hahaha #fic tag: crash landing on you

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avintagekiss24 · 3 years

Text

𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖔𝖚𝖗 | 𝖇. 𝖇𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖊𝖘

→ pairing: beefy shadow monster!bucky barnes x black!reader

→ word count: 5367

→ warnings: 18+ ONLY, dub con, a tinge of somnophilia, exophilia, #monster fucker, smut, sex, rough sex, masturbation, rough masturbation, sex toys, butt stuff, oral sex (female receiving), multiple orgasms, voyeurism, explicit language

→ square filled: @badthingshappenbingo

wiping the other’s tears away

→ author note: guys, i’m... this is who we are now. we are monster fuckers. this is based on @idga-buck INCREDIBLE ask that was bred from this post. i honestly don’t know if this holds a candle to that ask because, whew girl. that shit fucked me up when i first read it! anyway, hope you guys enjoy because i might be planning a little monster fucker series based off of this and another certain someone that is mentioned in the fic.

→ read hirsute

The stress in your shoulders makes it hard to lift your arm once you finally reach your apartment door. It takes everything in you to shove your key into the lock and slam your hip against the old, swollen wooden door to pop it open, but just crossing the threshold into your sanctuary helps soothe your nerves. Everything falls to the floor within an instant— purse, messenger bag, coat— hell, even your keys. Hopping on one foot to remove a light brown, velvet heel, and then the other as you make your way towards your bedroom, ignoring the lively green house plants scattered around window seals and the living room.

You don’t even bother to turn on the lights. Don’t make a pit stop in the kitchen, or even the bathroom to remove your makeup. Hunger pains be damned. There are exactly two things that will help with this mood— an orgasm, and sleep. Thank God one always leads to the other.

It was 10:12am, just two hours into your work day, when you knew what you were going to need to help forget about this day. Emails piling up, phone ringing off the hook, picking up the slack for coworkers because you’re just so well versed in this… we could really use your help. Took its toll. By 10:12am you were ready to scream, punch your perky, always in a good mood cubicle mate, and rip your hair out— so you knew, right then and there, that you were gonna fuck yourself stupid when you got home.

Perverted thoughts lingered all day as you rifled through old court filings and scoured obscure statutes. Thighs tightened as your sex started to dampen at fantasies of being bent over your boss’ desk. Caught yourself staring, more than once, through his open door as he chatted on the phone, bright blue eyes glinting underneath the natural sunlight that poured into his office, crinkling on the sides as he laughed.

Then he would furrow those brows as he read through briefings. Jaw and lips set tight, eyes squinted as he nibbled absentmindedly on his bottom lip. Big hands and thick fingers made the pen in his hand seem entirely too small. Pink tongue darted out to wet pink lips.

You’ve spent many a night with thoughts of Andrew Stephen Barber; and tonight will be no different.

Dark shadows are cast across the floor and bed, small slivers of moonlight creeping in. The sound of your shoes hitting the floor don’t even register in your ears as you wiggle out of your skirt and panties and fall onto the soft, warm, inviting Queen mattress.

Deft fingers make light work of the buttons on your silk blouse but the other hand can’t wait— slipping down your stomach and between sticky, hot flesh. A sharp inhale fills your chest as you rub slow circles against your clit, pangs of quick excitement starting to fire off. Your fingers push down to your slit, prodding and stroking gently as a new wet starts to slick your muscles.

A lazy smile curls onto your face. The stress of the day starts to evaporate as you melt into the mattress, the circles against your clit quickening, hips starting to roll and push up into your hand. The expensive silk of your blouse falls off your shoulders just a bit as you push it away from your chest, exposing two bare tits and quickly thickening nipples.

You take hold of one— tweaking it slow. Pinching and rolling the nub before palming your tit all together, cupping and pushing the mound of flesh up your chest. A swipe of your tongue— rough and torrid— against your nipple makes you grunt deep. Makes your hips jut upward as you prod that now filthy wet slit and hole.

Muscles flex as the sound of your dirty deed fills the empty space. Wet squeaks and sloshes bounce off the walls as fingers thrash back and forth and up and down against your clit. Heavy, thick thuds of your palm pounding against your body when one, two, three fingers finally slip inside— but they aren’t enough. Not wide enough or long enough to feed the hunger.

Then… there’s a shift. The atmosphere in your apartment— your room specifically— just changes on a dime. The tiny hairs on your body start to stand on end, goosebumps raising on your skin. Your eyes slide open, blinking up at the ceiling as your pumping hand slows down to just a creep before stilling completely. An already racing heart starts to beat harder, lips part, eyes and limbs completely frozen in place as fear strikes you.

You’ve felt this before, at random times since you moved in. Sometimes in the shower or in the kitchen, when you’re getting ready for work, or catching up on a show— but mainly at times like this. When you’re stretched out on your bed, naked, fingers rooted deep in your cunt, when you feel like you’re being watched. Like there’s a thousand eyes on you all at once.

There’s even a chill that takes over the room, sometimes getting so cold that for a brief moment, you can see your breath. You’ve gone to management a few times, who of course did nothing— but a few of your neighbors put your mind at ease, it happens to them sometimes too. It struck you odd that it was mainly just your female neighbors who experienced the random chills, but you brushed it off. You live on the southside of the complex, the sun gets blocked by the surrounding buildings. You also live on the first floor— heat rises, cold sinks. It happens.

You swallow hard, shutting your eyes, trying to center yourself again. A small laugh escapes your lips seconds later— you’re ridiculous. Maybe it's time to lay off the horror movies for a while.

Shrugging out of your blouse the rest of the way, you roll onto your side and pull open the drawer of your nightstand. Out comes the cute little heart shaped butt plug, complete with a pretty pink crystal gem. A small bottle of water based lube is next, and then, the pièce de résistance. Your ten inch tall, two inch wide realistic dildo.

Your stomach tightens with anticipation as you fumble with the flip cap of the small purple bottle of lube. Just a dollop is enough to coat the steel plug, the excess on your fingers used to wet your warm, puckered hole. Melting back into the mattress, you roll your shoulders, let your eyes flutter closed, and grab your bottom lip between your teeth as you massage your rim with the rounded tip, gently pushing.

A soft moan vibrates in your throat as your body opens up. Your hole twitches, clenching tight around the toy as it disappears with a quick pop as soon as the widest part is shoved in, leaving nothing to be seen but the pink heart flush against your hot rim. You draw your legs up, calves pressed against the backs of your thighs, butterflying open as you drag the fake cock through your folds— against your clit— using your slick to lubricate the soft silicone.

Fingers find your nub soon after, slapping quick, before stroking the delicate flesh as you start to tease your slit. The cock head slips in easy, but you're so tight, so worked up and eager, muscles swollen, that it takes a little more effort to swallow the rest. Tiny little wet squeaks fall from your lips, body tenses and curls inward as you push, push, push— mouth falling open, face splintering with pleasure.

It takes not even ten seconds for your body to adjust, hips wiggling and shifting to get comfortable, before you're pulling the massive toy out and shoving it back in. You start to murmur, indiscernible, clipped words filtering through full lips— a hot tongue slipping out, sweeping over teeth as your hips start to get into it.

You’re soon too far gone to notice the black shadows moving around the room. Chalk up the feeling of the little hairs standing on end, the goosebumps popping up across your body to your arousal— and not the two piercing blue eyes that illuminate at the edge of your bed.

~~~

Bucky could reach out and touch you he’s so close now. He’s careful still— almost getting caught by you earlier, his anticipation for your almost nightly show getting the best of him. Making him sloppy.

He’s haunted these walls, these rooms, these buildings for decades, if not a century or more. Seen generation after generation moving in and out, kids growing up into adults, adults growing old, the old dying off— but you— fuck, you’ve got to be his goddamn favorite of them all.

Deep brown skin. Lithe and delicate. A soft little quiet thing, engrossed in her solitude and house plants, more than happy to shut the rest of the world out more often than not. You’re gentle. Your soul, your physicality, except in these moments. When you fuck yourself like this, and it doesn’t matter when— in the mornings when the sun is soft, in the late afternoons, your body covered in the oranges and pinks of the sky, late at night in the absolute darkness with nothing but the moon and the shadows— you’re anything but gentle.

Unrestrained and wild you are when in the throes of your arousal. Writhing and loud, a thin sheen of sweat on your brow. Eyes clamped closed so tight sometimes sweet little tears squeeze out and slip down your cheeks. Two perfect tits, mounds of soft flesh, jiggle and bounce with the aggressive thrashes of your fingers against a glistening, sensitive nub.

Nights like tonight are his favorite. When you’re acutely aware that he’s here, but too scared to really give it much thought. When the fear strikes you stiff. When you pull out that monstrous fake cock and spread yourself wide— stretch that pretty, pink, wet cunt. The squelch, the squish of the foreign object being jammed into hot, distended muscles.

Your smell. So sweet and pungent— distinctly you. It’s constantly on the tip of Bucky’s tongue, filling his nostrils, swirling in his head and chest— taunting him. Intoxicating him. Begging and beseeching him to just reach out and touch. Taste. Oh, to have your scent— your flavor— on his lips to savor. He wants to bury his face between those thighs, drown between them. Slither into you and curl up, take up residence.

Bucky’s gotten bold as of late— now, not even waiting until you’re fucked out and sex drunk, falling into a peaceful, post orgasm slumber to move around. No. Now he shifts while you’re still awake, still fucking— toy sowed deep, fingers slapping, hips snapping, back arching.

You’ve snapped your head towards him once or twice over time as you’ve caught his movement in the corner of your eye. Sat straight up, mouth hanging, eyes wide, chest heaving as you stared into the darkness— waiting. Scared shitless. You even tried to cover yourself, hands over your tits, legs closing into each other.

It made him laugh.

You’re already his. That body claimed— no need to cover it up now.

Even tonight, he’s even bolder still. Right at the edge of your bed, peering on. It’s a damn near perfect view when you get like this— sloppy. Legs splayed open, heels dug into the mattress, hips arched off the bed. Your slick glistens underneath the moonlight, splashed on your thighs, strings connected between two puffy, balmy lips. It’s nothing but an invitation— an invitation that he can’t ignore for much longer.

He pushes his knee into the mattress, and then the other, his substantial weight dipping it. Piercing blue eyes snap towards your face as he stalls, waiting for any indication that you feel him there— a smile curling onto his lips when it doesn’t come. So he pushes closer, settles right at your feet. Reaches out, hovers long, black fingers over your chest— so close that his pointed, sharp nails graze your skin.

Makes you gasp.

Bucky snaps his hand back, but you don’t stop. You shiver. Goosebumps ever present on every inch of your skin— but you don’t stop. In fact, you get faster, harder. Pounding that fake cock into your cunt, pushing your hips higher as you slap and knead at that sticky, swollen nub.

You like it.

You like his touch.

Pride swells in Bucky’s chest. Maybe you’re much more receptive than he originally thought. Maybe it’s the fear itself— knowing you’re being watched by something, not someone— is what turns you on. And it makes Bucky bolder still.

He looms over you, hand pressing into the mattress right by your head. Head tilting as he leans in, brushing the tip of his nose against your cheek. You jump again, mewl loud when his nails scrape against your skin, between your jiggling, bouncing tits. He wants to fuck you so bad. Stuff you full of his monster cock— he knows you can take it. Knows you can stretch wide for his veiny, dripping prick. Suck those pretty tits into his wet mouth, those hard, perky nipples between his sharp teeth. But he won’t, not now.

You’re so close.

And this is always the best part.

So he pushes away, away from the bed. Hovers up near the ceiling, eyes shifting from their brilliant blue to pitch black so he can enjoy your finale. Then he’ll wait a while, maybe a few nights— maybe a few hours, who knows— to encourage an encore.

With a little help, of course.

~~~

You cry out, shrieking into the darkness as the coil planted deep threatens to snap. The chill in the room has your nipples hard, but the heat blooming across your skin has you damp and sticky. There’s gusts of something— splashing over your naked body— but the windows are closed. The air conditioning turned completely off.

It feels like breath. You’d swear it— and it’s so close. Like someone, or something, is right on top of you. Shudders wrack your body, adrenaline rushes as ice floods your veins. Alarm, panic, sheer horror gripping you.

But, you cum before you can rationalize it. Before you can pinpoint it.

It’s so sweet, the orgasm, so deep as the warmth of it spreads like wildfire. Toes curl hard, so hard they go numb as the waves crash, each one harder than the one before. Heart in your throat, the blood rush in your ears. Muscles spasming, clenching and clamping down around the silicone cock, clit jumping with each contraction of your cunt.

It lasts for awhile— your body knowing that this is what you needed. So you ride it out as long as you can, fingers still rubbing and thrashing against your clit until it’s too sensitive. You stuff the cock into you one last time and leave it there, fixed so deep as your body falls back against the mattress. Your asshole constricts around the plug, twitching and fluttering as the last jerks of your hips start to subside.

Chest heaves with deep, long, ragged breaths. Tits pushing up and down, jiggling, stomach flexing as you go limp. Limp and fucked out. Asshole and cunt used, hot— weeping lube and cum. You’re a mess. A beautiful, sated, sloppy mess.

A lazy smile on your face, eyes hooded, you stare up at the ceiling. Unaware that you’ve found two black eyes just perfectly— stare right into them as they peer back at you.

Sleep starts to pull, a mushy, hazy brain giving in all too easily, not giving you time to recognize that you’re being watched again. That there’s a presence looming just over you— all around you. Or maybe, it's a mechanism. Maybe you don’t want to recognize it. So you roll over onto your side, shimmy underneath the blankets to gather some warmth. Shut your eyes and give into the sleep— vow to stop watching those cheesy scary movies so late at night.

They’re making you paranoid.

The sting of cold on your extremities makes you stir. Letting out a yawn, you flex your toes, pulling the blankets up to your chin as a chill ripples through your bones. You roll onto your back, and push out a breath, not opening your eyes to see the white puff of air. Another shiver, a deep one, rolls through you again, making you shift underneath the blankets and push your face into the pillow.

Moments later is when you perceive a warmth. A soft moan trembles in your throat as you smash the back of your hand against your face, still teetering between sleep and consciousness. The ache between your legs grows harder to ignore— the warmth, starting to sear. Your hips buck soft. Another groan scratches at the back of your throat.

You’re writhing within minutes. A white hot molten pooling in the pit of your stomach and spreading out to the tips of your fingers and toes. The cold nothing but a distant memory as the familiar burn of lechery encompasses your tight body.

It feels so real— a long, forked, rough tongue lapping at your folds, swishing around your clit. You jump suddenly, gasping deep when something like teeth, so many sharp teeth, nibble and bite at the meat of your thighs. There's pressure, pressing down on your stomach and wrapped around your thigh as you draw your knees up slow, digging the balls of your feet into the mattress. The pressure, it’s warm and vast— something like a palm… there’s scratching, quick little tickles over your stomach, your tits, your ankles and calves.

Fingernails. Long, jagged fingernails.

You give in to the fantasy— the dream. Not opening your eyes, not giving into the consciousness that tugs at you, not wanting to lose this euphoria. The pressure on your stomach gets harder, heightening the sensation of the tongue against your core and almost pinning your writhing hips to the sturdy mattress.

The tongue, rough and wet, slithers through your folds, flicking quick against your clit before the mouth sucks you right up— lips, clit— right into it. Tongue flattening against your slit, teasing your pink opening. Then, oh God, and then it slithers inside, that tongue. Massages your hot, swollen muscles from the inside. Your body jolts up, away from the mattress, a breathy, drawn-out snarl bursting from your lips.

You fall back against the mattress— liquify into it really and let your hands roam, finding your taut, thick nipples. Tweaking and rolling them, pinching between deft fingers before palming your tits feeling the goosebumps that have popped up on your flesh again. Your knees fall apart, legs splaying open, putting your swollen cunt on full display for this invisible force.

It’s not long before your hips are jutting up into the dream tongue, the lips, the teeth hard and fast, a sharp sting piercing your clit just as you start to cum again. Loud, shaky moans fill the room as your hips pulse and your back arches. Cursing, whaling as the dream tongue swipes and flicks, lips wrap around your nub again, sucking hard, coaxing every last drop of your release out of you.

Thighs, stomach, arms, cunt burn as a delicious stretch, a used ache settles deep in the exploited muscles. Long, hoarse breaths fill your chest, the air rushing so fast, and yet so slow that it makes you dizzy. You couldn’t move if you wanted to, everything is just so fucking heavy.

Brain is mush again, cloudy and dense, stupid with ardor. Lazy, broken moans vibrate through your vocal chords, body twitches with quick aftershocks every now and again, making you giggle. You feel like you’ve been hit by a mack truck. It’s so nice.

Once your breathing has slowed back to normal, you roll your head towards the window, open your eyes just enough to see the moon cutting into the room. Relief floods through your veins, happy to find it’s still night time, still dark, your room still moody, giving you time to fall back asleep with the pleasant thoughts of whatever just happened— but you’re a mess again. Skin sticky and damp, panties ruined. Your eyes droop and close as you push out a soft breath, hand slipping down your body. You should really clean up.

Maybe in a few minutes. You push your knees together slowly, swaying them back and forth as your fingertips find your clit, toying with it gently. They calm your jumbled nerves quite nicely and immediately— the touch familiar. Your fingers stretch out, tips push down just a little lower as you smile stupid and lazy and blink slowly up at the ceiling.

The smile doesn’t last long.

Your eyes pop open as a simultaneous sharp gasp fills your chest with cold air. Blood runs ice cold through your veins.

“Good,” a scratchy voice sounds as your fingers push through a tuft of thick hair just between your legs, hot breath sticking to tacky flesh.

Shallow, quick breaths squeak through your teeth, eyes wide, lips and chin trembling as your limbs grow heavy— oh so heavy. Frozen. You slam your eyes shut when a hand slides slowly up your side, serrated nails skipping across your skin. A sob chokes out as you slam your eyes shut, fear gripping every inch of your body.

The wet, long, hot tongue of your dreams swipes at your core again but you’re still sensitive— jumpy— hips pushing down into the mattress to get away from it. A second hand grabs your hip, squeezes it hard, stilling your lower half as it laps at you again. The crawling hand finds your left tit, cups it— kneads it slow— rolling the thick bud between even thicker fingers.

“Look at me.” The voice sounds again, like gravel, low and rough.

Your clit is sucked into an instant warmth, a wide, flat tongue massaging— rolling— gently. A soft, tiny little noise thrums in your throat as a shudder ripples through already irritated muscles. The sound pleases whatever is between your legs, as it chuckles deep, the vibrations adding to the sensation of its tongue.

It pinches your nipple— quick, hard— and bites down into the meat of your thigh while also squeezing it with it’s other massive hand, “I want you to look at me.” you hesitate— and it doesn’t like it, “Look at me.”

The chill in its voice forces your eyes open, but you keep them on the ceiling as silent tears trickle down the side of your face and onto your pillow. An influx of air fills your lungs when a hand pushes up to your face. A thumb swipes underneath your eye gently before an index finger curls to wipe away the wet emotion.

“You’re pretty when you cry,” it says, a little softer, still rubbing your cheek slowly, “Look at me.”

Against your better judgement, fighting through the fear, you blink, shifting your eyes towards your drawn-up legs. There are two big eyes, unnaturally blue, probing and upturned, staring back at you, disappearing in the dark as it blinks before they settle back on you. In fact, they stay on you as it’s tongue flicks out at you again, sweeps through your folds, teasing your opening, your clit again. It palms your tit, squeezing before sitting up, exposing it’s true size.

Your eyes follow slowly upward as it towers over you, it’s knees pressing into the mattress, dipping it deep with its weight. You struggle to breathe, eyes flutter quick as your lips tremble, taking in the umbra. There’s a wide chest, thick biceps and forearms and hands and fingers that push your legs back— towards your chest and stomach. Stocky thighs and a—

You gulp slow, sitting up on your elbows as your eyes zero in on the throbbing, weeping cock between its legs. The moon illuminates the pulsing veins running the impressive length, the wet, red, dripping cockhead— cum already dribbling out, splashing on your skin. It’s hot and silky— dense, the cum, as it wipes the spot away with it’s thumb, a nail cutting into your skin.

It grabs itself, strokes it’s massive cock slow as it drags its eyes along your naked body. Another shudder trembles through you when it teases your cunt with it’s cockhead, pressing into your clit, dragging through your folds, prodding at your slit. You let your head drop slightly, let your eyes close to slits, let your mouth drop as it’s fingers skip up and down your thighs, it’s jagged, black nails tickling you.

Errant hips canter upward, pushing your clit against its tip again, coating it with your slick before you let it settle back against your opening.

“Now that you can see me, beautiful,” it’s raspy voice sounds, starting to push into you, “I want you to scream.”

It juts into you hard, pulling a loud scream out of you— just what it wanted. You pant as it pushes, deep, deep, deep, until its hips are flush with yours, cock completely sunk. It doesn’t move right away, lets you wiggle and twitch, hiss and grunt as you adjust to the size— the absolute fullness. Stretched so wide, clasped so tight around this pulsating cock that you aren’t sure that you’ll be able to walk tomorrow.

But you’ll risk it.

It locks one of your legs around it’s waist, throws the other over its shoulder, slipping its massive hand down the length, down your calf, over your knee, along your thigh until it’s fingers settle on your cunt— on your clit. Slow circles are drawn into your flesh, a gentle pressure applied as it pulls back, cock dragging out of your death grip. You hiss as it sinks back in, reaching something deep.

It’s blistering after that. Within seconds, hips are snapping, skin slapping against… skin? You aren’t even sure. Long fingers are everywhere, tits, stomach, legs, cunt— gripping, groping, pinching. They venture up to your chin, up to your parted, swollen lips, where they linger. You send wide, innocent eyes up to its blues, tits sliding up and down as you lunge with each thrust— and open your mouth wider, sliding your tongue along the tip of its finger.

When a husky moan rumbles through its chest, your heart soars unexpectedly. It’s pleased with your eagerness— your reception.

You’re empty suddenly. A strong hand grips your side, pulls you roughly down the bed. Flips you over before yanking your hips upward, propping you up on your knees. And then, you’re pinned— an unyielding grip around the back of your neck holding you in place. You grunt and start to whimper, another bout of fright coursing through your veins as it smashes the side of your face into the sheets and pillows.

It fucks back into you slow, a long, shuddering groan spilling out of your trembling lips, “My pet,” it speaks again, squeezing the back of your neck a little harder, “Such a sweet little thing.”

Reaching back, your fingers graze over a sinewy thigh, taking hold as you start to spring forward with each drive of its hips. You slam your eyes closed, more emotion squeezing out of them. The dull burn is back in the pit of your stomach. Your toes and fingers start to curl and flex as each stroke gets sweeter and sweeter, hitting that deep little spot within.

Goosebumps pop up again. Heat blooms across your skin, filling your face and chest and stomach. Spit dribbles from the corner of your mouth as two pouty lips form a perfect little “o” as you start to shriek, each sound coming faster and faster, louder and louder. Your fingers find your nub again, rubbing and slapping to set this release in motion. The sound of your slick is sloppy, wet— and gorgeous, to both you and it.

You’re cursing, sobbing, begging within minutes, teetering right on the edge. It starts to thumb at your asshole, rubbing the rim gently, pushing just inside— coaxing you on.

That’s all it takes. You tense hard— toes curl, fists ball, stomach clenches— and then stiffen as your orgasm hits. A white hot flushing through as you quake, cunt spasming around it’s heavy cock. Jammed full, orgasm rippling, fingers still thrashing against your constricting clit, you’re dizzy, warm all over, sweaty and freezing cold all at the same time.

Your companion— this monster of the night, lurking in the shadows— hammers on behind you, pumping, gripping, squeezing, pushing you down further into the mattress as his strokes get sharper. Stronger. More forceful.

It gets loud. Growling so deep and heavy that the sound shakes the walls— the bed. God, the poor neighbors. It grips your hip with one hand so hard you yelp in pain, hands flailing, trying to grip and grab anything they can as it fucks into you.

One, two more jabs and it stills quick— and that’s when you feel it. Another white hot, this time all concentrated in your overstimulated, tight, wet cunt. Long ribbons of cum, silk soft and warm, fill you up, up, up— to the brim. It’s cock veins pulsate, it’s girth seemingly growing wider, stretching you more as it unloads. Cock jumping in your tight grasp as cum weeps from it.

You take it all, humming loud and proud, panting as you feel it’s seed spill out, down the inside of your thigh.

It drags out slow, as if not wanting to at all. Like it likes the feeling of your messy, cum filled cunt all wrapped around him. You feel that swollen cock head through your folds again, slowly pushing up and down your clit, teasing your slit. A finger, and then another glance over your asshole— lovingly. Softly. Massaging the twitching rim before burying it’s hard cock between your cheeks, slapping you with it.

“No more,” you plead, voice small and broken and pathetic, “Please, I can’t.”

Another chuckle rumbles through its chest, “Ok sweet girl,” there’s a hand on the back of your head, stroking curly, damp, surely tangled hair, “Such a good girl.”

Hands are back on your skin again, fingers pushing and pulling, adjusting you on the mattress. You’re flat now, splayed out on your belly, legs spread, hands shoved underneath your pillows and head. Balmy skin, puffy flesh is soothed by slow gushes of breath, making you jump and whine more— whimper more. The bed sinks again as it moves, pulled again, your back up against a massive chest and hard stomach.

It wraps around you, slinging an arm and a leg over you, enveloping you in its warmth. Rids your face of the wetness, pushing the remaining tears away with its thumb. Nuzzles in close— a scratchy cheek against your own.

A heavy hand over your heart.

“I like this,” it says soft, tapping along with your heartbeat, “The rhythm.”

You hum again, happily fucked out and cock drunk, already feeling an ache settling into your muscles and bones. Hips and ass push back into its hips, pushing its dense cock against you— wanting to feel it resting against your cunt, “You got a name?”

“Brarthronoz.”

“Excuse me?” you giggle through a deep yawn as your eyes flutter.

It— he nuzzles again, pushing his face closer, “Bucky is fine, pet.”

“Bucky,” you sigh a little, “I like that.”

You fall asleep with the soft rhythm of his breath against your neck.

When you wake, he’s gone— but you kinda figured that anyway. The oranges of the sky and rising sun chases away all the shadows. You go about your routine but a little slower— inflamed, throbbing arms and legs make showering and brushing your teeth a little harder this morning.

You look for him though, in the corner of your little kitchen, in that small spot where the sun just never quite reaches.

A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth when you find a pair of bright blue eyes fixed on you, a little wink encouraging you further.

“Toast?” You ask cheekily, a wide smile on your face as you offer him a plate.

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harrywritingsbyme · 4 years

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ok but what about harry being so big and ur a virgin (or haven’t been w anyone for a while) and he’s trying to get you as relaxed as possible so he can fit in but u guys keep trying and it just won’t fit bc ur rly tight. but harry isn’t giving up and he’s just being a sweetheart. but then he finally pushes in all the way for the first time and he’s super turned on by seeing his print thru ur stomach and becomes super cocky bc you take him so well and you’re his angel who now looks freshly fucked

The one Where Harry and Y/n Try to Make It Fit

A/N: All I have to say is that it’s filthy and it’s the second blurb for ‘A Series Of Firsts’ Enjoy 🙃

You haven’t been with anyone for a really long time. And it was for two reasons. The first being that you hadn’t been in a relationship where you really wanted to have sex, and the second being that you were fine taking care of yourself (and you would like to think that you were pretty good at it). You were perfectly fine up until now. And by now, you meant Harry.

From the time you met Harry to now being in a relationship together, it was like a switch went off inside of you. There was something about simply being in his presence that lit an insatiable fire inside of you. You couldn’t explain it, but even the slightest touch got your blood pumping. You two had been together for a little over six months at this point and you couldn’t go any longer without having Harry deep inside of you. Harry’s mouth and fingers always did wonders for you, better than you could have ever done for yourself. He always knew exactly what buttons to press and how to make you fall apart instantly for him. It didn’t matter if it was his tongue or fingers, Harry always made you cum hard. And as good as he never failed to make you feel, you wanted more. You wanted to be filled to the brim with his cock, and you wanted to feel his hips crashing down against yours as he pushes himself in and out of you. You knew exactly what you wanted and you didn’t know how long you could go without getting it.

This desperate need for Harry led you to the position you were in now. Lying naked beneath an also naked Harry. It was supposed to be a cozy and romantic night in for you two, but after a couple drinks and many kisses in between the two of you went from simply kissing to ripping each others clothes off. When you whispered to Harry that you wanted to have sex, things got even more heated. His mission to get you naked only intensified and his lips were pressed harder against yours. Once the sex part actually came though, the mood instantly changed. Harry’s movements became much less frenzied, and more languid and soft. There was no doubt that he wanted you just as much as you wanted him. It was just that he wanted it to be a moment for the both of you, and your relationship as a whole. Even though neither of you were virgins, the both of you were strong in your feelings for each other and you wanted the first time you had sex together to be special. Another thing Harry made sure to take into account was the fact that you hadn’t had sex in a while and it’d take a little more adjusting than normal. So, Harry was going to take his time and make sure that you were comfortable above anything else.

“I just need y’to relax f’me baby” Harry coaxes. He knew that you were tight, but this was unbelievable. Every time he went to push into you, you always winced a little bit.

“I am, you’re just really big.” You point out. You took Harry in your mouth before, so you were well versed in how sizable Harry was. You had no idea how big he was when it came to other parts of your body though. Whenever he tried to push into you, it felt like he was piercing into you. You’d never taken anything or anyone that could compare to how big Harry was. “M’surprised you haven’t killed anyone with that thing.” you continue.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Harry chuckles before sitting back on his calves between your spread legs. “If y’want we can stop. Don’t wanna actually kill yeh.” Harry rakes his hand through his hair, pushing back the curls that were sticking to his forehead.

“No!” You sit up, resining back against your elbows. “If you don’t fit one more time then we can stop.” You bargain.

“Y/n, I don’t wanna force it. I don’t want you t’be-“ Before he can finish his statement, you reach forward towards him, and you grab his hand. You pull it towards your glistening center and you place it right on you.

“Please?” You pout, making sure to bat your eyes up at him. Harry doesn’t respond immediately. His eyes fall down towards where you placed his hand and he begins to move his hand against you. When he hears a small whimper leave your lips, he couldn’t stop his cock from twitching. “So is that a yes?” You ask him once more. Instead of responding, Harry lifts himself back up and brings himself back down towards you.

“Forget me killin’ you, y’gonna kill me first.” Harry mumbles under his breath. He wraps his hand around his cock, giving himself a few tugs. “Y’ready?” He asks, looking up to you for an answer. You nod your head before dropping it back down against the pillows. Harry gives you a final reassuring look before moving his eyes back down. He lines himself back up with your entrance and he takes a deep breath. “Relax f’me babe.” He instructs before slowly beginning to push into you.

“Oh my god!” You whimper out. You could feel him stretching you out completely. You felt so full from him simply pushing the head of his cock into you that you didn’t know how much more you could take. Once he’s all the way inside of you, Harry had to take a minuet. He couldn’t believe that you managed to take all of him inside of your tight hole. Just saying that you were tight would be a complete understatement. You were so tight that he felt like he could cum right then and there. As his eyes moved up your body back to yours, he immediately gets stopped in his tracks. He could clearly see his cock trough your lower stomach.

“Y’need t’feel this.” Harry groans. He reaches for your hand and he presses it down right agains the prominent bump in your lower stomach.

“Is that-“

“Mhm” Harry grumbles.

“That’s just-“ you couldn’t even make out anything else. The only words you were able to say were the ones telling Harry to fuck you. And when he did, it was better than any feeling either of you had ever felt.

Harry couldn’t believe how well you were taking him. Not to mention the fact that he couldn’t get over how undeniably pretty you looked beneath him. The sounds that were leaving your mouth were like music to his ears. Hearing you slur out how big and deep he was only fueled his fire. What made him even closer to to the edge was what you managed to get out through you moans and whimpers. The way Harry was taking care of you was beyond compare. He touched you softly as if you were made of porcelain. You loved the way he put your pleasure ahead of his own, but you wanted to see his rough side. You saw a little bit of it earlier, but you knew there was so much more. When you told him to go harder, his moments against you stopped and he looked you right in the eye. He could see from the look in your eyes that him slamming his cock into you was non-negotiable. Since you wanted this, he was going to make sure you got it. He pulls almost all the way out of you before crashing his hips back down against yours, sending a loud slapping sound throughout the room.

“Harry!” You cry out to him. You wanted to feel the slight sting of him pounding into you, shoving his cock deep inside of you over and over again. You could feel the prominent veins that were on his thick shaft gliding against your walls. You could also feel the swollen head of his cock, slamming into that special spot deep inside of you over and over again. The way harry was pounding into you exceeded any expectations you had going in. The way he swiftly slammed his cock into you over and over again was amazing. It was so amazing that you could feel your eyes beginning to water.

Right now, Harry’s head was spinning faster than he could even process it. You were making him feel things he’d never felt before. It was like your walls were begging him to keep on fucking into you. You were doing so well for him that he wanted to just stay inside of you forever. Harry was even starting to get a little bit lightheaded. He couldn’t hold himself up for that much longer, so he lays himself down against your body. As a result, your body is completely pinned down against the mattress and all you could do was take every last thrust he gave you. You wrap your legs loosely around his back to keep him tight against you and you dig your nails into his biceps. You could already feel him going deep in your stomach, him laying on you only made you feel it ten times as much. It also meant that Harry could feel it against him too. On top of that, he got to hear the way you were crying and panting out to him at how good he felt inside of you even better, and was like music to his ears. He knew that he wasn’t going to last that much longer, all he had to do now was focus on making you cum. He stays in this position for a little bit longer until he feels you beginning to clenching around him. He pulls himself up from your body and he brings a hand up to your chest, squeezing one of your breasts in his large hand.

“Look so beautiful with m’cock buried inside yeh.” Harry pants above you, continuing to shove his cock into your tight cunt. “Where do y’want m’cum angel?” He asks, feeling his release quickly creeping up to him.

“Inside” you slur out to him.

“Fuck” he whispers. You’ve been blowing his mind the entire night. The fact that you wanted him to cum inside of you too, painting your walls white with his cum was just the icing on top of the cake. “m’gonna need yeh t’cum with me then” Harry demands, slowing down his hips.

“M’so close” you whimper.

“Y’can do it angel, just let go f’me” Harry coos. When your cries get louder and shakier, he knows that you’re about to cum. Your thighs begin to quiver below him and you could feel the tight knot in our stomach beginning to unravel. “Look a’me angel. Let me see those pretty eyes” he softly coos to you. You slowly but surely open your eyes for him and he can see the tears from pleasure pooling at the outer corners of your eyes. He pushes his hips up against yours, keeping his cock deep inside of you. When he does this, you completely let go around him. You let out the loudest cry you’ve made all night as you cum around him. The tears run down the side of your face and you stare into Harry’s eyes as you cum around his cock.

Feeling your already extremely tight walls contracting around his cock made Harry cum too. You feel a warm rope of his cum pour into the deepest part of you. Once the both of you are done, Harry begins to pull out of you.

“Squeeze my hand baby, it might sting a little.” Harry warns, intertwining his fingers with yours. And he was right. He made sure to go extra slow, giving you small reassurances along the way. Once he’s fully out of you, Harry couldn’t help but sit back and stare. He couldn’t believe how pretty you looked right after being fucked. You skin had a light veil of sweat and your body was almost, if not completely limp. When he looks down to your pussy, he can see his cum dripping out of you and right onto the sheets. The way your stomach was contracting as you were trying to catch your breath, reminded him of how his cock went all the way up there. Subconsciously, Harry’s hand reaches out towards the area, and the palm of his hand presses into the area. He realizes what he’s doing when you place your hand onto of his.

“You were so deep.” You slur out to him. You have a blissful smile painted across your face at the thought.

“ And being the pretty little angel you are, you took it all so well.” He praises.

“Mhm, just for you” you sigh. Harry then brings his face down to yours and slots his lips against yours, lazily kissing you. “Y’ready f’me to clean yeh up?” He mumbles against your lips. You send him a small nod and he gets up off of the bed to take you to the bathroom.

When you sit up, you see him standing next to the bed, looking over your body once more. When you give him puzzled look, he explains exactly why he’s looking at you this way.

“S’just that you’re my sweet angel, and y’look so pretty when you’re freshly fucked.” Harry explains.

Masterlist

#Harry Styles #harry smut #harry styles smut #harry styles blurb #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles writing #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #my harry writing #concepts of h #harrywritingsbyme #A Series Of Firsts

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