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pascalpanic · 3 years

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Blood, Sweat, and Tears (Javier Peña x f!Reader)- Chapter One

Summary: You live in Bogotá in the ‘90s, and work odd hours. No, you’re not a DEA agent, but a nurse. These odd hours prompt odd habits, like working out at 2:03 A.M. after a shift. Odd hours attract odd people, and you have a chance encounter with one DEA agent by the name of Javier Peña. Warnings: language, blood and violence (both graphic), descriptions of death and gun violence Chapter 1 W/C: 2.3K A/N: you guys! I am so in love with this fic. I already have quite a bit more written and can’t wait for you to read it! I hope you love it as much as I do! Javi deserves some softness... but not too much. this can’t all be fluff when you’re Javier Peña. Okay, this is not super canon-fitting of Narcos, I’m just gonna be honest with y’all. This is between the time of Escobar’s escape from La Catedral and his final capture and death, but also… Connie’s still in Colombia. Additionally, I don’t really have a year in mind, it’s just somewhere in that period. Please note that this is not a very lighthearted story- it begins with a death, though not of a significant character. Javier and reader both have some trauma, so please check the warnings of each chapter before you start reading. If you’re continuing on, I hope you like it! For the most part, if I use italics here when someone is speaking, it’s indicating that it’s in Spanish. I’m okay at the language, but I don’t want to butcher anything, so… just imagine it. Otherwise, it’s just the way anyone would use italics I guess.

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Chapter One

You watched a woman you didn’t know die in your arms tonight.

She was beautiful, all dressed up to go out and party, her makeup running down her face with tears. Her lips were the painted the color of the blood that trickled from the side of them, eyes glazing over as she coughed and coughed and ruined the beautiful dress she wore. The nurses had asked what happened, and she had told them, through gurgles of blood: she had slept with one of Escobar’s men. She got too close, learned too much, and they tracked her down.

She flatlined not long after telling the nurses around you. You had stood in the corner, paralyzed at first. You were an experienced ER nurse, nothing was new. You had seen patients die, but something about her was different. Maybe it was the way she reached out to you right before her body went limp. You didn’t make it to her bedside in time to calm her, the panic holding you down, but you finally took her hand right as she took her last breath.

After she passed, you threw up in the bathroom, shaking and clutching the toilet. The night air had grown unbearably hot and humid, causing your scrubs to cling to your skin, and the sweat from the heaving of your stomach didn’t make things easier on you. Lorena, a fellow nurse and your best friend at work, had found you and comforted you, rubbing your back and bringing you water. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t reverse what had happened.

Now, you sit on a bench in the staff’s locker room, redoing the ponytail holding your hair from your damp face. Your shift ended a few minutes ago, but you don’t know what to do now. You don’t feel like drinking; that would only make the visions swimming in your head worse. You know you can’t go home, can’t attempt to find sleep tonight. You look up and spot a bag with tennis shoes and spare clothing and settle your mind on at least one thing: the gym could do you some good. You change into the clothes and put the blood-spattered scrubs in the laundry pile.

As you leave, you give Lorena a little wave goodbye and exit the building. You’re hyper-aware of your surroundings tonight, and you groan as you look at your watch and notice that it’s precisely 2:09 A.M. here in Bogotá. The walk to your fitness club is short, but your step is slightly extra hurried and your hand is on your pepper spray the entire time, extra vigilant to the fact that a hit went down somewhere around here just a few hours earlier. Surprisingly enough, no one catcalls or bugs you tonight.

The little gym is run-down and dilapidated, and there’s no working air conditioning, but it’s the only one near you. You paid the small monthly membership fee to gain access, and you were going to use it to get in shape, you’d decided. As you swipe in and enter, the tiny fitness center looks more depressing in the fluorescent lights, no daylight to sugarcoat the atrocities of the center. There are two of every machine, a punching bag and a speed bag, two weightlifting racks, and a couple of benches.

It’s nice that you get to work out alone tonight, you tell yourself. Even better is the fact that you now get to control the music. Desperate for a taste of home, you flip the large boombox in the corner on and begin scanning the airwaves with the dial. There’s a station in town that plays American music, and you need it more than anything tonight. You listen carefully and nearly start sobbing again as you hear Billy Joel’s voice through the speakers. With a sigh of relief, you lock your bag in the rusty lockers in the corner and head to the treadmill. It’s a beat up old thing, but this is the one you always use. It provides a little bit of comfort tonight, the familiarity of it. You turn it on low and start walking. A few moments later, you up it to a jog, mouthing along to the words of the familiar song.

As the song ends, you push the buttons enough to enter a running speed. Your feet slam into the treadmill harder than normal tonight, feeling as overwhelmed as when you left the hospital. Your body finally works up a sweat, the physical stress overwhelming the mental stress.

As the events of tonight replay in your head to some other song from the late 80’s, your eyes start to water. Everything was so overwhelming, and your mind is just starting to process it. You finally allow the tears to fall, mixing with the sweat coating your cheeks. It’s hard to tell which is causing more of the mess, but you let yourself cry it out as you run for the next few minutes.

The next song that comes on is Venus by Bananarama. You almost chuckle at the fact that it’s a few years old by now, but the song is comforting. It reminds you of home, of a time before you had issues like these. You slow down the treadmill a little, singing to the words aloud once you catch your breath enough. Daring to do a little spin on the rolling surface, you groove along to the music, chuckling a little

After the first chorus, you hear a creaking noise and whip around to find a man standing in the doorway. “Jesus fucking Christ!” You shout before you can stop yourself, hopping off the treadmill and onto the non-moving one before you get flung off. Your heart is pounding from the running, only intensifying the adrenaline rush from the scare.

The man chuckles a little, but the smile on his face doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s tired- of course he is, it’s now 2:30 in the morning. “Lo siento,” you offer in Spanish, cringing at yourself and your reaction just now. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here this late,” you stutter, still panting from the running. He shakes his head lightly. “You’re American,” he says simply. In English, in a beautifully American accented voice.

Your sweaty brow furrows, a glimmer of hope sparking inside your chest as you notice that he speaks like an American himself. “So are you.”

He nods at that. “That I am,” he says as he puts his things in a locker, snapping it shut behind him. He looks at you for a moment. You’re not working at the Embassy, or he’d know you. It was rare to find an American down here that wasn’t working for the government somehow. He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, looking at how tired he appears in the big mirrored wall. He’s curious, but he’s exhausted.

You look at him for a moment. “You going to explain anything, like, tell me about yourself? Or do I have to go first?” You ask, hands on your waist as you hop back on the slowly moving treadmill, back into moving. He doesn’t respond. “Fine. I know you’re government. I’m not an idiot.”

He chuckles and tugs on his t-shirt, moving to the treadmill next to you and getting on. It’s been ages since you’ve held a conversation in English, and you missed this, missed how easily your first language flows from your mouth. “And you’re not.”

“Correct,” you nod, turning up the speed a little on the machine until you’re at a light jog. “My bigger concern was going to be why you’re here at 2-fucking-30, but I’m guessing I know the answer. You get called in around here for the hit?” He nods, starting the treadmill up and walking on it.

“You don’t have to be so guarded, Jesus. I fucking hate Escobar, I’m on your side,” you scoff before turning up the machine until you’re running once more.

Javier shrugs. “Makes sense. How did you know-”

“She died,” you say quickly and firmly, keeping your eyes straight ahead and looking at the room around you. “Add that to your file.”

He nods, understanding a little more now. You knew her somehow. He doesn’t say a word either, cranking up the machine and heading into a jog too.

A few more minutes pass of the two of you silently running next to each other, the American music still playing throughout the gym. It’s a comfort to Javier too. Tonight was shit for the DEA- they had known Escobar’s men would be around here. They had the intel, they had everything ready, but the men somehow had escaped and left a victim in their wake.

The frustration of everything, of the man being something close to home for you yet being a brick wall, threatens your eyes with welling tears again. “I just wanted to talk with an American,” you sigh and cross your arms, moving back into the walking stage of a treadmill.

The man next to you gives a similar sigh, stopping his treadmill completely and offering you a hand. “Javier Peña.” You take it reluctantly, feeling the sweat of both of your hands mix, and tell him your name before retracting it and stopping the treadmill too. “So, what brings you to the gym at 2:30?” He asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the center part of the treadmill.

“I’m a nurse. I work the graveyard shift. Bad night, a patient died because she got fucking shot for having a boyfriend and not knowing he was a narco, I need to get something out, I come here,” you shrug, unconsciously mimicking him by folding your arms as well.

He nods at that. “I’m here for the same. Shitty stakeout, I’m pissed off, I come here.” He leaves out the part about his favorite call girl being taken, and how he needed another way to get the rage inside of him out. He walks off of the treadmill and to the weight rack, pulling a bench beneath the bar.

You turn again and turn the machine back on, slowly jogging. “I see. Odd hours to be here, that’s why I asked,” you say simply. “And to see another American at such a time. I haven’t interacted with one since I came here.”

Javier nods, adjusting the weights on the bar. “Yeah. Weird,” he nods. “And that you’re an American who isn’t working for the government and you’re down here. What, you got a husband who works for us?”

You shake your head, swallowing hard for a moment. “No, don’t have a husband in the first place,” you admit, adjusting the ponytail holding your hair up. “It’s a long story.”

“We got time,” he shrugs as he gets on the bench beneath the rack, looking at you in the mirrored wall. Even with the sweat and the stress of working out, he notices that you’re gorgeous. You have a nice body, and even your face is pretty while you’re working out.

You shake your head. “Fine, if you really want to hear it.”

“Might as well. It’s that or more of this fucking Wham! music, and I’m sick of George Michael.”

“First of all, first person here gets the music, so mind your manners.” This finally earns a chuckle from the man, and you want to smile but it just can’t come. “I came down here with a man. He’s a citizen here. We were going to get married, but he left me. That was a couple of months ago now,” you admit, the tears beading in the corner of your eye again. “My work visa was still valid, and I renewed it so I can keep working at the hospital. I don’t really have anyone down here except the girls I work with, but I like helping out. They need me.” He nods a little as he listens, breaking his focus as he starts his reps with the bar.

“And you’re government, so that explains everything I need to know about you,” you continue to babble. “One of the girls I work with has a husband who’s at the Embassy. Murphy,” you say offhandedly.

Javier’s attention is caught, and he sets the bar on the rack. “Murphy?” He asks, and you turn your head to look at him and give him a nod. “No shit. That’s my partner.”

You chuckle slightly and look back at him, stopping the treadmill. “So you know Connie?”

Javi nods. “Yeah, great gal. She could do better than Steve,” he says, sitting up.

You laugh softly at that. “From what I’ve heard of him, I agree. She’s a really great girl, you’re right,” you nod in agreement, looking back at him. “She’s never mentioned you. She says her husband’s in janitorial, but we all know that’s not true. What, you guys CIA? DEA?”

Javier nods again. “DEA.”

“I see,” you say, folding your arms and leaning against the machine. “Can’t make you many friends around here. I learned pretty quickly to keep my mouth shut about being a gringa. They can usually tell though.”

“You’re right,” he chuckles and cracks his back.

You bite your lip as you look at him, your voice watery when you can finally speak again, suddenly overwhelmed by emotion again. “It’s nice to talk to someone in English again,” you admit with a forced smile.

He can read your eyes easily. You’re a nurse, and you told him that the victim died. You saw it. “It is,” he nods, reading your pain and trying to show you he empathizes with it. Your eyes are beautiful, he notices as he looks into them. So much more hope and trust than anyone else he works with, but the pain in them is unbearable. He looks away, leaning back on the bench to lift again.

“So where you from in the States?” You finally ask when the silence is too long.

“Laredo, Texas,” he chuckles. “Yourself?”

#javier peña x reader #javi peña x reader #javier peña #javi peña #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pascalpanic #narcos #narcos fanfic #blood sweat and tears

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montrealmadison · 3 years

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drink deeply

or, as they say at samwell, “penitus potes.” shitty gives the toast at jack and bitty’s wedding. for @zimbitsweddingofficial and day two of zimbits wedding week: the wedding itself!

just for fun, a draft version of the beginning of this fic with lardo, ransom, and holster’s “helpful” edits can be found via google doc here. hope y’all enjoy! <3

Good evening, everyone! On behalf of Jack and Eric, thank you all so much for being here tonight, and welcome to what could very well be the most highly anticipated wedding reception of 2019. I mean, this party was planned by the likes of Suzanne Bittle and Alicia Zimmermann. We are in for a treat, folks.

Before we get to all that, I’d also like to extend a particular welcome to those in attendance who are part of the playing, coaching, and/or office staff of the Providence Falconers. Glad you could all make it this evening; I know this past week was a little bit busy for you guys.

[Insert appropriate pause and gesture to the punch bowl, which on closer inspection is actually—oh yeah—the Stanley Cup the Falcs won three days ago. Hold for inevitable applause, general hysteria, and/or hooting/hollering from Tater.]

For those of you who don’t know me, I’ve been trying to decide whether I should introduce myself by my first name, which will inevitably get me mocked by my friends until the end of time, or by my nickname, which will definitely scandalize anyone who has not spent a significant amount of time around twenty-year-old guys who play hockey. However, as I look around the room, I’m realizing that most of you probably either raised, spent significant time around, or were once a twenty-year-old guy who played hockey. To the rest of you, I am profoundly sorry.

So, hi! I’m Shitty, and I’m Jack’s best man.

read more below or on ao3

Being someone’s best man, as I’ve realized over the last few months, should really come with a playbook or an instruction manual or something, because it’s a task unlike any other you’ll ever take on. In addition to being a friend, you have to be a confidant, an expert at bachelor-party debauchery (I think my college resume definitely prepared me for this part) and someone who’s not afraid to step in to make last-minute decisions so the grooms don’t have to. You also have to do all of these things without getting fired from your job or stepping on anyone’s toes, up to and including: the couple getting married, the other people in the wedding party, the grooms’ parents, the wedding planner, and most importantly, Moomaw, whose word is law around here.

(Seriously. She made the pie tonight, people. Bow down to her.)

But as much as the role can feel a little bit like you’re being thrown in at the deep end, it also definitely comes with its perks. Tonight, I have both the honor and the challenge of somehow summarizing how much I love Jack and Eric in a speech that is heartfelt and witty yet also brief so that we can get to the aforementioned pie as quickly as possible. If you’re still following me here, that is a tall order—but here goes nothing!

I met Jack Zimmermann on our first day of freshman year at Samwell, during the bright, hot summer of 2011. I was participating in the time-honored tradition of moving into a dorm on the third floor of a building with no elevator and no air conditioning in the middle of August. It builds character, or so the good folks in Samwell administration probably tell themselves. Anyway, athletes got to move in early for preseason, so I was expecting to be one of the only guys on the floor for at least a couple days. I was just carrying the last box into my room when the door next to mine opened and—well, you can probably guess who walked out.

Now, I grew up in Boston, which means I also grew up around hockey culture. I’d heard the news that Jack was coming to Samwell, so I knew who he was when he stepped into the hall in that same vague way that you kind of-sort of recognize celebrities hustling down the street or through the airport with their sunglasses on. And he gave me that same vibe—“I know you know who I am, and I’d very much like not to be bothered about it.”

Here is something that will not shock you if you know us: Jack was the first friend I made in college. Here is something that might shock you if you know us: That definitely doesn’t mean we were friends at first. By his own admission, Jack wasn’t at Samwell to make friends at all. He told me, much later, that he was only planning to go to play hockey, get his life back on track, and keep his head down as much as possible.

So in retrospect, maybe it was an unlucky thing for Jack that he ran into the one person who wasn’t going to let him do that.

Because no matter who you are or where you’re from, freshman year of college breeds a unique kind of terror I’ve never felt anywhere else. There’s a lot of pressure to completely remake yourself, to become the person you maybe never could have been in your hometown. By coming to Samwell, I wanted to be a different kind of kid than the one that Andover had raised. Jack wanted to be a different kind of kid than the one he’d spent twenty years telling himself he had to be. As much as neither of us wanted to admit it, we both wanted similar things out of our college experience, and we needed a support system to do that. And so, however begrudging the two of us were about it at first, we started to bond more and more.

It wasn’t always easy. For one thing, my idea of a good time was a lot louder than Jack’s—who enjoyed such scintillating pursuits as “watching golf” and “going to bed at a reasonable hour”, neither of which were quite in my vocabulary at the ripe old age of eighteen. Also, if it’s before six in the morning, he has a hard time remembering to speak English, which used to make for a lot of stilted conversations between the two of us as we walked to early morning practice. (On a completely unrelated note, the first and probably only thing I ever learned in Québécois is how to swear.)

I don’t remember the exact tipping point at which Jack and I really became friends; I think it was more of a quiet acknowledgment that we liked having each other around, that we balanced each other out in ways that neither of us initially knew we needed. What I do know is that, slowly but surely, I started to get glimpses of the Jack that exists off the ice. And so began one of the most extraordinary journeys of my life, because the only thing crazier than knowing Jack Zimmermann is actually knowing Jack.

Here are some things that I’ve learned in the process: He’s on his third pair of neon yellow running shoes, which he buys specifically because the color makes him happy. Before either of us tried Eric’s pies, the only thing that could make him cheat on a meal plan was a sleeve of Double Stuf Oreos. (Don’t ask him how to eat them correctly unless you’re interested in a twenty-minute speech on exactly how they have to be pulled apart.) And he loves Captain America, although it is the opinion of this best man that America’s ass has nothing on his hockey butt. Have you seen that thing? It has Internet fans in at least two different countries.

But I digress.

In our sophomore year we lived next to each other again, by choice instead of by chance, in what I can only describe as the pinnacle of American college living: the Samwell Men’s Hockey Haus. We used to pull the comforter off of one of our beds and climb out onto the roof and clear off the snow so we could share the blanket, look up at the stars, and listen to the bass thumping through the wall of the house next door. On nights when other things felt confusing, this one part of my life was clear. There’s something about sitting out under the open sky that just makes it easier to talk to a guy, you know?

Some nights the conversations we had were funny. Some nights they were serious. Some nights we said nothing at all, just sat secure in the knowledge that someone cared enough to exist alongside us for a little while. There was always an unspoken agreement between us on nights like these: I got your back. For me, Jack’s friendship became a rock, a refuge. It’s something that I came to depend on that year and still do to this day.

As for the content of those late-night conversations—well, some things do have to stay between friends. I’m sure Jack will agree, especially because he has so graciously allowed me to get up here and lovingly roast him just a little bit.

So let’s skip ahead again, to yet another August, the start of our junior year, and the arrival on the scene of one Eric Bittle. This kid burst into our ranks like a ray of Southern sunshine and turned pretty much everything upside down in the process. In the first five minutes of being in the Haus, he somehow made us a pie? Folks, I'm not kidding, it was the best thing I’ve ever eaten. We were a bunch of guys who didn’t know what we were missing until we had it, and let me tell you, it was one hell of a semester after that. In pretty short order we had curtains on the windows and baked goods on the counters, and Samwell Men’s Hockey started to become not only a team but a family.

That was off the ice, at least. On it, things were a little more complicated. As our dear friend and former goalie John Johnson said to me, Jack and Eric hadn’t gone through their character development yet—whatever that means.

Take our third or fourth practice with the full team that year, for example. It had gone… uh. Poorly, would be a word. Later that night I heard some rustling on the roof outside, and God knows I was willing to do just about anything but my homework—so I stuck my head out the window and there was Jack, watching the stars. I asked him if he wanted a buddy, and he said alright, so I slid out and sat down next to him.

That was pretty usual for us at this point. What wasn’t usual was the topic of conversation. The first thing Jack said to me was, “Bittle’s gonna get eaten alive when our schedule starts.” (Remember, people, they’re married now!) The second was, “I want to help.”

Here’s another thing about Jack: Underneath the veneer is a guy who just cares so intensely it’d shock you if you knew nothing else about him. It shocked me a little that day. I think it even shocked him to admit it, to the point where I had to say, “Jack, it’s not a criminal offense to care about other people. Even if it feels like you’re doing it for yourself.”

So he helped. He offered an olive branch, and Bits took him up on it. I’d hear the two of them get up in the morning, hours before the rest of us had to be at Faber, for checking practice. None of the rest of us ever knew exactly what went down, but one thing was for sure—Eric put in a ton of work to overcome some of the fears that had followed him to college. He got better, and Jack relaxed. The two of them really started working as a team, and things started looking up from there.

The day that they told us they were dating was pretty amazing. Eric is so full of light no matter how bleak a situation may look, but that day he was literally almost glowing. And I’ve seen Jack in moments after victory and loss, at his best and at his worst. But I’ve never seen a Jack who was so happy, possessed of such confidence in a decision he’d made, as I saw him that day at brunch. And that’s when I knew this relationship was really special.

From there, many of you know the story. You watched it play out on ESPN and social media and the front pages of every single gossip magazine on the supermarket shelves. But if you’re sitting here with us tonight, you also watched it play out between Jack and Eric themselves. You’ve watched them handle expectations as a united front. You’ve watched their unfailing dedication to each other while they navigate the pressure of being some pretty big firsts. You know that, behind the scenes, these are two incredibly genuine people who bring out the best in each other and are dedicated to doing that every single day.

In the last four years, I’ve watched Eric become self-possessed and confident because he was given the space to do so. In the last six years, I’ve watched Jack grow from a kid with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove to a guy who finally believes that he deserves all the good things the world has given him and then some. If you take nothing else away from this speech, I want you to know this: I’m incredibly proud to call myself a friend to both of them.

Jack, Bits, you’re always gonna be my brothers, my best friends, and two of the finest damn men I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. I wish you both a long and happy marriage. Take care of each other, be good to each other, and never forget where you started—as a team.

So please join me in raising your glasses, everyone, and as they say at Samwell—penitus potes to Jack and Eric!

#shitty knight #jack zimmermann #eric bittle #zimbitswedding #omgcp #check please #this idea jumped into my head and refused to leave #shitty & jack & bitty friendship my beloved #my writing

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moldisgoodforyou · 3 years

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florence (iv)

warnings: smut!! in the middle but you can see it coming if u wanna skip over it

wordcount: 8.3k

______

Six and a half hours and two transfers later on the train, Sophie and Rafe made it to Florence. They’d fallen asleep on each other multiple times and woken up with cricks in their necks or imprints of each other’s clothing onto their cheeks, and were both running on little sleep - somehow, he’d convinced her to go skinny dipping off a little cove at 2am the night before. She lasted about ten minutes in the water with him before she spotted someone with a flashlight along the beach and freaked, practically sprinting out of the water to pull her wet clothes back on and shove Rafe’s at him. (He’d hissed at her to relax until they heard yelling of “arrêter! Policiers!” They put together pretty quickly that it was “stop! Police!” and booked it back to the hotel, giggling the whole way.)

Despite Rafe’s tired grumblings, she made him freshen up and walk with her to go get dinner at a place a few blocks from the hostel. It was only 6, but they both hadn’t eaten in a while and had to be up early for an architecture tour Sophie had scheduled at 8am. He took two looks at the menu before handing it to her - she raised her eyebrows, skeptical. “You know what you’re getting?”

“It’s Italy. I want pasta every day.”

“Every day.” She repeated, doubtful.

“Every day. And gelato, every day. Those are my two requests.” He nodded, sure of himself.

“I think we can manage that. Did you learn Italian too over the summer, you want to order for us?” She teased, holding back a smile.

“C’mon, my Spanish wasn’t that terrible. It really wasn’t.” He protested, kicking her gently under the table.

She kicked him back reflexively, maybe a little too hard, and just rolled her eyes when he made a show of dramatically grabbing his leg. “It wasn’t awful. You just had zero accent, that’s kind of important.”

“Whatever, I’ll work on it.” He grinned. “You can teach me where to put my tongue.”

“Your ability to make anything sexual is impressive.”

“Wasn’t even sexual, but good job on you for twisting it.” He smirked, leaning across the table and lowering her voice. “Hey. Guess what.”

She did the same, reaching out and taking his hand. “What.”

“We’re in Italy.” He whispered conspiratorially, squeezing her hand.

“Yeah, and…?”

“When you were drunk on FaceTime once, you told me we needed to have sex in every country.”

She blushed, raising her eyebrows. “Did I?”

“You did, and I’m holding you to it. I got us single rooms in the hostels for a reason.” Rafe wiggled his eyebrows back with a smile, trying to get her to laugh. “But there’s like, a 98% chance I fall asleep on you if we try anything tonight, so we can check that off the list tomorrow.”

She had to hide a giggle as their waiter came over to take their order, turning it into a cough into her elbow. When the waiter left she shook her head, grinning. “Tomorrow’s fine. I appreciate the honesty.”

“Any time.”

_______

The next morning, Sophie woke up to her third alarm in a row with Rafe still blissfully asleep next to her, his arm curled around her middle and her leg thrown over his waist. She nudged her head up, knocking against his chin. “Hey.”

He stirred just enough to pull her closer and bury his face into her hair. “Shh. Sleeping.”

“We gotta get up, Rafe, we need breakfast before our tour.” She started scratching gentle circles on his chest, placing short kisses up along his neck. “Up.”

“If you keep doing that something else is going to get up.” He mumbled, humming contentedly with his eyes still shut. The hostel was busy with other kids their age and he’d woken up to the sound of two groups trying to open their door - twice - and their drunken whisper-yells. Sophie, of course, slept peacefully through the whole thing.

“We don’t have time for that.” She placed a kiss on the tip of his nose and tried squirming from his grip unsuccessfully. “Come on.”

“Five minutes.”

“Two.”

“Four.”

“...Fine.” She settled her head back onto the pillow, sighing as he grinned and nuzzled against her. “Only ‘cause you’re warm.”

“Yeah, what the fuck is up with the temps? This place is an icebox.” He replied, slipping his hand under her shirt and cupping her breast.

“Rafe.” She elbowed at him, a warning tone to her voice.

“M’ just holding it. You’re warm.” He argued, brushing his thumb over her nipple and smiling to himself when she let out a tiny whine. She made the mistake of pressing her hips back into him, just a little, and he groaned quietly into her ear. “Careful there.”

“You’re not seriously - oh my god, Rafe.”

He wasn’t embarrassed in the slightest, just pushed his hips against her ass. “Can’t help it. I have my beautiful girlfriend in my bed that I haven’t seen in months.”

“It wasn’t even that long -”

“It was a whole quarter of a year without you, Sophie, now hush and let me sleep.” His tone took on a teasing lilt and he brushed his fingers down her stomach, making her tense. “Unless you’d like to do something else.”

“We don’t have time.” She told him firmly, knocking his hand away. He grumbled and pulled his hand out from under her shirt, settling his arm around her waist instead. “Lame.”

“You’re lame.”

“Okay. Good comeback. You’ve lost your touch.” He quipped with a tone of amusement, pulling her close again. Her alarm went off and he sighed dramatically, dropping his head to her shoulder. “Let’s skip.”

“We’re not skipping, we might never be in Florence again and I’ve wanted to see the Duomo and Palazzo Vecchio for years.” She twisted in his grip just enough to place a quick kiss on his lips then sit up, stretching. “Get up.”

“I’ll bring you back - no, Sophie, stay -” He protested weakly, reaching for her.

She smiled fondly at the way he was all squinty in the mornings, adjusting to the lights and trying to find his glasses, but her smile gave way to a pout she knew Rafe couldn’t say no to. “Baby, please? I don’t want to be late.”

“Fine.” He yawned and dragged himself out of bed, pulled on his glasses and shoved his feet into sneakers, just wearing his boxers. “I’m gonna go pee.”

“You’re not gonna at least throw on a shirt? Or shorts?” She questioned, eyeing him over with no shame.

He caught her gaze and flexed his chest, smirking. “Not if you’re enjoying the show.”

“You’re the worst.” She informed him, leaning over to give him a kick to the ass. “Go.”

As requested, she pulled out his clothes for the day after she got ready, finding a certain kind of pride in the fact that he trusted her in his appearance. She grabbed his wallet from the desk too, ready to stick it in her backpack, but paused when she realized it was a little thicker than normal, barely snapping shut. Curiosity got the best of her and she flicked open the wallet, pulling out a couple wrinkled and worn pieces of paper from one of the slots.

Rafe returned just as she was smoothing it open. “What are you doing?”

She startled, quickly turning and holding the paper behind her back. “Nothing! Just putting your wallet in my bag. So we didn’t forget.” She clarified quickly, cheeks blooming red at being caught.

He smirked, kicking off his shoes and striding closer. “If you wanted money, you could’ve just asked.” He teased, reaching around behind her. “Whatcha got?”

“Nothing.” She twisted, trying to set it on the desk without him noticing, completely unsubtle.

“Oh. You found your letters?”

Sophie paused. “My letters?”

“Yeah, that’s what they are.” He nodded and started pulling on his clothes for the day.

She brought it from behind her back to read and brightened, realizing it was two scraps from the many letters she’d sent to him when they were apart. He’d just cut out the two sappiest paragraphs she’d written, embarrassingly, as she found it much easier to express the extent of her love for him through writing rather than face to face. She pouted a little, skimming over them. “Baby.”

He turned back to her and ran his thumb over her bottom lip, shaking his head. “Hm? No pouting, little fish.”

“Little fish?” She quirked her brow, confused.

“Yeah, remember that one time you blamed your crying during finals week on being a Pisces moon? Pisces is the fish, I think.” Rafe reasoned, taking the papers out of her hand and carefully tucked them into a zippered pocket of his suitcase. “Since you’re here with me now, I guess you’ll just have to tell me how much you love me in person instead.”

She beamed up at him, adoringly. “I love you so damn much.”

He grinned and slipped his hands around her waist, pulling her close to kiss her slow. “Love you too, Soph. My favorite girl.”

Fifteen minutes later, the two of them strolled out hand-in-hand to the hostel cafeteria and picked through some pastries for breakfast, Sophie promising him a protein bar from her backpack when he complained he’d be lightheaded by eleven. He snapped a photo of her when she recoiled at the strong cappuccino with zero cream or sugar to cut it with, laughing as she tried her best to hide a cough. They found a spot at an empty table and it wasn’t long until a friendly couple came up to them with twin smiles.

“Hi, can we sit?” The girl asked, already setting down their plates.

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead.” Rafe replied, gesturing. Sophie noticed that his slight Carolinian accent came out a little more in Europe instead of in Ohio, as if he was trying to mimic a little bit of the Spanish and Italian accents and butchered it in his own special way. (She hadn’t corrected him yet, finding it endearing.)

“Thank you! I’m Elena, this is Marco.” Elena introduced herself, sliding into her seat.

Marco gave them a nod and pointed at Rafe, hesitant. “It’s...Jake?”

“Rafe.” He corrected, then explained to Sophie, “we met in the bathroom.”

“Your boyfriend is built.” Marco informed Sophie with a grin, making her laugh. “I know. I’m Sophie, it’s nice to meet you both. Are you just visiting, or…?”

“Yes, we’re from Milan, we wanted to make a weekend trip.” Elena confirmed. “And you? Americans?”

“North Carolina, yeah.” Rafe nodded. “Sophie was studying abroad in Barcelona, then I came to tag along.”

“Oh, so cool!” Elena grinned. “Do you have plans today? I love Florence, it’s beautiful.”

“It is, yeah.” Sophie glanced down at her phone, then back up at them. “I’m sorry, but we have to run, actually, we have a tour to go to this morning. But no plans later.”

“We will meet you by the Duomo, then, around lunch! We can show you around.” Marco declared, handing over his phone to Rafe to put in his phone number - he was a little confused, but did so anyways. “You guys don’t have to -”

“No, new friends are always fun.” Elena waved him off with a smile. “Enjoy your morning.”

Sophie brightened, slipping out of her chair. “See you later!”

Rafe followed her back to their room, and turned to face her after shutting the door with a skeptical look. “He was flirting with me.”

She laughed, packing up her backpack for the day (she’d bought the little leather bag in Barcelona and it was now one of her most treasured possessions, carrying her camera and sketchbook every day). “Don’t be ridiculous, you just have a big head.”

“No, I swear, he was giving me a look this morning when I walked back from the bathroom.” He insisted.

“I think you’re misinterpreting things, he was probably confused that you were shirtless. They were friendly, we should meet up with them! New friends!” She grinned and slapped a protein bar into his hand, as promised.

He furrowed his brow a little but slipped the bar into his pocket. “How long do I have to share you for?”

“Rafe.”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” He amended quickly, leaning down to give her a sweet kiss. “Ready to see your Domo and whatever?”

“Duomo, baby. And the Palazzo Vecchio.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“Uh huh.” She held out her hand with a grin. “C’mon, Florence awaits.”

He took her hand and raised it, guiding her into a twirl. “We certainly can’t keep her waiting, then.”

______

Rafe wasn’t sure he absorbed a single word of the self-guided tour. Twenty boring minutes in, he’d turned down the volume on his audio pack that they’d rented and just observed Sophie and the small look of awe on her face at every new turn, the way she nodded enthusiastically when she recognized a piece of information shared on the audio. He decided he would be perfectly content with just watching her for the rest of his life, to see the way her face lit up when she learned new things and got to share that information with him.

He listened just enough to be able to hold a conversation with her afterward, but his intro to architecture class that he’d had to drop midway through the first month of the semester didn’t really give him a strong enough background to keep up. Sophie made him pause the audio several times too, so she could tell him a story about the architect or about the construction of the buildings - he did his best to look as interested as possible. She could tell he was losing interest, just a little, but carried on anyways, just excited to share her passions with him.

After finishing the tour and returning their audio devices a little early, they took a seat out on the steps of the piazza as they waited for their new friends. Sophie took out her sketchbook and started drawing the front entryway of the Duomo, and after two minutes she ripped out a sheet so Rafe could doodle too. (His sketches were much less refined, a little rough around the edges, but they made up for it in character.)

“Do you think they’ll show?”

“Marco and Elena? Yeah. They sounded genuine.” She replied, her tongue poking out a little in concentration as she sketched.

He suppressed a grin and snapped a quick photo of her before she could realize. “How long do we have to hang out with them?”

She shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe go to lunch, let them show us around and if we like them we can hang out more?”

“Hm. You think we’ll like them?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t we?” She reached over and adjusted his hand, trying to help him draw a straighter line, but he just scowled and went back to his usual method.

“We don’t know anything about them.”

“That’s the whole point of staying in the hostel, baby, to meet people.” She nudged her foot against his, giving him an eager smile. “C’mon, you like making friends. You’re good at it.”

“Okay, fine, but I have something planned for us tomorrow afternoon.” He told her, raising his eyebrows.

She huffed, exasperated. “Rafe, I promise, we can have sex later, but I’m not wasting the day in bed -”

He laughed, flicking at her knee. “No, no, not that, but I like where your mind is at.”

“Oh.” She cocked her head a little. “What is it?”

“A surprise.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Not an expensive one, I hope?”

He made a show of pulling out his phone, dramatic. “Siri, cancel the private shopping tour at Gucci please.“

“Rafe Cameron.” She fixed him with a glare, unamused. He grinned back and leaned over to kiss her forehead. “I know you better than that, don’t worry.”

“You’d better.” She rolled her eyes, then brightened when she saw Marco and Elena approaching and gathered up her sketchbook and pencils back into her bag, along with Rafe’s little drawings. He followed her gaze and stood, visibly steeling himself a little - she instantly nudged him to relax.

It didn’t take long for Rafe to warm up to their newfound friends, especially when Marco showed interest in his camera and when Elena asked him about his film minor, and enthused about how jealous she was that she couldn’t study something fun like that. He was a little caught off guard when they each got kisses on cheeks as a greeting, but didn’t mention it when Sophie shot him a look.

As promised, the two gave Rafe and Sophie a mini tour of the city, stopping for gelato twice along the way. After a solid few hours of walking and chatting, they stopped at a fountain by their hostel and sat around it to take a break.

“This fountain is special to us, you know.” Elena smiled at Marco and he nodded, tugging her down to his lap.

Rafe cocked his head. “Why’s that?”

“It is where we kissed for the first time.” Marco revealed with a raise of his eyebrows. “There’s a legend, if you throw a coin in here over your shoulder and it makes it to the top tier, you will find your lover.”

“Or lovers.” Elena added with a grin and dug in her pocket, then tossed two coins to Rafe and Sophie. “Here. I’ll tell you where it lands.”

Rafe tried handing his back, shaking his head. “No, I don’t want to waste your coin. I already have Sophie.”

Elena pushed it back into his hand, insistent. “You never know what will happen. It’s just good luck.”

Sophie looked a little confused but accepted the coin, tossing it in. Marco let out a whoop as it landed in the top tier, making a satisfying clink. “There you go!”

Rafe scowled but flicked his in too, looking a little smug when it joined hers up top. “See, I told you. Your lover’s right here.” He slipped his arms around her waist from behind, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, and mumbled, “Stupid fountain.”

Elena laughed, gesturing out to the crowd milling around. “Your lovers could be anywhere. Love is meant to be shared with more, yes?”

“...Sure.” Sophie leaned back into Rafe, content. “How long are you two here for?”

“We have as long as we’d like.” Marco shrugged. “Wherever the wind takes us.”

Rafe chuckled quietly into Sophie’s hair, murmuring. “Sounds like your worst nightmare.”

She just hummed in agreement back to him. “Oh. We leave in two days, early in the morning. Do you have plans tonight?”

“Probably a club.” Elena grinned. “You should come! We will teach you the tricks, get you the good Italian drinks. Sophie, I can show you how to flirt for the free drinks, the Italian way.”

She held back a laugh as she felt Rafe’s grip tighten a little around her. “Going out sounds fun. I’m not sure I have the right clothes, though, I sent a lot home already…”

“I have clothes! We will share.” Elena dismissed her immediately, then got up off Marco’s lap, tugging him up. “We are meeting with friends for dinner, but we will meet you later? At the hostel?”

“Sounds good.” Rafe nodded, letting Sophie go, and was surprised when the two of them said goodbye - again - with cheek kisses, Marco included. Once they were out of earshot, Sophie giggled at the bemused expression he wore. “I think you should start greeting James and Colin that way.”

He scowled. “James would participate. Colin might deck me.”

“Yeah, probably. I miss them.”

“More than you missed me?” He raised his eyebrows and she rolled her eyes, shoving at his chest. “Of course not. Don’t be weird.”

“I’m not being weird.”

“You are being weird, you get all overprotective and I know you wanted to say something earlier when she talked about flirting.” She took his hand and intertwined their fingers, giving it a little squeeze.

He softened a little and leaned down to press a kiss against the crown of her head, ignoring her remark. “What do you think she’ll have you wearing?”

“No clue. We’ll see, I guess.” She shrugged. “We have a few hours to kill, what do you want to do?”

“Hmm. We can go see the David?” Rafe tipped his head in that direction, and Sophie visibly brightened. “You want to go to an art museum?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard it’s cool. One of my buddies went last year and said it was worth checking out. Plus, air conditioning.”

“My two favorite words.” She grinned.

____

Later that night, Sophie walked out of the girls’ dorm with Elena to meet the boys, looking extra hesitant. She wore a black bikini top, maneuvered differently so it was upside down and strung up to push her boobs together, with an open back. One tug of a string and it’d all come undone. It was paired with a leather miniskirt and Elena insisted on doing winged eyeliner and soft pink lipstick too, all completely out of Sophie’s comfort zone.

Rafe’s eyebrows shot up and his jaw fell open a little. “Soph.”

“She’s gorgeous, yes?” Elena grinned, giving Sophie a little push on the shoulder toward him.

“Yeah, definitely, stunning.” Rafe nodded, searching her face. Sophie gave him a small smile, clearly uncomfortable in the attire. “It doesn’t look bad?”

“No! No, not at all. Do you like it…?” He questioned. “I can go get an extra shirt of mine from our room, if you want a little more, uh, coverage - not that you need to cover up, but -” He started, stepping toward that way even without her encouragement.

“No, um, I think it’s okay.” She grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “Just a little...different. I just need a drink. Or two.”

He paused. “You’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” She nodded, then gave him a wry grin. “Just make sure no one accidentally tugs at this string or I think it’s all coming apart.”

He clapped his hand against the string at the back of her neck protectively. “You got it.”

“Ready? You look nice, Sophie.” Marco asked, sending her a polite smile, then stopped in front of Rafe. “No, wait.”

“Something wrong?” Rafe frowned, then widened his eyes as Marco reached out and undid two more buttons on Rafe’s shirt that already had three unbuttoned, so his chest was basically on full display. His attire was completely out of character for him, a short-sleeved maroon silk button-down that Marco had insisted on, but he wore it well. Sophie stifled a laugh.

“There! Much better. Now we go.” Marco took Elena’s hand and they led the way, starting the walk toward the club.

Sophie giggled at Rafe’s bemused expression and reached over and undid another button with her free hand. “You look extra slutty tonight.”

“Extra slutty?” He emphasized in mock outrage. “Maybe I’ll be the one getting us free drinks.”

She grinned. “How about we make it a competition?”

“Go on…”

“Whoever can get to...um, two drinks first wins.” She decided.

“Just two? Why not go the whole night?” He cocked his head.

“I don’t think I’m going to drink too much tonight.” She reached up and tugged at the bikini string to tighten it a little, pushing her boobs together more. “I feel like my tits are gonna fall out at any second.”

He snorted. “Say the word and I’ll give you my shirt.”

“I know you would, baby, but I think you need some semblance of decency too.”

They were practically glued to each other’s side all night despite their bet, with her being stressed about her outfit and him being overprotective. (Sophie noted that Rafe looked remarkably comfortable in the overpriced and fancy club environment, while she felt wildly out of place. For a moment she wished she’d taken him to Monaco just to see how quickly he’d assimilate, even though she knew she’d probably hate it.)

They took two shots with Elena and Marco and lost both of them shortly after, not expecting them to leave so soon. After they said hasty goodbyes, not returning, Rafe slung his arm around Sophie’s shoulders and kept her close. “I’m pretty sure I just saw Elena making out with some girl on the dance floor.”

Sophie furrowed her brow, leaning into him. “You’re sure? Isn’t she dating Marco?”

He shrugged. “Dunno, maybe it’s their thing. I swear it was her.” He grinned, repeating Elena’s words from earlier. “Your lovers could be anywhere, remember?”

She rolled her eyes. “She’s a little out there. When we were getting dressed she dragged a crystal down my spine and told me I had to align my chakras.”

“Kinky.” He quipped, laughing when she shoved at his shoulder. “Whatcha thinking, want to stay?”

“Honestly?”

“Yeah.”

She shook her head. “I’m tired and my feet are killing me. Let’s just head back?”

He took the rest of her drink and tipped it back, then set it on a nearby counter as they walked out. “Exactly how tired are you?”

She grinned. “I could stay up for a little longer. I saw your packing skills, might as well put them to good use.”

Rafe blushed - she’d found a whole strip of condoms in his bag on the first night in Barcelona and immediately teased him, asking how many nights he thought they’d be doing it. He merely responded by shrugging and ripping one open, setting it on the bed like an invitation. (She had accepted. Of course she did.) “We might as well take advantage of your top. Easy access, y’know.”

She rolled her eyes and checked her hip against his, shaking her head. “You have me, you know. You don’t have to keep constantly flirting.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Touché.”

_________

Rafe’s planned surprise for the next day was a bike tour (“so you can live out your Lizzie McGuire dream,” he’d told her, but she didn’t have the heart to correct him that technically Lizzie rode a Vespa in Rome).

The bike tour was out to a small winery where they had a private dinner and both got drunker than they expected, especially Sophie. The owners of the winery made them a three-course meal and kept coming out with more and more wines to try, successfully convincing Rafe to order three bottles to be shipped home. When Sophie nearly fell only a few feet after attempting to ride the bike back, the owners laughed and just ordered them a cab - Rafe thanked them with a tip that was probably a little too excessive, but his drunk brain didn’t care.

When they tumbled into the car, Rafe immediately pulled her feet into his lap, running his hand over her shin. She gave him a look and tried twitching away but he wouldn’t let her, keeping a firm grasp on her ankle. In Spanish, a little slurred but near-perfect, Sophie told the driver their address and the name of the hostel. Their driver nodded and responded something in Italian - neither of them could understand, so they just nodded back.

Rafe dug his thumbs into her calf and she nearly moaned, biting her lip. “Oh my god.”

“That good or you’re just drunk?” He smirked, continuing his motions.

She let her head flop back against the car door. “Both. You’re drunk too. My brain is working funny though.”

He raised his eyebrows, smiling. “I don’t think it is. What’s 15 plus 26?”

“Rafe, you know I can’t do mental math, unfair.” She whined, pulling her leg back a little so his hand slipped back to her ankle.

He swapped her legs, massaging into her other calf. “Not gonna take your shoes off in the car, sweetheart, you’ll have to wait for more.”

“Sweetheart. That’s new,” she repeated, mulling it over. “You know what?”

“What?”

“If you gave me a foot massage right now, I genuinely think I’d marry you on the spot. No contest.”

“No contest implies there is competition, Soph.” He pushed both her legs off his lap, ignoring her squawk of protest, and slid into the middle seat so he could buckle her in and lean into her.

She tucked her head into his side comfortably. “You’d marry me too. Wouldn’t you?”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Hm. No.”

She whined, squeezing his thigh. “Rafe!”

“Sophie!” He mimicked her whine, although much quieter, and pushed her hand away from his leg. “No, I wouldn’t, you deserve a big party and a pretty white dress. Plus, wouldn’t you want our friends there?”

“I suppose.” She hummed, pulling his arm a little tighter around her shoulders. “Sometime, then.”

“Yeah, sometime.” He agreed, starting to play with her hair. It wasn’t long until she fell asleep on his side, always extra sleepy when she was wine drunk. He snapped a picture and sent it to Allie and Julia, who instantly demanded a Facetime session.

A few minutes later, the cab dropped them at the hostel and Rafe had to practically drag her sleepy body out of the car and haul her inside. He convinced her to stay awake just long enough to get into their room, then let her flop onto the bed as he untied her shoes.

She perked up a little when she heard the familiar ring of the Facetime call. “Who’s that?” He scooted in close to her, pressing his cheek to hers to fit them both on the screen with minimal effort. Allie and Julia picked up right away and both their faces broke out into a grin.

“Mom and Dad!” Julia exclaimed.

Sophie grinned back, immediately taking the phone from Rafe and shoving him away. “Hi!”

“She’s drunk.” Rafe informed them unnecessarily off screen.

“I am not, shh.” She snapped at him. “Hi guys! I miss you!”

“How’s your trip? I want to hear all about it!” Allie asked right away.

Sophie glanced at Rafe, the wheels turning in her head. “Should we tell them? Are we allowed?”

He furrowed his brow. “Why wouldn’t we be allowed?”

“Okay. So we had sex last night -”

“Jesus, Sophie, no -” He immediately wrestled the phone away from her as Allie and Julia both cried out with a chorus of “no, stop!”

“You said it was allowed!”

“I didn’t think you were going to talk about that!” Rafe rolled his eyes and gave them an apologetic smile. “We’ll be home in a little under a week, Soph can catch you up then. On the less explicit details.”

“You taking care of our girl, Cameron?” Julia asked, smiling as Sophie nuzzled into his side like a cat - she was always extra touchy when drunk, even just with the girls.

“Technically, she was mine first.” He pointed out.

“Technically, you made her cry after multiple fights before you ever dated, so no. She’s been ours since freshman year.” Allie corrected.

“I can be everybody’s.” Sophie mumbled, taking Rafe’s hand and placing it on her head so he’d get the hint and start playing with her hair again.

“Polygamy. Spicy.” Julia quipped.

“I would like to have sex or go to sleep now.” Sophie announced without a care in the world. “Can we hang up?”

Julia snorted, while Allie rolled her eyes.

“You’re not gonna talk to your friends?” He asked, trying to hand the phone back to her, but she just shook her head and pushed it away. “M’tired.”

“You just said you wanted to have sex.” Julia said.

“Yes, I’m not gonna do any of the work.”

Rafe shook his head and angled the phone back to his face. “Okay then. Sorry, guys, we had way too much wine at dinner. We’ll see you soon?”

“Yeah, of course. See you soon! Bye, Soph!” They both chimed in, waving until they hung up. He dropped the phone, amused. “What was that about?”

“Honesty is the best policy.” She told him, sprawling out onto the bed. “Alright. Have at me.”

He rolled his eyes. “No. You need to shower, then we can go to sleep.”

She sighed dramatically. “Rafael.”

“That is not my name.”

“Okay. Rafe.”

“Yes.”

“Can we please have sex?”

“No we cannot.”

She pouted, rolling over onto her stomach and looking up at him. “Please? I’ll let you go down on me.”

He laughed. “You’re so generous. No. Come on, shower time.” He gathered up her towel and clothes for her to change into after, then tugged at her hand. “Angel. Up.”

“Shower with me.” She demanded, getting up and following him out the room with only a few stumbles along the way.

“You want us to get kicked out? I don’t think so.” He ushered her into the small shower stall, slipping in behind her and locking the door, then helped her undress, dodging multiple kisses. He folded her clothes and set them aside then gave her a small push into the shower that he’d turned on for her. “Okay. I’m going to wait outside.”

“No, no, stay.” She yelped as the water hit her, ice cold, and fiddled with the handles. “Fucking - oh my god -”

Rafe quickly jumped forward and adjusted them to the right temp, then turned his back on her. “Fine, I’ll stay, but only because I’m worried you’ll drown.”

“Can’t drown in a shower, silly.” She reached out and shoved her soapy hand through his hair and he sighed, turning back to look her in the eye. “Sophie Flint. Please behave.”

“You behave.” She gave him a mischievous grin, then lowered her voice to a whisper despite there being no one else milling around in the bathroom. “Come in.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Not completely. Not anymore.” She argued. “I’ll go down on you.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “If you really want to, you can save that for the morning. Finish your shower so I can get in. I’ve decided I don’t trust you to stay alone in the room.”

“Or you could get in with me…” she trailed off, tugging him down for a kiss - he gave in just for a moment before glancing away, trying his hardest to ignore his naked girlfriend - wet and covered in soap suds, no less.

“Soph. Rinse your hair.”

She crossed her arms, stubborn. “No.”

“Oh my god.” He rolled his eyes and double-checked the lock before he stripped down and got in with her, nudging her back under the feeble shower spray. He figured he’d have to shower anyways, and the faster he got her back to bed, the better. “Rinse.”

“Do it for me.” She protested, resting her head against his chest. He sighed but tipped her head back into the water and massaged his hands through her strands, stilling for a brief moment when she let out a breathy moan. “Hey. Can’t do that.”

“Sorry, can’t help myself.” She excused, then reached up onto her toes to lather shampoo into his hair once he was finished. He ducked down a little so she could reach, pressing his head against her hand. “M’ gonna be hard if you keep that up,” he mumbled.

She giggled. “It’s just shampooing. And I think you’re halfway there.”

“It’s intimate.” He protested, nearly melting into her touch. He loved when she played with his hair, how gentle she was (except when she’d occasionally tug on some strands to get his attention).

After shampooing and rinsing his hair, she lathered soap between her hands and smoothed it over his chest, over his shoulders. He swallowed, watching her and feeling like his skin was on fire despite the warm water waning. “You’re still drunk.” He mumbled.

“Not really.” She pressed a kiss to his neck, then another, then along his collarbone. “I know what I’m doing.” His illogical side was beginning to give way to her actions, especially as she sunk to her knees in the shower, running her hands down his thighs. “Let me.”

“Baby…” He was hesitant and clearly worried about being caught, and reached down to tip up her chin. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. Although this is twice now that I’m getting cheated out of shower sex, kind of rude.” She grinned up at him.

“Sophie, I will fuck you in the shower all you want when we’re home - oh, shit -” He nearly gasped as she took him into her mouth, jerking his hips involuntarily. She gagged and immediately pulled off him, pinching his thigh. “Jesus, Rafe, trying to bruise my throat or something?”

“I had no warning! I’m sorry!” He exclaimed in a hushed whisper, fumbling for the shower faucet to turn it just a tad hotter as it rained down on his back. “I didn’t mean to, I swear.”

“I mean, we can try it, but another time, okay?” She smirked as his eyes went wide and she licked up the underside of his cock, carefully taking him into her mouth again. He let out a deep exhale and bit down on his knuckle to keep himself quiet, letting his head fall back against the shower wall. She continued bobbing up and down on him and when he looked down after a few moments, he nearly choked watching her touch herself at the same time.

“Sophie - let me -” He tried, but she just hollowed out her cheeks and moved on him a little faster, and he could tell from the way she hummed around him that she was close too - impossibly close. He pushed her gently off of him and hauled her up to stand, even though she protested, and traded places faster than she could think, hooking her knee over his shoulder and going straight in with his tongue.

She gasped, a little louder than intended, and he sent her a warning look. They could hear some giggles from down the hall, coming closer and closer, and she panicked, tugging at his hair to bring him up, but he refused to stand. “Be quiet.”

“Rafe you know I can’t -” She pleaded, then pressed her hand tight to her mouth when the door opened and he continued to eat her out with no sign of stopping. Realistically, there was no chance of getting caught unless they were heard - they were in one of four locked shower stalls and even Rafe couldn’t be seen over the top, despite his height. Another gasp caught in her throat as he flicked his tongue across her clit, faster, and she felt like she might black out when she came.

He looked up at her and she could barely see the blue rimming his pupils, eyes dark with lust. That was enough to push her over the edge and she couldn’t stop herself from letting out a not-so-quiet whine.

The girls’ conversation stopped out by the sinks and one of them spoke up, loudly. “Did you hear that?”

Rafe stood after working her through the orgasm - as always - and clamped his hand over her mouth, reaching down in between them to jack himself off as he whispered in her ear. “Don’t make a sound. You’re so good for me, Soph, so fucking special.”

She felt like her legs were jelly and her head was spinning, in a haze post-orgasm (and the excessive steam in the shower didn’t help). She pushed his hand away and kissed him, hard, grinning against his lips when he uttered a soft groan, painting her stomach with his cum.

He rested his forehead against hers, trying his best to breathe quietly, a different girl spoke up. “No, I didn’t hear anything. Probably just the shower faucet being weird.” There was a murmur of agreement and the group left, the door swinging shut to make a loud exit.

Sophie let out a small laugh of disbelief, shaking her head. “You’re…I can’t even think.”

“Incredibly sexy?” He supplied with a grin, nudging her back under the shower spray and handing her the body wash to clean herself off.

“Incredibly insane, more like it.” She shivered once she was clean and flicked off the faucet. “You went from no sex tonight to near-exhibitionism all within the span of a half hour.”

He glanced at his watch before wrapping her in her towel. “Forty-five minutes since we’ve been home, actually, it’s a miracle the water wasn’t ice.”

She patted herself dry and pulled on her clean clothes, scowling as she had to shove her feet into her mildly sweaty shoes. “Um. You need fresh clothes.”

“Right.” Rafe paused, then stacked his clothes on top of hers and wrapped her towel around his waist. “This’ll do. You leave first?”

“Good call.” She grinned and slipped out of the bathroom unnoticed, back to their room, and was under the covers when he returned. “C’mere.”

He tugged on clean boxers and called it good, slipping under the covers with her and drawing her close. “Sleepy?”

“Yeah.” She grinned to herself and pressed a chaste kiss to her jaw. “Baby.”

“Hm?” He closed his eyes, feeling like he could fall asleep at any second.

“You’re so easy.”

“Easy?” He echoed. “Maybe. Just for you.”

“Aw. Slutty just for me.” She grinned and rested her head on his chest, sighing contentedly when he wrapped his arms around her. “Good night.”

“Night, love you.” He mumbled.

“Love you too.”

_____

After another long day of exploring (and five gelatos, between the two of them), Sophie and Rafe agreed to meet up with Marco and Elena to go out again before they left. Rafe insisted on buying Sophie a better outfit for going out, despite her protests, and they ended up buying three outfits instead of just one. The night started out tame, with Marco and Elena actually sticking by Sophie and Rafe - until Marco kept buying more and more shots of limoncello and sambuca.

The sambuca shots came to their table on fire, and Rafe was a little too enamored by the flame by the third round he’d consumed (Sophie passed hers off to him, a little worried about her ability to keep an eye on him otherwise). When she noticed Rafe’s terrible typing on a Snapchat to Colin and James, she leaned up to yell in his ear. “Hey! I’m going to go get water. No more shots.”

“I’ll come!” He got up from his chair and immediately stumbled, gripping the table. Marco caught him by the arm, laughing. “I can watch him. It’s okay.”

She nodded and pressed both hands to his shoulders to keep Rafe in place. “Okay. You stay here with Marco, I’ll be right back, baby.”

“Promise?” He frowned, reaching out for her.

“I promise.” She pressed a kiss to his temple. “Stay.”

After fighting her way up to the bar, and poorly communicating that she wanted acqua, water, not acqua di cedro, an Italian liqueur, Sophie finally made it back to the table after ten minutes - just in time to catch Marco leaning in and kissing Rafe.

Rafe had leaned in a little too, misreading and thinking Marco was just trying to tell him something in his ear over the loud crowd. He jerked away with wide eyes just so Marco caught the corner of his lips, then abruptly looked around in shock to see if anyone else caught it.

Marco cocked his head, confused. “You are not interested?”

Sophie came up and handed Rafe the water, tucking herself into his side protectively. “What’s going on?” He gaped at her for a second then back at Marco, trying to gather his thoughts. “Interested?”

“In me.” Marco nodded. “We have been flirting.”

“We’ve been what?” He repeated, in shock.

“I’m his girlfriend.” Sophie clarified, gesturing between the two of them. “I thought we told you -”

“Yes, and I have my girlfriend too!” Marco nodded, tapping Elena on the shoulder and bringing her close. “What is the issue?”

“Oh, did you ask?” Elena brightened, sending Sophie a flirtatious grin. “Did they say yes?”

“I’m too drunk for this.” Rafe mumbled, pressing his palm to his forehead.

“Wait, wait, so. You two want to hook up with Rafe -” Sophie started, only for Marco to shake his head. “No, no, both of you. You for Elena.”

“I thought you could tell? We were flirting all week!” Elena exclaimed, and both Sophie and Rafe thought back to several incidents over the past few days that they’d just chalked up to the Italians being friendly. Kisses on cheeks, Elena telling Sophie to toss coins in the fountain so she’d meet her lover in Florence, Marco complimenting Rafe’s body multiple times when he came back in just a towel after the showers - shit, were they really that oblivious?

Rafe just groaned and dropped his head down to Sophie’s shoulder. “I’m so drunk.” She laughed, more out of confusion than anything. “Um, I’m sorry, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. We’re not really inter - well -” She paused, debating for a moment and glancing up at Rafe to make sure she wasn’t speaking for him. (In her defense, she wasn’t sober either.)

“No!” Rafe exclaimed.

She nodded quickly. “Right, right, yeah. We’re not really interested, I’m so sorry if we gave you the wrong idea.”

“Oh. I would not have kissed you, I am sorry -” Marco began to apologize, but Sophie shook her head. “It’s okay! It’s okay, he’s fine. Um, here, you can have these, I think I need to get Rafe back home.” She pushed their waters into Elena’s hands, giving them an awkward smile.

“Will we see you at breakfast?” Elena asked as she smiled back, completely unfazed.

“Um...yeah. Maybe. Rafe, c’mon, let’s go.” Sophie looped her arm around his waist and tried pulling him out of the club, and he just dragged his feet along. “I can’t believe he kissed me.”

“Shh,” she giggled as she hushed him, tugging on his arm. “Rafe, cooperate, please.”

“I’m trying, I’m trying.” He grumbled, standing slightly more upright and doing his best to walk with her once they finally made it out. She got out her phone to look up the directions back to their metro stop and he wiped his hand over his mouth, scowling. “I need a kiss.”

“You nearly got one from Marco.” Sophie quipped with a smirk.

“I didn’t want a kiss from Marco.” He lamented with a big sigh. “Need one from my girl.”

“Just one, then we gotta make it home.” She complied, rising up on her toes to give him a short kiss. He grabbed her chin, not so gently, and tilted it back up to give her another kiss. “No. More.”

“I’ll kiss you as much as you want when we get back. Will you please help me and walk to the metro? One block, then just two when we go to the hostel. You can do it.” She pulled out of his grip and looped her arm in his, trying to get him going. “Rafe. Please.”

“So whiny.” He mumbled, but followed along. “Sophie, baby, Soph.”

“Yeah, bud?”

“My legs feel like jello.”

She grinned. “Kissing Marco had you that weak-kneed?”

“Shut uppppp.” He whined, messing with her hair. She jerked away, swatting his hand. “Hey! Quit.”

“You quit.”

“Shut it.”

He was quiet for a solid minute and she could tell he was thinking something over, with the way his brow was furrowed and lips were pursed. “Sophie Flint.”

“Yeah?” She was grateful when they arrived at the metro, tugging him onto the empty car and scanning their tickets. She wrestled him into a seat and eventually ended up on his lap after some pushing and pulling, his forehead pressed to hers. “What, Rafe.”

“Were you gonna sleep with Elena?” He looked concerned and his hands gripped her waist a little tighter.

She laughed, pulling back to brush his hair out of his face. “No, baby, I wasn’t going to sleep with her. I didn’t even know that’s what they were trying for.”

“Oh. Good. I don’t think I’d like you sleeping with someone else.” He told her, closing his eyes a little as she combed her fingers through his hair.

Sophie held back another laugh, nodding. “Yeah? I didn’t think you would. Don’t fall asleep on me, buddy.”

“Boyfriend. Not buddy. Buddy’s just a friend. I can have other nicknames too though.” He argued, letting his head fall back against the metro walls.

“What other nicknames?” She asked, moving to get off his lap, but he just tightened his grip on her so she couldn’t.

“Hm…I’m okay with smokeshow.”

She snorted, nodding. “Alright, smokeshow. We can go with that.”

“Sophie.”

“Yes, Rafe.”

“I’m in love with you.” He declared, leaning forward and placing a kiss to the bridge of her nose. She beamed and leaned in too to bump her nose against his, then press a short kiss to his lips. “You’re very sweet when you’re drunk.”

“I need you to say it back.” He frowned, tugging gently at the ends of her hair.

“I’m in love with you too.” She grinned. “Adore you, even.”

He hummed, looking her over with concentration and a small smile. “I like the sound of that. Do we have to go to breakfast tomorrow? I don’t really wanna see them again.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Our train to Rome is at seven, I was kind of hoping they’d be too hungover to remember us.”

“Hostel breakfast doesn’t open til 8.” He frowned. “Am I gonna starve?”

Sophie rolled her eyes and nudged her nose against his. “No. I’ll make sure you get food.”

“You’re so good at taking care of me.” He smiled sleepily, pulling her closer and dropping his head to her shoulder.

She beamed, combing her hand through his hair. “I try my best, baby. Always will.”

taglist: @whoeveniskendall @kkmaybank @karsinner @outerbanksbro @outerbankspreferences @randomficsandshit @jailcalledlife @tovvaa @moniamaybank @illbesafeforyou @dontjinx-it @freddymaybank @jjmaybankzz @g4bster @oopsiedoopsie23 @babygal-babygal @thecuthoney @babeyglo

#also this happened to one of my friends lmao it's not a weird take on italians #the story is just too good #i am 80% sure this gif is of florence but for some reason i am doubting myself even tho i have been there #idk whatever #rafe cameron #rafe cameron fanfic #outer banks #outer banks fanfic #obx #obx fanfic #frat rafe #college rafe #rafe x sophie #mine

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ev-pierce-writes · 3 years

Text

Bolero

Javier PenaxReader pairing

Rating: Explicit (duh)

7.4 K

What starts as just a job as an informant quickly turns into an attraction to Agent Javier Peña.

Essentially what I think it's like to dance with Javi. Plus having sex.

If you want to listen to the song I picture them dancing to it's called Dos Gardenias by Buena Vista Social Club. I know it didn't come out until the 90s but I really don't care.

___

You didn't like this part of the job. Hated it, actually. Your feet hurt in your heels and the humidity was making you sweat. But tips were tips, even if it involved fake flirting with old men.

The music ended and José spun you into a dip as the small crowd clapped. José was an excellent dancer and he made for a good partner when it came time to actually perform for the guests, rather than try to drag them onto the dance floor. Most people assumed you were a couple you danced so in sync, but it wasn't like that.

He was a good friend though. He'd gotten you the job at the bistro, and for the small pain of three choreographed dances a night plus a few private salsas, you were paid handsomely. Of course, this wasn't your dream, performing in a smoky, humid bar for tourists and old handsy men. You would rather be on the stage as a professional, performing only for the people who could afford a ticket, not just a watered-down tequila. But work was work and money was money.

Now your least favorite part. You leaned an elbow on the bar, sweeping the crowd for whatever gringo looked the least gross. The manager insisted you interacted with the customers, reeling them in with a sexy pose and a few awkward steps on the dance floor. They tended to drink more when you did that, which was good for the bar, and you usually ended up with a couple of extra bills in your hand, which was good for you. So you complied.

An older, slightly less creepy-looking gentleman had caught your eye, and you were about to approach when you felt a gentle hand on your elbow.

"Mind teaching me a few of those steps you just did?" The music was starting up again with a bolero, your cue to find the dance floor, so you figured you'd comply with the request. Except when you looked into the face of the stranger who had spoken those words, you were taken aback. He was young, or at least younger than most of the men in here, and taller too. Shining from his tanned face were chocolatey brown eyes, surprisingly sincere and kind. His dark hair was combed into place, though a few stray curls peeked out from behind his ears and at the base of his neck.

"Sí, señor." The Spanish came out as a force of habit, though he had addressed you in English and a perfect American accent. Men liked it when you spoke Spanish, even if they couldn't understand. It gave them the impression that you were exotic. But the man half expected that from you. He'd been watching you most of the night, analyzing the way you moved, the way you beguiled the guests into a dance and then a drink, the way you controlled a man's mood with the flick of your hips and slide of your hand up his arm. The perfect skill set of a secret plant.

Without any hesitation, the man took your hand in his and led you into the crowd of dancing people. He placed his other on your hip, though he left a respectful distance between the two of you. It was uncharacteristic of the guests to do so; they generally felt they had some right to press up against you as they stumbled around.

But this man was different. He already knew the three-quarter timing. He seemed a bit tense, like he was having trouble letting loose, but he wasn't clumsy at all. "I don't think you need my instruction," you said.

The man smiled, his mustache curling up to reveal a single dimple on his smooth cheek.

"No, hermana, I don't."

Maybe there was some Latino in that tan after all. But his reply caught you off guard. You hoped pulling you onto the dance floor wasn't his attempt at flirting. You'd made a pact with yourself to never sleep with the guests, and so far you'd held true.

But he wasn't flirting, though he desperately wanted to. You were exactly the type of girl he'd pick up on a boring night, or pay to have sex with him and share your secrets. But tonight was strictly business.

"Do you work here every night?" he asked. It was a strangely specific question, though maybe he was hoping to see you again, you thought.

"Only Thursday, Friday, Saturday," you replied. The bistro only ever needed you on the busiest nights of the week, which was fine with you. Three days of work made you plenty of money, and then you had the rest of the week off. "Why? Are you already planning a second dance?"

The man ignored his question to ask another of his own. "Do you make a lot of money?"

His questions were starting to sound a bit bizarre and he wasn't answering yours either. Why did he care what you made?

"Unless you're planning on hiring me and paying me more, I don't see why you need to know." It wasn't good to be snappy with paying customers, but this enigma of a man didn't seem like the average customer to you. And instead of getting defensive at your tone, his mood shifted quickly and he laughed. A deep, throaty laugh, just as gravely and melodious as his voice. He liked your confidence and your attitude. But then he was back to business just as quickly.

The man led you towards the back of the dance floor, away from the crowd and the watchful eye of the bartender, a move that made you worry and caused you to doubt his intentions. His eyes had gone serious, a wrinkle of concentration between his eyebrows and crowding out the kindness.

"Actually, I would like to hire you."

You came to a stop in surprise but the man pulled you forward, urging you to continue dancing so as not to draw attention to the pair of you. He drew you closer so he could speak directly into your ear, forcing you to breathe in his scent with the proximity, cologne and cigarettes and the saltiness of a light sweat.

"You have a club or something?"

He didn't answer your question, just asked more of his own. "Do you know runs this place?"

You shrugged. "I think his name is Manuel, but I've only met him once."

"Keep an eye out for him, will you? See when he comes and goes, if he gets any shipments or deliveries. I'll pay you for providing information."

It was your turn to finally get some answers. "Who are you?"

"My name is Javier Peña." Javier spun you out before pulling you back into his chest.

"Well, Señor Peña, I don't know who you think I am, but I am not a spy and I don't give a damn about what my employer does. So why do you care what he does?"

"Let's just say the government has a special interest in your employer. But we'd like to keep this little piece of knowledge under wraps."

You eyed Javier suspiciously. Why would the government be interested in what your boss did with his bistro? And why would this man, Javier Peña, trust you to deliver secrets? But again, money was money. Little did you know, Javier Peña was aware of your lack of loyalty to anyone, as long as they were paying you, and he gambled on this fact to ease you into a deal.

"How much are you offering?"

"I'll double whatever you make now."

Double? Mierda. "Bueno, double it is. Not sure what you expect me to find, but I'll keep my eyes open."

That full smile returned, white teeth and all. "Un secreto, sí?"

You nodded in return as the song came to an end. Letting go of your waist, Javier pulled a pair of aviators from the deep vee of his shirt and slipped them on before handing you a business card from the back pocket of his jeans. He instructed you to call him if you saw anything, anything at all. Javier gave you a salute and turned to leave, though not before asking you one more question.

"And your name?"

Now is when you usually lied, telling whatever slimeball you'd just swayed into oblivion a made-up name, like Rosa or Maria. But something about this time was different. This time, you gave him your real name.

"Adiós, bailarina," he said with a grin.

"Adiós, Señor Peña." It wasn't until you were home that you noticed he'd slipped a small stack of bills into your pocket.

---

Standing in the living room of your apartment, you held the card Javier had given you almost a week ago. You hadn't been exactly sure what he was asking you to look out for. You rarely saw your boss anyway. But then tonight, as you'd arrived at work, a truck had been parked by the employee entrance of the bistro. Manuel was still nowhere to be found, but stacks upon stacks of boxes were being unloaded into the dry storage of the kitchen. And you had taken note of it all.

Finally, you picked up the phone off its cradle and dialed the number on the card, wrapping the thick cord around your fingers as it rang. A moment of silence, and then a deep voice spoke on the other end of the line.

"Javier Peña speaking." It sounded like he had just woken up, his voice softer than you remembered and groggy as well. It was a bit late, after midnight, but you figured this was something he wanted to hear sooner rather than later.

"Hola, Senior Peña, it's me from the bistro." Another silence, some shuffling, and was that a voice in the background? "Did I wake you?"

"No, not at all. What's up?"

"You wanted to know if Manuel had a shipment, right?"

"Yes, yes, what did you see?"

"Hm, I could tell you. Or I could get my mi dinero first."

Javier sighed on the other end. "Right, of course. How much do I owe you?"

"Let's see, including tips, I made 300 this week."

"Fine, 300 pesos it is. Where can I meet you?"

"You want to meet right now?"

Apparently, he did. You gave him the address to a twenty-four-hour diner you liked and he hung up, saying he'd meet you there. You gathered your purse, double-checking that the small handgun you carried for self-defense was still there. Not that you were worried the mysterious Javier Peña was someone to be scared of. But better safe than sorry.

Ten minutes later, you stepped out into the heat of the summer air. The darkness of night did little to reduce the temperature, but the humidity had dissipated enough that you rolled the windows of the car down and blasted your music into the silent night.

Though you were sure you looked a bit frazzled and worn out when you parked, Javier only noticed the flush on your cheeks and the curl of your windswept hair as he watched you step out of the car through the window of the diner. You hadn't bothered to change out of your dress and heels from work, which left little to the imagination in the way of your long legs and curved waist. When he'd first approached you last week, he'd been polite and reserved, only letting his hands fall where they were meant to in a dance. But tonight, the ruching of your dress at your hips called out to be touched. Javier knew it was all part of your job, but part of him wished you'd dressed up like that just for him. He shook his head. He shouldn't be thinking about you like this.

A little bell jingled over the door as you drifted into the warm restaurant.

Javier steadied his hands and composed his face, not wanting to reveal the true thoughts running through his mind as you plopped into the booth seat across from him. He looked ready to get down to business, but you were hungry and held up a hand to silence him before he could begin to speak. The waitress came and took your order, a burger and fries, before turning to Javier. He relented to whatever game you were playing and ordered as well in perfect Spanish.

"Where are you from?" you asked as the waitress left to place your orders.

"This little meeting isn't about me," Javier replied, sounding a bit preoccupied, distracted even. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing the smooth skin of his neck and chest, as if he'd dressed in a hurry.

"Eh, that's not very polite. Did I interrupt a little midnight date with your amorcita?" You were pretty sure that had been a woman's voice in the background when you called him earlier. His response, or lack thereof, told you everything you needed to know. Emboldened by his reaction, you continued on with your one-sided conversation.

"I love American food. Are burgers better in Texas? That is where you're from, no?"

The look of shock that flitted across Javier's face was enough to satisfy you and you leaned back in your seat with a smile. You tried your best not to show how pleased you were with his reaction, but your comment got you thinking about what he was like in bed. That was not a direction you needed your mind to wander, especially when it caused butterflies to flutter in your stomach.

"Okay, detective, I think that's enough. You want your money or not?" Though he acted annoyed, Javier was secretly impressed. What had given it away? His accent maybe?

"Sí, sí. Although I am a bit interested to know where my money is coming from."

"I told you. The government."

"You haven't really proven that to me though. Besides, what if you're trying to put my boss out of business? Then I'm out of a job. A good-paying job."

"I am trying to put your boss out of business." The withering look you gave Javier didn't put him off, though you wished it did. If looks could kill and all that. But it did provoke him to pull something from his back pocket and hold it up to your face. "DEA. You know what that is right?"

"Mierda, was it drugs in those boxes?" You couldn't help the shock that spread across your face.

"Maybe."

You pulled a notepad from your purse as the waitress returned with your food. In between bites, you read off of the notes you'd taken.

"I got to work at 4:30. The truck was already there. Manuel was not. Some men unloaded the boxes into the kitchen."

"How many."

"I don't know."

Javier raised his eyebrows. If he'd learned anything from this conversation it was that you were an observant person. He doubted that you hadn't bothered to count them. He had only to wait for you to continue on your own.

"Bueno, forty or so. This big," you indicated with your hands, about the size of the box the tomatoes came in.

"And it wasn't just food in there? You're sure it was something different than normal?"

"Come on, don't you trust me?"

"No," was his swift reply, though it was said with a smile.

"Alright, then. I looked in one. Not food, for sure."

Javier nodded in understanding and pulled a billfold from his back pocket, ready to hand over your cash.

"Espere, Señor, you think that's all I've got?" you said teasingly as you finished your fries and sucked the grease from your fingertips. "You really have no faith, dios mío."

Javier watched you intently, scrutinizing the way your tongue licked away the grease from your thumb. He took a deep breath that sounded like exasperation to you but was really meant to release an uncomfortable knot building in his stomach as he tried not to imagine what else your tongue could do.

"At 5:30, a woman named Victoria called looking for Manuel. No one answered the phone so I did. She left this message." You read directly from the notepad. "I like chocolate ice cream better than vanilla. Maybe you can take me to la heladería tomorrow."

"You're joking."

"Not at all. She said that," you said defensively. "Even gave me an address."

You ripped the paper from your notebook at handed it to Javier as he rubbed a hand along his strong jaw.

"So what are you going to do? Maybe a stakeout, arrest some people, wave your armas around?"

Javier rolled his eyes. "The DEA isn't all about stakeouts and guns. But no, we aren't going to do anything yet. There's no need to reveal our plant. And we don't want you to end up dead so don't get caught either."

"How reassuring. I'm glad the United States has me in their best interests," you deadpanned.

"Just keep doing what you're doing."

"Oh, so you want to see me again? Next time you can buy me a drink."

"Don't flatter yourself."

You laughed in response. Sure, this was all about money, but it was nice to have a real conversation with someone who was witty enough to keep up with your banter. But he was still too easy to tease and you took advantage of it. You liked the way his eyes narrowed and his brows creased when you got under his skin.

"You know, I'll just take it as a compliment that you're only paying me for information and not sex as well," you said as you stood, placing a couple of bills onto the table as a tip.

Javier groaned in frustration. Talking to you was like walking through a hailstorm of bullets. He was bound to get grazed no matter how careful he was. "Eh, mujer, give me a break, por favor."

And yet, despite his protests, Javier liked your sharp tongue. It intrigued him. Normally, he didn't care much about who his informants were or where they were from. But Javier was curious about you. You were smart, skilled, and good at influencing people to comply with your desires. And yet you spent your weekends on a sticky dance floor, performing for gringos like him.

The glittering smile you gave him as you left him sitting in the booth lit a small flame in his heart.

"Buenas noches, Señor Peña," you said to him as you left, almost out the door before he called your name. You turned back. "Qué pasa?"

"Javi. Just call me Javi."

---

Several weeks went by like this, with you calling Javier late at night to let him know what you'd seen. The check-ins came every Saturday, as the shipments had been consistent and seemed to run on a schedule. Eventually, you got comfortable enough to let Javier come to your apartment and exchange information for cash on your couch. You had no idea, but Javier was beginning to expect your calls, anticipating the ringing of his phone around midnight and hearing your voice on the other end.

But when you didn't check in one week, he began to worry. It was past one in the morning. Surely you would have called by now. Maybe he had missed it? There was no way; he'd sat next to the phone all night. So Javier did something he never did. He called you instead. When you didn't answer, he started to suspect something was wrong. Javier told himself to calm down, that you had probably just forgotten, or that maybe nothing of note had happened this week, or you were already asleep. But he couldn't get it out of his mind that something had gone wrong, that you'd been found out and someone had hurt you.

It was nearly two when you finally got home. For some reason, the Saturday crowd had been extra lively tonight, keeping you much later than you wanted. As soon as you unlocked the door and stepped into your apartment, you pulled off your heels and unzipped your dress, peeling it from your sticky body right there in the living room. You needed a shower and you needed to call Javier, but all you wanted was sleep. It could wait until morning.

At last, you were ready for bed, windows pushed open to let in a breeze, sheets turned down, and in nothing but your dressing gown, when a knock sounded at your door. Who would be up at this time of night and disturbing your peace?

Looking through the peephole, you were shocked to find the last person on earth you expected to be standing in the hallway of your apartment building.

"Javi?" you said in confusion as you opened the door. He was leaning against the door frame, one hand on his hip, as if trying to look relaxed but totally failing at it. On Javier's face were written lines of worry, but they relaxed at the sight of you. He breathed a sigh of relief.

"Oh, good, you're home. I was worried."

Maybe it was the exhaustion fogging your brain, but he sounded genuinely distressed. The normally confident, almost arrogant Javier had been replaced with someone entirely different. "Sí, of course I'm home, where else would I be?"

"Well, you didn't call. And then you didn't answer your phone. So I was worried something had happened." Javier had managed to miss the state of your dress, or lack thereof, when you had first opened the door. But now, he noticed you wore a cream-colored dressing gown and little else. One sleeve had slipped off your shoulder in your hurry to dress, revealing the lack of anything beneath.

Javier's breath hitched in his throat as he desperately tried to tear his eyes away from your shoulder. It was a just shoulder, for god's sake. It's not like you were standing naked in front of him. But then he was thinking about you naked and that was an even bigger problem.

For a whole month, Javier had gone without a woman in his bed and it wasn't until he saw you that he realized why. He wanted you, but in a way that was different from the way he wanted anyone else. He didn't want you for information or even a quick release, but something more intimate and intense. What was wrong with him? He had to leave before he said something he might regret. You were an informant, a contact, a player in this long game of chess, and nothing more.

"I'm gonna go," Javier said, finally looking away. He was acting strange, even your tired eyes could tell. He looked disheveled, the buttons of his salmon pink shirt left open at the top and half-tucked into his jeans. His hair was no longer combed flat, the way it usually was when you saw him. Instead, it stuck up in all manner of directions, curly and unruly. Javier rubbed the back of his head as he turned to go. You weren't sure what exactly compelled you, but you called out to him before he could leave.

"Do you want a drink?" So much for sleep.

Javier had been in your apartment plenty of times. So why did he suddenly not know what to do with himself? He stood stiffly in the living room, eyeing the discarded dress you hadn't picked up yet. When you handed him a glass of whiskey he barely noticed. His mind was clearly not in the apartment, though his body was. Finally, he sat on the couch, leaning his elbows on his knees, the glass balanced precariously in one hand.

Javier's thoughts drifted from one place to another, relief that you were fine, embarrassment for having thought that you weren't, bliss at your invitation inside, and then shame for having accepted.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked.

"Only if you share," you replied, sitting next to him on the couch with your own drink. The pair of you sat like that for a while, in complete silence, passing a single cigarette back and forth. Javier had no way of knowing but your thoughts followed a similar path to his, a rollercoaster masked by a sense of calm.

Your fingertips lightly grazed his as Javier passed you the cigarette. He watched you take a long draw, pulling the smoke deep into your lungs and letting it numb the strange feeling inside you. You were hyper-aware of Javier's presence beside you, his shoulder and knee barely grazing yours, even though you stared straight ahead at the clock on the wall. Three in the morning, it read. Perhaps it was something about the early morning hours, or the dim light of your living room, the only source from the kitchen, but the next words out of your mouth were the most sincere you'd ever spoken to him.

"Are you alright, Javi?"

"Sí."

"You don't seem alright." His voice was too calm. "Is it work?"

"No."

"Friends? Family?"

"No."

You paused, pretending to contemplate for a moment.

"Ah, I know. No pretty girls to warm your bed?" You couldn't help it, falling back into teasing him like that. But he didn't want to talk and it was the only way to draw him out.

"It's disturbing how observant you are," Javier said. It wasn't a true answer, but it was answer enough. He sighed and put the cigarette out before placing his head in his hands. "We aren't friends, you know."

It was a strange comment, almost like he was trying to convince himself of the fact, not you.

"Wow. I should be offended. But for your sake, I'll pretend like I'm not."

"That's not what I mean," Javier tried to explain. "I mean-- I mean I shouldn't be doing this." He waved his hand around as if it indicated anything about what 'this' was. But you understood. He shouldn't be accepting drinks after midnight and sharing cigarettes in dimly lit apartments. It was unprofessional. Then again, everything about your relationship was unprofessional, even the work only parts.

It had taken you a while to admit to yourself that you were attracted to Javier. But when you actually started to look forward to Saturday night, to your conversations, even though they revolved around your work, that's when you knew. It was something in the way he looked when he was listening to you, his eyes holding contact with yours, eyebrows furrowed, hand on his chin, that made you think maybe he felt the same way. His hands, what was it about them? They were big and strong and you hadn't yet forgotten the way they had held onto your waist as you danced the night you met.

Dance. You knew how to communicate with that. It was second nature. Perhaps it would let you both open up. So you stood and moved to the record player. The space wasn't big enough to truly dance, but you kept plenty of records on hand to practice new choreography alone. You pulled out your favorite, a gift from José, and carefully placed down the needle.

"The bolero is danced in 3/4 time," you said, holding out your hand to Javier. "But I think you knew that already."

Javier seemed to understand and only hesitated a moment. The music swelled and he took your hand in one of his, the other finding its place on your back between your shoulder blades. There wasn't much space to move, but he led you through the steps anyway. Rock forward, step right, rock back, step left. Repeat. Tonight, Javier held you close, your hips and chests pressed against one another in a way that was much different from the first time you'd danced. He was more relaxed as well, allowing his hips to move in time with yours. Javier leaned his cheek against yours.

When you'd invited him in for a drink, Javier hadn't been sure what your intentions were. He still wasn't, though something in the way you let his fingertips glide up and down your spine as you danced gave him an idea.

And yet, he couldn't read you at all, though it seemed he could have no secrets around you. You had picked up instantly on his strange mood and though he hated to admit it, he liked the way you were persistent in trying to draw him out from his shell. He found you alluring. You were beautiful, yes, and he imagined as he fell asleep at night what you might look like under your tight dresses and this deliciously thin robe. But he also liked you, liked talking to you, liked being around you, liked your incesant teasing.

The song ended and the next one started up again, but neither of you moved away. Somehow so starved for physical contact, you were drunk on one another's touch, swaying gently in the dark. "We shouldn't--" Javier tried to speak but you interrupted him.

"Stop with the should or should not, Javi. It's too late for that."

"Why did you invite me in?" Javier figured it was worth asking, just to be sure.

"Why did you show up at my apartment, uninvited, in the middle of the night?"

"Fuck," Javier cursed under his breath. "I'm tired of this. Your half-answers, my unanswered questions, dancing, literally dancing, around whatever truth there is between us. I just want to know what you're thinking and it's impossible to tell."

You were taken aback. You had been so preoccupied deciphering Javier for yourself you'd forgotten he was probably trying to do the same with you. The look in his eyes was desperate, needy, and untamed.

The sensible thing to do would be to kick him out, to end it here because this wasn't right. It wasn't professional. And it was breaking your biggest rule: never sleep with the customer. But you were anything but sensible with a drink swirling around your veins.

You pushed Javier away gently, and he looked slightly crestfallen before he saw what you did next. The drink may have given you a boost of confidence, but this desire was all your own. With a gentle tug at the tie of your robe, you let it fall from your shoulders, the silk pooling at your feet as you stood bare before him. Javier was frozen in place, but then his eyes widened in surprise before raking up and down your body unabashedly.

"Well, I guess that's some type of answer," he whispered. The clock ticked on the wall, counting down the moments.

"Your move, Javi." Your words stoked the flame in his heart that you'd lit so many weeks ago. But his brain struggled to keep up, still in shock at the sudden sight of you naked for him and him alone. He wanted to take in every inch of you and ravish you all at the same time.

Javier reached out a hand, hesitating slightly as if unsure if you were real or just a golden vision before him. In the dim light from the kitchen, you seemed to glow, wild hair swept behind your shoulders, chest rising and falling with anticipation. Finally, Javier's fingers made contact with your skin, the back of his knuckles gently grazing the plane of your stomach. You trembled when he finally offered you his touch, goosebumps following the path of his hand as he moved up your body toward the curve of your breast. His thumb brushed across your nipple, causing you to gasp and nearly jump out of your skin. But his hand didn't linger, instead tracing the lines of your sternum to your collarbone and up your neck.

Javier's hand found its place on your cheek, his thumb sweeping across the ridge of your cheekbone. You closed your eyes softly, relishing in the sensation of his skin on yours. His hand was calloused but surprisingly smooth, as if worn by years of the same work. You turned your face toward his hand, pressing your lips to his palm.

You kept your eyes closed, expecting him to kiss you, your lips burning with apprehension. But the kiss didn't come, only the soft sounds of him moving and his hand leaving your face. You opened your eyes, worried he'd changed his mind and was leaving you there vulnerable to the world.

Instead, you found him kneeled before you, like a subject before his queen.

A shiver had run down Javier's spine when you'd kissed his palm as he pictured placing his own lips to yours. But something about the way you looked in that moment, ethereal, celestial, divine, forced him to his knees in worship. He wanted to taste every inch of you, learn every curve and crevasse of your body. You were just as beautiful--no, even more beautiful--than he'd imagined alone in his bed at night. And here you were, offering up that smooth skin, those thighs, those lips. And he would fucking worship you.

One hand found your waist, gripping gently but firmly to hold you in place. The other pulled a knee over his shoulder, causing you to stumble forward and forcing you to grab onto Javier for stability. But his hands held you firmly as his fingers sunk into the flesh of your ass, pulling you closer to his face, mouth sinking into you fluttering lips.

You gasped, fingers tangling into Javier's unruly hair and holding on tight, the sensation of his tongue against your clit making your legs go weak. A groan came from between your thighs, sending vibrations through your core and twisting your stomach into knots.

"Fuck, just like I imagined," Javier mumbled under his breath.

Like he'd imagined?

"You've pictured this?" you managed to ask between breaths. You could barely speak, the moans tumbling from your mouth leaving little oxygen in your lungs for anything else.

"Amor, you send me to sleep at night and wake me up in the morning."

Oh mierda, his tongue was continuing to swirl around your clit, leaving you unable to control your thoughts or your movements. Your hips shifted of their own accord, grinding against Javier's face as he ate you out. At some point, he would need to come up for air, but for now, he was perfectly content to suffocate between your captivating legs, drinking in your scent and swallowing the taste of you.

Javier was guiding you languidly toward your climax, savoring every shudder and twitch he pulled from you. The muscles of your pelvic floor seized and you let out a delirious moan. The tension that preceded your orgasm curled up through your stomach and into your lungs, drawing the strength from your limbs. Suddenly unable to hold up your upper half, let alone stabilize your legs, you slumped forward, chin hanging heavily against your chest, hands sliding down Javier's back and gripping the fabric of his shirt.

"Javi, please, I can't hold on." You needed to sit, lay down, anything, before you collapsed in ecstasy here in the living room. At your words, Javier picked up the pace, taking you from a gradual climb to a swift ascent. His acceleration told you everything you needed to know. Come for him, and he'd take you to the bedroom.

So you did, your orgasm shuddering through you at a staggering pace. It rushed through you, searing and urgent, and something told you this was only the beginning. A warm-up of sorts, leaving you unable to stand yet shivering for more. The last waves of your orgasm spread through you, Javier drinking them from you until your trembling subsided and your breathing came back to normal. He caught you as you eased back into your body, picking you up by the waist and slinging you over his shoulder. You giggled at the sudden change of perspective, now hanging upside down with an excellent view of Javier's ass.

"What are you doing?"

Javier didn't answer.

With a flop, you landed on the bed on your back. Javier stood over you, taking in the sight of you. Little did he know, you were doing the same, even though he was still fully clothed. You sat up on the edge of the bed and tugged at his shirt, pulling it from his tight jeans. Javier undid the buttons, letting out a soft groan as you took advantage of his proximity to palm the bulge in his pants. You wanted a taste.

His shirt now discarded, you worked at the button of Javier's jeans, placing a soft kiss on his stomach as you tugged them down. No underwear, why weren't you surprised? Javier's fingers curled into your hair, taking hold with a gentle yet solid grip as you freed his cock from confinement, precum leaking from the swollen head.

You looked up through your eyelashes, wanting to watch Javier's face as you swiped your tongue across the tip of his length, savoring the taste and earning a strangled moan from Javier's mouth. His eyes sunk shut and the image of you in the diner, licking the grease from your fingers danced behind his eyelids. He realized he was about to have that fantasy fulfilled, about to know exactly what your tongue could do.

The expression on Javier's face and his tightening hands in your hair made your stomach flutter. The absolute control you held over this man was ten times more satisfying than manipulating those men in the bistro because you were enjoying this too. Lightly, you dragged your tongue up his quivering cock, causing Javier to buck his hips and let out a hiss of dissatisfaction.

"Mierda, princesa, you gonna take me or just make me beg for it all night."

"You know I like to tease you, Javi." But the time for teasing was over. With one hand wrapped around him, you took him into your mouth, lowering your head as far as your gag reflex would let you. You began to move slowly, Javier's hands still in your hair and guiding your movements. Your other hand reached up and fondled his balls, pinching and massaging the tender skin. The sensation sent Javier hurtling toward the edge and he began to thrust into your mouth, matching your pace. It was good, too good. He was going to cum soon if you kept going.

Suddenly, Javier pulled away with a grunt, panting your name.

"Fuck, princesa, you're gonna finish me off fast like that." His voice was ragged with hunger. He wanted to taste you again, feel himself inside you as you came. "I'm not done with you yet."

Javier untangled his hands from your hair and placed them tenderly on your shoulders before pushing you back onto the bed again. He grabbed your ankles and hooked them over his shoulders, giving him full access to your cunt which was aching in anticipation of his cock, the size of which you had just fucked with your mouth.

You could feel the heat of him, so close, but Javier took his time, kissing his way down your thighs, nipping and sucking at your sensitive skin until your legs shook. And still, he didn't slip inside you, instead caressing the tenderness of your stomach with his mouth. He'd kissed all the way up your body, from the jut of your hip bones to the freckle below your bellybutton to the supple fullness of your breasts. Javier's attentions left you squirming under his touch, but he wasn't done. He wanted to taste every inch of your exposed skin, both salty and sweet under his tongue.

Suddenly, Javier's touch left your body and he flipped you over. You squealed at the abrupt movement, your face in the pillows and hands gripping the sheets. Behind you came the sound of a condom opening. And then you could feel Javier hovering above you, his cock teasing your entrance, one hand on your hip and the other in your hair. And then his voice spoke next to your ear.

"Are you ready, princesa?" Javier asked, his voice heady and ragged.

"Fuck me, Javi." That was all the invitation he needed. Without a moment's hesitation, Javier lined himself up with your entrance and slammed into you. Your gasp of surprise, and all the screams that followed, dissipated into the pillows, muting the sounds that you knew would have been heard by the neighbors otherwise.

Javier crashed into you again, stretching and filling you more with each thrust. He started slow, savoring the feeling of your walls clenching around him. The hand in your hair pulled your head back, releasing the sounds trapped in the pillow to mingle with Javier's moans. The hand at your waist wrapped around to find your clit, his calloused fingers teasing the delicate bud, and Javier leaned over to run his tongue up your spine, chasing the shivers he was causing.

The combination of sensations, his tongue on your skin, fingers on your clit, cock buried deep in your pussy, built you again toward orgasm. You rose up onto all fours, trying to find that angle you knew would hit your g-spot, and Javier seemed to understand. He began to thrust harder and faster, rushing toward the edge he had narrowly avoiding sailing over when his dick had been in your mouth. But this was better, so much better. Javier's untangled his hand from your hair and wrapped his arm around your chest, lifting you so you were on your knees and pressed flush against his back.

This was it, the perfect angle. A tumble of incoherent Spanish curses flew from your mouth as Javier reached up to squeeze your tit in his large hand.

"Fuck, Javi, right there," you mumbled in between breaths. "Don't stop, please don't stop."

"Cum for me, princesa," Javier growled into your ear. "I won't cum until you do."

Javier's tongue flicked along your neck and up toward your ear, where he nibbled lightly. He thrust, deep and strong, into your trembling pussy and you came, in a searing white light of ecstasy. You choked out your sounds of pleasure, unable to breathe properly. As your walls clenched around his cock, your orgasm rushing in waves against him, Javier could hold it no longer. With a groan, he fell apart, grunting your name over and over as his twitching member spasmed inside you.

The two of you held still for a moment, unwilling and unable to move. Finally, Javier slipped out of you, leaving you feeling cold and empty. It didn't last long, however. Javier laid on the bed and pulled you down with him, holding you close to his chest. You curled against him, relishing in the warmth of his skin against the cool breeze drifting in through the open window.

"I have to admit, this isn't how I thought my night would end," Javier said. You giggled, still high on the euphoria of your second orgasm. The dopamine that clouded your brain began to clear and you looked into Javier's face, the tension and worry absent and replaced with a languid look of satisfaction and pleasure.

And then you realized something that made you sit straight up in bed. "You bastard," you said accusingly, pointing a finger at Javier's chest. He dragged a hand across his face.

"Oh mierda, what did I do now?"

"You never even kissed me."

It was true. He hadn't. He'd been so preoccupied with tasting the rest of you he'd failed to do the one thing he actually desired most.

"Alright, that's a valid accusation," Javier said, dragging you back down and rolling on top of you, pinning you to the bed. "I am a bastard, a lucky one."

Finally, with one hand on your face and the other lacing his fingers in yours, Javier kissed you. A real, proper kiss, teeth scraping your bottom lip and tongue gliding along yours. He kissed you until he could hold his breath no longer and then came back for more, tasting of your orgasm and the shared cigarette. At last, he pulled away and buried his face in your neck.

You pulled the covers up and over the two of you. And then you wrapped your arms and legs around him, holding him to your chest as tightly as you could.

"Have any plans for tomorrow?" you asked.

Javier grinned into your shoulder. "Ready for round two already?"

"Only if we get to sleep in first."

"Anything for you, princesa."

#narcos #narcos fanfiction #javier pena #pedro pascal #"javi smut #javier pena x reader #I just want to dance with Javi is that too much to ask #reader #xreader

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sarahjkl82-blog · 3 years

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Artistic Instinct Chapter 1

Header thanks to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty

Summary: Marcus Pike and OC Anushka Pierce have been selected to work on a 5 eyes (Australia, Canada, NZ, the UK and US) intelligence team to track down art forgeries as a part of taking down an international white terrorism cell. Marcus is trying to escape his broken heart, Anushka is just trying to escape what the world expects of her.

Word count: 2,595

Warnings: Language.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x reader (OC)

This comes with a MASSIVE THANK YOU to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty , who read, re-read, pointed out the constant flipping between tenses and gave me the confidence to try to write something!

This is the first thing I have written since angsty poetry as a teenager. Apologies if it is shit!

In art, as in love, instinct is enough.

Anatole France

Chapter 1:

That look crosses your face. The one that all your teachers at school said was a perfect mimicry of theirs. The one that forces grown men and women to quieten and pay attention. With your eyebrows slightly raised and a look of stop-fucking-about-and-listen in your eyes, the room grows quiet and attentive as the glow of the presentation lights up behind you.

“Have you ever wondered what makes art unique? Is it the piece of art itself or the hand that created it?” you address the latest batch of students coming through Mi5’s doors. Whilst it is highly probable that the majority of these trainee intelligence officers will not specialise in forgeries as it doesn’t quite capture the glory of fighting extremism, you only want those who truly cared to join forces with your team. Although, what team? Stephens had pretty much washed his hands of you after your latest exploits. Who knows what your new team on Monday would bring. You are too old to try and squeeze yourself into the buttoned up box that Mi5 like their agents to fit into and whilst your old team never expected you to completely toe the line, you knew where the boundaries lay. Or at least, you thought you did.

“If a perfectly painted Rembrandt or a superbly sculpted Rodin appears to be vivid as the original to the point where even an educated eye cannot spot the difference, why does authenticity matter?” you pose to the class. “The fact is, every artwork is an unparalleled expression of an individual creative talent and a result of a precise personal, historical and cultural context. Art forgeries, even if aesthetically pleasant or technically stunning, can cause serious misinterpretations with extremely damaging consequences for the art world and anti-money laundering services.” A couple of polite coughs, a not so polite yawn and a few shuffles of aching bums on their uncomfortable benches punctuate your lecture. You couldn’t blame them. This isn’t where you want to be either.

This lecture was a punishment by Stephens for your latest step out of line. He probably would have looked the other way if your paperwork had been correctly filed but it was still somewhere, half done on your quagmire of a desk. You’d love to be organised but that was for other people, who had their shit more together than you. The punishment slowly crawls to an end and the students gather their belongings and filter out of the theatre. Glad to not have any questions posed, you squeeze your eyes shut to try and rest them against the sharp light flowing from the overhead projector.

“Perhaps you missed your calling as a teacher?” a voice scoffs from the back of the room as you log out of the computer.

“Don’t be a total cockwomble,” you mutter in the direction of the voice that was now attached to a hand offering a steaming cardboard cup of black Americano.

“Oh I can see it now! Instead of teaching the ins and outs of international art crime, you could be doing finger painting and collages- your skin shimmering with a film of glitter!” Hephzi snorts into the foam of her chai latte. Your best friend from the first day of training knows how to lift your spirits with her subtle teasing and caffeine bribery.

After a gulp of coffee sets your blood caffeine level at its normal level, you poke her in the ribs before hugging her one-armedly. “Are we still on for tonight?” you ask, “I have severe cravings for halloumi fries and a massive mixed kebab while we lose ourselves in a nouvelle vague classic?”

“You truly walk a fine line between cultured intelligenzia and Friday night British food, my darling girl!” Hephzi purrs as she scoops one of your totes filled with scribbles and dog-eared books, tossing it over her shoulder, settling it next to the strap of her rucksack.

With a gentle roll of your eyes, you huff at her suggestion, threading your arm through her elbow and follow her out of the poorly lit lecture theatre towards the late afternoon gloom of a London March day.

✪✪✪✪✪

All airports are hell.

The black on yellow signs of Heathrow buzz like angry bees through Marcus’ mind after the seven hour flight from DC, the recycled aeroplane air still sitting heavy on his skin. He’d been to London many times and knew the airport like the back of his hand so his semi-zombified state isn’t an issue through the warren of staircases and corridors that make up Terminal 4. As he watches the slow, steady spin of the baggage claim, he rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck. Even despite his escape to DC, it still wasn’t quite far enough from Lisbon and Jane, the ghosts of their relationship haunting him through the hallways and offices, dreading seeing the toxic pair around the next corner.

Grabbing a small grey case, with his most treasured possessions that he didn’t want shipping over, he didn’t really look like someone who should be heading up the Five Eyes department of Art Crime. He just feels old, tired and irritated that he could just not shake the ghosts of his past.

The failed marriage.

The failed engagement.

Dressed in an old pair of jeans, a white henley and a baggy grey hoodie with suitcases rather than bags under his eyes, he looks more a middle aged, world weary man, than the sharpest American mind in art crime. As he heads towards customs, his navy passport in hand, he wonders if he’ll be pulled over again as he was in Lyon. He’d obviously matched a profile somewhere but there were certainly red faces all around when he’d got the American Embassy to ring through and explain that Marcus was exactly who he’d said he was. Fingers crossed, eh?

He needn’t have been worried. There was no price on his face today.

“Marcus Pike?” a slightly Northern, male voice asks gently.

Marcus swung out of his airport reverie, raised his eyebrows and smiled warmly in the direction of the voice.

“Andy Welbeck,” a large warm hand stretches towards Marcus, “I’m going to be your PA whilst you’re in London. I hope you don’t mind but I took the liberty to grab you a coffee- it’s a vanilla latte? I did check with the staff at your DC office as to what your preferred drink would be.”

Gripping the hand tightly, and accepting the steaming coffee, Marcus feels a wave of warmth and friendship wash over him from the handsome, young man in front of him. “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship!” he goofily quotes and then instantly could have facepalmed- like this twenty-something would have any idea about Marcus’ favourite film!

Andy read the man’s discomfort like a book, raising a hand to soothe his awkwardness, “Casablanca is a favourite of mine- how is a film so incredibly quotable and still has such an incredible plot?” Reaching for the handle of Marcus’ wheeled suitcase, Andy continues, “in fact to me, the only other film that manages it, albeit with less of a plot is Withnail and I.”

The tension eases from Marcus’ brown as the younger man’s ease at conversation flowed naturally as they headed to Andy’s car. “So how are you feeling about Monday? Have you had a chance to check out the team yet?” Andy questions gently.

Marcus ran a hand through his hair, trying to lift the airport-flattened curls. “I have read their files, but I was wondering if you’d give me your point of view on the ones you already know?”

“Obviously, I can fill you in on the Brit - and the Canadian, who arrived a week early and still hasn’t stopped apologising.” Andy added with an eye roll, “Harper Gleason doesn’t get in from Melbourne until tomorrow morning, Kiritopa arrives on Sunday so I shall be moving my flat from Lewisham to Heathrow arrivals gate over the next couple of days.”

“Oof!” Marcus exhales, shaking his head in sympathy, “Ouch- is there anything we can do to make it easier? We could just order cabs for them? I need you in one piece for next week!”

“That wasn’t meant in any way as a moan, Sir. It’s the perfect opportunity to make some important first impressions.” Andy delivers firmly, “So, the Canadian is sweet as fuck. She’s super bright and just needs to stop apologising for everything. Dian seems to have this way of watching and seeing the very essence of people. Her clarity of understanding people around her is incredible. She will be such an asset to the team.”

“Great! What about Anushka?” Marcus enquired as he read down the list on his emails.

Andy laughs heartily, hitting the heel of his palm against the steering wheel. “Ah Nush, Nush, Nush! Where to start with my little firecracker?”

Marcus’ eyebrows raise at this reaction and then furrow. “There’s not much in her file apart from her personal info and yet she’s been with Mi5 since leaving university almost twenty years ago?”

“Probably had to be redacted, Sir.” Andy grins lopsidedly at Marcus.

“Please don’t call me sir- Marcus only! Stephens put her forward as one of the best?”

“She most certainly is. She’s also a bit of a car crash- albeit the most endearing one there is- but I can honestly say that if she lets you in, Nush will sweep you off your feet with her brilliance.”

Marcus ruminates over this information and the photo of you attached to your file. A striking woman with almond shaped eyes, olive skin and a Cupid bow mouth stared back him with a slightly raised eyebrow as if she was daring him to disagree with her. Scratching at the scruff on his face, he wonders quite what he’d gotten himself into, heading up the art division of 5 Eyes and being based in London for at least two years.

“Here you are, Sir, I mean, Marcus. This will be your digs until you find something a little more to your taste.” Andy shifts forwards in his seat to point out Marcus’s new building- a large newly built block stretching into the sky above them. “GHCQ have rented the penthouse suite for you for six months to give you time to settle in. I live roughly five minutes in that direction so please don’t hesitate to call any time. No penthouse for me, but it’s home!”

“Thank you so much, Andy. I’m grateful for the welcome you’ve shown me. This will be a great partnership.” Marcus pats Andy’s shoulder. “Whilst I promise not to bug you too much, can we go out for a drink sometime? If you’re local, it’d be nice to have someone to introduce me to the area.”

“Marcus, I’ve already got you pencilled in for a pint on Friday- you don’t need to worry, I’ve got your back.”

✪✪✪✪✪

“Fuck. Where the ever loving fuck are my fucking keys?” You grumble as you rootle through your rucksack. Years of receipts and scraps of paper with doodles from dull meetings obstructed your view and hindered your search for those elusive metal bastards that stood between you and your comfiest jammies, your sofa and A Bout de Souffle.

“For goodness sake, woman! So glad I got my own key cut.” Hephzi shakes her head, “Out of the way.”

“If you didn’t have a key, I’d have to live on my doorstep more!” you snigger to yourself.

As she turns the key, the door needs a swift kick to open it fully. “Has your landlord still done nothing about the damp here?”

“Course not!”

“Want me to send a couple of my brothers around? Sort him out?”

“Mate, I have three useless oiks of my own I could call on for the same outcome. No point in poking the bear,” you shrug resignedly. Hephzi licks her lips as you split the food between two plates- the rice and chickpeas spilling over the side onto the surprisingly clean work tops.

“Your mum been over?”

“How can you tell?” Your eyes crease in laughter, “Genuinely, I think she believes I’m a bit broken. All my brothers married and babied up and her only daughter is living in a shitty, ex LA, messy, damp filled flat and a nameless “IT” job that she wears an invisible ring for!” Your left hand does the Single Ladies dance as Hephzi roars with laughter.

With a glass of wine and a heaped plate of food in hand, you kick some of the cushions from the sofa onto the floor. “Do you ever see yourself meeting someone or are you just too married to the job?” Hephzi pries gently, knowing that even with her closeness to you that the door could quickly slam in her face.

“Honestly?” Your eyebrows slightly raise, “I’m not sure that my mum isn’t too far from the truth. Too broken for anyone who’d I’d let get close.” Hephzi snorts. “Excuse me! I let people get close! Well, as close as I’d like them to be.”

“You’re not broken, just guarded. To be completely honest, I just think you haven’t met anyone deserving of you yet.” Hephzi reaches over and pats your thigh.

You exhale sharply and shake your head as you mutter quietly gesturing towards the cluttered flat, “No one deserves this. Now shush, I need to escape into the black and white.”

✪✪✪✪✪

Marcus shrugs his hoodie off as he enters the sparsely decorated apartment, his eyes roaming around his new home. New job. New country. How long could he keep running from his past? With a sigh and rolling up the sleeves of his Henley over gently muscled arms, he starts unpacking his suitcase.

In some of the drawers, he found some basic t-shirts, pants and hoodies with a note from Andy saying, “Just in case your luggage gets lost!” In the cupboard, there are two suits- one navy and one grey and five shirts. Perfect size, fit and style. Is there anything this man doesn’t know about him? Marcus lets out a nervous laugh- kinda seems like Andy is underused as a PA and should be put into the field!

A light filled, floor to ceiling tiled en-suite with a full sized tub and separate shower was lined with expensive smelling shower gels, shampoos and creams. Opening one, and inhaling deeply Marcus cocks an eyebrow as he enjoys the cedar, amber and rosemary scent. He is dragged back to that heady summer honeymoon he’d spent with his ex-wife in the South of France, drinking glasses of sauternes with frozen grapes keeping it cool as the air carried the scent of the lavender fields and sun warmed herbs floated on the mistral. That familiar ache returns to his chest, but perhaps it is time to lay that ghost to rest.

Marcus walks further into his discovery of the beautiful apartment. The kitchen is small but functional with two French doors that open onto a small Juliet balcony looking towards Canary Wharf and the many towers that organised all the money coming into the UK. All of the cupboards in the kitchen are stocked with a basic range of cooking ingredients and the fridge even has a few ice cold beers and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

“Andy, whatever you’re being paid, it isn’t enough.” Marcus sighs and reaches for a beer, grabbing a bottle opener from the top drawer. It almost feels like it could become home.

Whatever that is.

Ok some notes:

5 Eyes is a real thing- used for sharing information about international terrorism between those countries named above.

An ex-LA home means ex local authority home. Post world war 2, Britain built a lot of social housing which Maggie Thatcher allowed in the eighties to be sold off to private buyers at a lower price to not local authority buildings. They’re not necessarily the prettiest but as the owner of an ex-LA home, they are solidly built and with a great amount of storage space!

The mistral is a strong, cold, northwesterly wind that blows from southern France into the Gulf of Lion in the northern Mediterranean

I welcome any comments, questions or just chats!

tagging: @astroboots for your perusal

@mouthymandalorian @lv7867 @songsformonkeys

#marcus pike x reader #marcus pike #pedro pascal fanfiction #josé pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal characters #the mentalist

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muchadoaboutbucky · 3 years

Text

all the time in the world | oneshot

PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x Native American!Reader WORD COUNT: 3,954 WARNINGS: slow burn, eventual smut, fluff, minor injury NOTE: Imagine if Bucky hadn’t been injured in Civil War and went on the run with everyone else. The reader’s face claim is Crystle Lightning. I also used Sebastian’s “Destroyer” look for inspiration as well. Enjoy!

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I do not consent to minors (17-) reading my work.

It’s been six months since Siberia. Six long, rough months of dodging the government and living off the grid. No phones, no computers, no connection to the outside world other than the daily newspapers you manage to pick up.

Living in close quarters isn’t the easiest. The jet doesn’t have the best sleeping quarters, just five open bunks on the lower level. The other two have become storage, a cluttered mess of papers and empty weapons boxes and ammunition that has yet to be organized.

It doesn’t help that you and Bucky have become a little more than friends.

He’s become different since you went on the run. He’s quiet, broody, and absolutely merciless when it comes to getting a mission done. To say the sight of the former assassin taking down the bad guys with nothing but a couple weapons and his bare metal hand doesn’t get you all kinds of riled up.

The five of you have just finished up a weekend in Portugal. A weapons bust had gone almost perfectly to plan, with the small exception of you getting a bullet graze on your thigh from one of the barely-alive arms dealers on your way out the door. You’d hit the ground hard, and before you could say anything or make a move to recover, Bucky scooped you off the ground and took the fire escape all the way up to the roof and into the jet without a second glance back.

Fortunately the medical bay’s been fully restocked, and Nat quickly gets you on the examining table while Sam takes off, the jet’s cloaking technology vanishing instantly into the dark three-am sky.

“Suit off,” Nat directs, reaching into one of the storage cupboards for a prepped cleaning kit. You strip out of your suit, wincing as the fabric grazes your wound. Natasha bends to examine the wound, gently pressing along the edges with a gloved finger.

“No stitches, please,” you mutter.

“Nope, you won’t need those.” Nat grabs an antiseptic wipe. “Just some bandages and you’ll need to take it easy for a couple days.”

You grumble. “Gross.”

“Could be worse.” Nat dabs the antiseptic wipe along the thin red line of your injury, and you wince, trying not to jerk away. “So… you and Barnes, huh?”

You frown, glancing down at the shimmer of her red hair. “What?”

She chuckles. “He carried you outta there like his ass was on fire. You two’ve been dancing around each other for a couple months.”

Your cheeks flush hot. “We just… it’s complicated.”

“How complicated can it be?” She smiles. “Two people like each other, they go out on a couple dates, maybe they fall in love.”

“It’s not like we have a lot in common,” you explain. “It’s just fooling around, right now, at least.”

If ‘fooling around’ counts as the time he pinned you up against the side of the jet and kissed the shit out of you with his thigh between your legs… or the time he’d waited for everyone else to be occupied with organizing the weapons closet before tugging your panties aside and sliding two fingers deep inside—

“You don’t have to bond over all the bad stuff.” She tosses the wipe into the trash and peels the wrapping off a patch of gauze. “Maybe you have small similarities. Maybe you both like chocolate, maybe you used to go to the same park as kids. It’s the little things.”

As slick and smart as she is, Natasha has no idea about the dirty things you and Bucky have done in the dark.

“I’m just not sure it would work.” You peer down when she lays a pair of large Band-Aids over the patch of gauze. “He’s a little more rough around the edges than I am, he’s still adjusting to this whole modern-life thing, I’m not sure saying ‘hey, you wanna be my boyfriend’ in the middle of it would be smart.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Oh please, he knows what he wants, he’s just afraid to ask for it. Men are like that.”

The privacy curtain slides back, and you and Natasha look up so fast you both nearly get whiplash. Bucky’s standing there, eyes wide as he takes in the full sight of you sitting on the table, clothed only in a plain black bra and panties.

“Oh.” He swallows, and his cheeks flush bright red. “Never mind, I was just—”

Natasha grins. “Barnes, if you have something to say—”

The curtain swishes shut, and the heavy tread of his boots fades away. You giggle, raising a hand to cover your mouth. He’s never seen you this degree of undressed before, much less seen a naked woman in the last several decades.

“Teach him how to knock,” Natasha jokes, sweeping the used kit into the trash and tugging her gloves off. “I’ll grab you some clothes, we don’t need all the men stroking out from seeing a pair of boobs.”

***

You emerge from the medical room dressed in a pair of pajama shorts and a tee shirt. Steve and Sam are settled comfortably in the pilots’ seats, and Natasha herself has changed into flannel pants and a one of the tee shirts she’s stolen from Sam.

Bucky’s nowhere to be found.

“We’ll find somewhere to land in a couple hours,” Steve says, glancing back at you. “How’s your leg, kid?”

“Hurts, but I’ve had worse.” You offer a smile before turning to Nat. “Where’s Bucky?” you ask her silently.

“Downstairs,” she replies, the corner of her mouth turning up into a little smirk. “Alone.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks burning as you head to the descending ladder for the lower level. Bucky’s sitting on the floor, earphones on, eyes closed. He somehow hears you approach, because he opens his eyes and reaches up to pull the scuffed headphones off and pause the old cassette player clutched in his left hand.

You’re so used to him being big and strong and dominant. Now he just seems… weary. A side you don’t see very often.

“Hi.” You slide down to sit next to him. “It’s late, Nat and I are going to bed, you should wash up and get some rest.”

“I’m not tired,” he replies softly.

“Are you worried about walkin’ in on me half naked?” you ask, reaching up to run your fingers through the longer hair at the top of his head. Since almost shaving it off, it’s grown back, and he almost looks like he used to back in his time.

His cheeks flush. “You were a little more than half naked.”

“It’s not a problem, I didn’t mind.” You rest your head on his shoulder. “You look exhausted, you should really get some rest.”

“I’m not tired.” Bucky sets the cassette player and headphones on the floor next to him. “Been trying to get some alone time with you for a long time, and tonight when you went down… I just got a lot of ‘what if’s’ goin’ on in my head.”

You hum. “I’m fine. My leg hurts and Nat’s gonna kill me if I don’t take it easy, but—”

“I wanna take you somewhere.” He turns to face you. “I hate dancin’ around like this, and I get that it’s risky for us to be… involved, or whatever we’re trying to be, but…” he swipes his tongue over his lower lip, “I think we deserve one night where we aren’t gonna be sleeping in these stupid bunks. Just you and me.”

You wrap your fingers through his warm metal ones. “We do have that tent in the storage cupboard… we could make a camping night of it?”

He sighs. “I want a real bed. In a real… house, or hotel, or whatever, but I wanna be alone with you. We deserve that, we’ve been playing back and forth for the last six months and I’m tired of it.”

Smiling, you press a gentle kiss to his cheek. “What else do you want?”

He lets out a soft breath before tipping his head back against the wall. “I wanna make love to you, and I can’t do that in a stupid little bunk where three other people can see us.”

You stifle a flustered giggle in his chest. “We can still fool around, Bucky.”

He grunts, dissatisfied. “Can’t you pretend your leg is worse than it is and they can drop us off somewhere?”

“I don’t know, they’ve seen me walking just fine.”

“You could be in shock and not know how bad it is.”

“Bucky.” You slide onto his lap and cup his face. “I’ve been in shock before, several times, and I’m not in shock.”

He smiles lazily, skimming his hands up your sides. “Really? You look a little cold.”

“Because we’re at fifteen-thousand feet,” you kiss him softly, wincing when your bandage pulls, “and Sam’s slacking on fixing the temperature regulator.”

“Maybe I should take you somewhere with a fireplace.” He peers at you through the dim light. “I could do a lot with that.”

“Oh yeah?” You run a finger over his cheek. “Like what?”

He grins wolfishly. “Put some blankets out in front of the fire… get you all warm and toasty before I make love to you.”

You bite your lip, shifting on his lap. “Bucky…”

“Hmm?”

“Hearing you talk about making love to me isn’t making the fact that I really want that right now any better.”

He chuckles. “I can be quick, you know that.”

“I’m not having our first time on the jet floor.” You stand up, pulling on his metal arm. “Come on, let’s get some sleep.”

He stands obediently, eyes raking up your bare thighs and the bandage on as he rises. “You know, you look really hot with a bandage on your thigh.”

“Oh, so you’re glad I got shot?”

“I didn’t say that.” He wraps his arms around your waist. “I mean I like seein’ you with things on your thighs. Holsters… those thigh-high socks you wore a month ago, that made me…” he shivers and digs his fingers into your hips.

“Freak,” you giggle. “Bucky, if you don’ let me go...”

He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Mmm.” You slip a teasing finger into his belt.

He grins, slowly backing you up until your shoulders press against the steel wall. In a playful attempt to duck away, you try to slip just to his left, and warm metal wraps around your arm, pinning you firmly in place.

“Hold on,” he mutters, “you think you can just do that and walk away?”

You let out a long, soft moan when he presses his lips to yours, stepping up so close you can feel the firm heat of his body. Your fingers twist in his shirt, and he slots a knee between your thighs, careful to avoid your injured one as flesh fingers twist into your hair. He hums when you give an instinctual push of your hips against the rough fabric of his pants, and you

“Better rest up, then, honey.”

You giggle when he lands a firm swat on your ass and scamper up the ladder, heaving yourself onto the upper level with Bucky close behind you. The grin on Bucky’s face earns you a quizzical look from Sam, but you roll your eyes and head down to your bunk, making sure that nobody can see before stretching up on your toes and giving Bucky a goodnight kiss.

***

The jolt of the jet landing just over four hours later wakes you. You sit up, almost banging your head on the top of your bunk, and curse Sam for winning Rock Paper Scissors for the top one. You emerge blearily, shoving your privacy curtain aside with a grimace as a ray of sunlight smacks you in the face.

“Ow,” you mutter as Sam drops down from the bunk above you, “what time is it?”

“It’s late morning,” Steve replies, emerging from the cockpit. “We’re in Austria. Found us a place to lay low for a couple days. We’re gonna have to do a little bit of hiking and wear disguises when we check in, but the jet’s on stealth mode. Town’s about a twenty-minute walk away.”

Town. Thank God.

The four of you stumble around, stuffing things into your bags and checking your nanomasks before stepping off the jet. It’s a brisk morning, and you tug a jacket over your shoulders as you take in your surroundings.

Steve’s touched down in a large field of flowers. The jet’s invisible to your eye when the hatch closes, and you set off to the East, keeping your heads low as you head into a more-populated area and onto busy streets. There’s a market across from the closest hotel, and you make a note to sneak out and get some of the pretty fruits and breads on display.

When you get up to the counter, Steve shoves a wad of cash from his duffel bag at the attendant and asks for two rooms, which you get with a three-night guarantee.

“Okay,” Sam murmurs once you’re in the elevator heading up to your floor, “who shares with who? I’m not havin’ Barnes hogging all the covers again.”

“Mmm, you won’t.” Natasha slips you a sly look. “Barnes and Y/N together, I’ll share with Steve, so you, Sam, can have all the covers you want.”

You cast a quick glance at Bucky and find his cheeks stained bright pink. “That’s fine,” you cover when he fails to respond, “we’re gonna get some rest anyway.”

Nat smirks when the elevator doors slide open, and you roll your eyes before accepting the key card Steve offers you. “Sure, sure,” she replies, “make sure it’s a good rest.”

You give her a playful glare as she follows Steve and Sam into their room and closes the door, leaving you and Bucky to slip into your room across the hall with burning faces.

It’s definitely not the biggest—or best—room that you’ve ever stayed in, but it’ll do the trick. The bed is king-sized, with several lumpy-looking pillows stacked on a thin white comforter. You set your bag down on the floor and toe off your boots, stretching your arms over your head while Bucky goes to inspect the bathroom.

“It’s not bad,” he calls out, “just a shower stall, no tub.”

“That’s good enough for me.” You tug a fresh set of clothes out of your duffel and snag your almost-empty toiletries from the front pocket. “You wanna go first, or…”

“Nah, you.” He runs a hand up your back and leans in to press his lips against yours. “I’m gonna try and get some shut-eye. I never sleep well on the jet.”

You hum against his mouth, grateful for the sudden solitude. “I’ll be out in fifteen. Knock if you need anything, ‘kay?”

He smiles and slumps down on the bed, watching you slip into the bathroom and leave the door slightly ajar.

The water pressure isn’t too bad. It’s been a few days since you’ve been able to properly clean up, and your hair gets washed thoroughly, pits get shaved, well… everything that isn’t permanently done gets shaved, and you emerge from the steam-filled shower dressed in panties and a tee shirt, towel held to the now-exposed wound on your thigh. Bucky’s stretched out on the bed, a pillow tucked under his head, eyes closed. The medical kit’s in his bag, and you tug it free and watch one crystal-blue eye open as you perch on the edge of the bed.

“How’s that?” His eyes rake over the bare skin of your thigh as you pull it away to inspect the slowly-scabbing graze.

“Healing.” You gently poke at the angry bruise along the side and wince. “I still need to bandage it.”

Bucky sighs, watching you tug out a roll of gauze and tape. “Want some help with that?”

You smile gladly in return. “Please?”

“You got it.” He slides off the bed and reaches for the paper-wrapped supplies. Nimble fingers tear open the packets, and you lean back as he kneels on the carpet, flesh hand gently splayed out against your knee as he gently lowers a folded strip of cause to cover the exposed flesh. Medical tape snaps off between his teeth, and you watch him lay four strips, one on each side until he’s satisfied that your injury is sufficiently protected.

“Thanks.” You reach over and rub the top of his head. “So walking in on me in just my bra and panties didn’t… that didn’t bother you?”

He chuckles. “No, it didn’t bother me. Just surprised me.”

You giggle. “Really? ‘Cause you looked like a total virgin.”

“Shush.” He kisses your knee and gazes up at you, eyes wide and almost deceivingly innocent. “Not a virgin, honey, just… you look hot in that suit, and seeing you out of it was… a shock. Good shock.”

***

The rest of the day passes slowly, with you and Bucky dozing in and out of naps until Sam knocks on the door, asking if Bucky wants to go to the market outside. You watch him leave, donning his nanomask and swiping a couple bills from the plastic bag he keeps in his duffel before slipping out the door.

He’s back in an hour, carrying a large paper bag full of what looks like bread and fruit and all kinds of goodies. You eat slowly, sneaking kisses between bites of fresh, juicy watermelon for a mock-dessert.

Around six, Natasha comes by, inviting you to the other room for a much better dinner of pizza and drinks… which, as it turns out, hasn’t even been delivered yet. You and Bucky spend the first ten minutes enduring innuendo from Natasha, which Steve is quick to defend, although he snorts at one comment about peaches that makes Bucky choke on his bottle of ale.

The pizza finally arrives, three boxes to cater to two supersoldier appetites, and you’re able to unwind, laughing and joking and teasing each other until it’s late and Sam starts to yawn incessantly. You and Bucky make an excuse for being tired as well, and Natasha watches you leave with a glimmer in her eye as the door swings shut.

The moment you and Bucky are safely tucked in the seclusion of your room, he pulls you into his arms and plants a warm, sweet kiss on your lips.

“Baby,” he breathes, “we only got three nights here and I… I wanna take you, tonight…”

You giggle. “Bucky, we’re not in your time anymore. You can tell me what you want.”

He swallows, metal fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt. “I wanna make love with you.”

You roll your eyes and wind your arms around his neck. “Is that all?”

He grumbles. “Baby, you’re making it harder than it needs to be.”

“Sorry.” You stretch up on your toes and kiss him again, hips rubbing deliciously against his. “Only thing I need to be hard is this… and looks like you’re way ‘head of me.”

Bucky groans, breaking away to tug your shirt over your head. “If you keep doing that, you’re not gonna feel it for a while.”

You bite your lip, watching him strip his own shirt and toss it to the ground. Before you can do anything else, he lifts you up, careful to avoid your injured thigh, and lays you out on the bed, reaching for your pajama shorts and tugging them down to leave you in just a plain pair of panties.

Now he’s nervous, you can see it in his eyes. He’s had you open before, got his fingers wet inside your pussy, and kissed the shit out of you until you could barely breathe, but he’s never had you completely naked and exposed.

“Hey.” You reach for his hand, guiding it to the little blue bow between your hips. “It’s okay, baby.”

He chuckles, easing his fingers beneath the elastic and watching with held breath as he teases them down, letting them fall off the edge of the bed with a soft pat. His palms smooth down the insides of your thighs, spreading you open, and when he trails the pad of his thumb over your clit and you press your hips up to get closer, he lets out a strangled groan and curls over you, completely helpless.

Your hands push at his sweats, and you giggle when he clumsily kicks them down over his feet, leaving himself completely bare for you as well. When your fingers drift to wrap around his thick, heavy shaft, he stops, gritting his teeth against the side of your neck.

“Baby…” he clears his throat, raising his head to look at you. “We’re not movin’ too fast, right?”

“Don’t get soft on me,” you reply, “we’re good, Bucky, I’m happy, I wanna feel you…”

He nods, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “Good, it’s just… it’s been a long time and—”

“Shhh.” You rub your hands over his hips. “I don’t care, I just want you.”

Bucky’s eyes darken, and he reaches down to grab himself, experimentally running the swollen tip of his cock through yout pussy until he finds your opening, and you grab on tight, a cry of pleasure dying in your throat as he pumps his hips forward and sinks in.

“Ahh, fuck—” he grunts quietly against your lips when your nails dig into his ass, “baby…”

You can’t even find the words to reply. He’s so deep, thick and hot and pulsing inside where your body grips him tight. All you can do is give a little tug, trying to urge him on, and he gives you what you want without question.

All sense of awkwardness or anxiety melts away as he props himself up on both arms, watching your body roll and move under his as he searches a rhythm, inexperience getting the better of him when his hips stutter and slide. He finds it, a steady, rough beat back and forth that makes your clit rub against the skin above his cock and high-pitched sighs and whimpers to rattle in your throat.

“C’mere,” he pants, hooking his flesh arm under your shoulders to keep you close, and you brace yourself as his thrusts grow hard enough for your bodies to slap together. It’s been so long since you’ve been able to feel this good that when his lips find one nipple and latch on, your body decides to follow its own path.

All it takes for you to cum is a few quick rolls of your clit under your fingers, and Bucky lets out a choked gasp when he feels the rapid contractions, burying his face in the crook of your neck and matching your moans with his own, panting harder and louder as he stutters, pushes in as far and hard as he can, and cums with a growl that resonates deep in your soul as you wrap your legs tight around his waist.

You come back to reality slowly, sweaty bodies sticking as he drops down over you, pressing a lazy kiss to your lips.

“That was fast,” he murmurs, “sorry, baby, I couldn’t—”

“It’s okay.” You run your fingers through his hair. “It’s been a long time for me too, it was… that was good.”

“Good.” He chuckles and pulls away, watching the first dribble of white slide from your core. “We got three more days to make it longer, huh?”

“Yeah.” You reach for his hand, fingers intertwining with his. “Right now, we have all the time in the world.”

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sherrybaby14 · 4 years

Text

Moral of the Story

Summary: Steve’s girl likes to party all the time and he’s at his wit’s end. Then he meets you.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x female reader.

Warnings: Alcohol, Smut, ANGST

Words: 5k

A/N: This is for the wonderful @captain-rogers-beard challenge. Congrats Doll! My prompt was “Party all the Time” by Eddie Murphy.

The music was a bit louder than you would have liked, but at least the song was catchy. You sipped on your drink as you watched the dance floor, your friend’s waving you over.

With a smirk you shook your head and lifted your drink, far too sober to dance.

“I think they want you to join them?” A voice boomed in your ear.

You did a jump as you turned to see a gorgeous blonde next to you.

“I don’t want to spill my drink.” You ran your hands down your now wet dress.

“Oh Jeez, I’m so sorry ma’am.” He reached for some cocktail napkins. “Let me buy you another.”

“It’s okay.” You began to pat your dress dry. “It’s probably better on my clothes than down my throat. I don’t drink often.”

“Me either.” He gave a warm smile.

“Then why are you in a nightclub?” You turned to the bar, trying to block out the loud music and not have to yell so much. “Here to pick up women?”

“A friend invited me.” His gaze went to the dance floor.

You followed it and saw he was looking at a dark haired man. You couldn’t see his face because it was being covered by a gorgeous brunette. She pulled away and you blinked a few times, she had to be a model, a perfect ten.

“I think your friend is going to get lucky.” You turned back to see his jaw clench up.

“Yeah, it looks like it.” He looked away, there was a pain in his eyes. “If I can’t buy you a new drink how about a cup of coffee?”

“Oh, I don’t think they sell coffee here.” You shrugged.

He erupted in laughter and you glanced around, not noticing the punch line.

“There’s a diner a block away.” He leaned against the bar. “Open twenty four hours. I know I’m a stranger, but I could get out of here and by the looks of it so could you.”

“I’m game.” You put your glass on the bar and started walking to the door.

“I’m Steve by the way.” He held out his hand.

“I know who you are.” You smiled. “I think the whole world knows who you are.”

A confused look spread across his face. The brisk nighttime air made your arm get some goosebumps, but you let out a sigh of relief when the music died down.

“That’s not the reaction I get from most people who know who I am.” Steve grabbed his chin. “Maybe I should grow a beard again.”

“Would you rather I asked for an autograph and a selfie?” You raised an eyebrow, then put the back of your hand to your forehead. “Oh Captain my Captain?”

“Alright, I get it.” Steve laughed. “So what’s your story? I guess your the one whose the stranger here.”

“It’s not like I know everything about you, just the headlines.” You winked. “Workaholic, I love my job, it keeps me busy. In my free time I do the basics, read, watch movies, attempt and fail at the newest workout craze.”

“Pilates man.” Steve pulled the diner door open. “It’s a lot harder than it looks.”

“I fall in every yoga position.” You followed Steve as he slid into a booth. “Zumba was fun, but I’m lacking in rhythm.”

“You?” Steve’s eyes went wide. “You look like you would be a great dancer.”

“I’m great at a lot of things.” You flipped over your mug. “But bad at more.”

“I’m really bad at board games. I flipped the board last time I played Monopoly.” Steve leaned back in the booth. “But I am amazing at tic-tac-toe.”

“Oh yeah?” You reached in your purse and pulled out a pen, drawing the lines on a napkin. “Prove it?”

“Even with all this coffee and stimulating conversation.” You brought your hand to your mouth to stifle the yawn. “Exhaustion is setting in. I’ve got to get to bed.”

“How far do you live from here?” Steve reached for his wallet. “It’s almost 4 am. Can I walk you home?”

“Four am?” You hadn’t checked your phone since you told your friends you were safe after vanishing, that was five hours ago.

Sure enough the device read 3:56.

“Damn.” You grabbed a menu. “Might as well order breakfast then.”

Steve looked shocked, but then nodded in agreement, not pulling a menu. The server took notice and came over.

“I’ll have a meat lovers skillet, side of country gravy, sub American cheese, eggs over easy, wheat toast?” You but the menu back.

“I’ll have the same.” Steve leaned forward.

“Really?” The waitress was confused. “Not the usual?”

“I’m being adventurous tonight.” Steve winked.

“Okay.” She walked away.

“I like the way you know what you want.” Steve leaned back. “Kind of no nonsense. It’s refreshing.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” You laughed. “Maybe when it comes to diner food at 4 am. I’ve been eating my whole life after all.”

“So why isn’t there anyone special in your life?” Steve almost seemed fidgety.

“There’s lots of special people in my life.” You smiled. “I’m very close with my parents, my siblings, have some great friends I’d call family, my coworkers are amazing too.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Steve’s eyes showed a strange wave of vulnerability.

“No reason.” You wished you had a better answer. “I’ve dated plenty, had some serious partners, some not so serious. I guess I’m picky? What about you?”

“The friend who invited me to the club tonight, it was the girl.” Steve gave a pressed smile. “We were very serious, she broke it off about two months ago. Wanted to try being friends. I agreed to give it a go. I don’t see how it’s going to work.”

The perfect 10 brunette. Your heart started to ache for the man. He was heartbroken. It was all over his face, body language. Everything clicked.

“What a bitch.” You brought your hand to your mouth and looked at him with wide eyes.

He laughed and you relaxed.

“There you go, being honest and direct again.” Steve put his elbows on the table. “I don’t think people can be friends with exes. It’s not in the cards.”

“I’ve never tried.” You were more of the it’s done it’s done type. “My philosophy is look forward. The future. Thinking about the past, it’s a dangerous trap.”

“I’m starting to think the same thing.” Steve’s eyes lit up. “She is a big party girl, I mean, she’s a model so sometimes its a networking thing. But I never really fit into her life.”

“Wait, were you guys like a tabloid couple?” You tilted your head. “Can I read all about your breakup on instagram?”

“No!” Steve rolled his eyes. “That was part of the problem. I think she wanted that. Being with me could elevate her career and it made me feel used, so I wouldn’t allow public photos. There’s a few that leaked, but nothing confirming our relationship.”

“Wow, you celebrities are a different breed.” It never once crossed your mind to post about who you were having coffee with.

“I am not a celebrity.” Steve wagged a finger at you.

“Oh I’m sorry.” You brought your hand to your chest. “Historical figure.”

Steve cracked up. His laugh was infectious and you joined, chuckling away.

“Without being too forward young lady,” Steve reached out and grabbed your hand, sparks shooting down your arm. “Could I have your telephone number?”

You knew he was bating you for a joke. But you preferred the natural type.

“Yes.” You reached for your phone, breaking the hand touch. “You can have my number.”

Noon hit and you forced yourself out of bed, six hours of sleep was doable. You began to make your mental checklist of projects for the day while you brushed your teeth.

There was a giddy ness in the back of your mind over last night. He was a cool guy and it was a fun time. Your brain started to think about work. You had to call your parents and check in, probably explain to your friends about where you went, you would leave out the Captain America angle.

You grabbed your phone and your jaw about hit the floor. There was a text from Steve already.

Are you going to say good morning?

You didn’t think you would hear from him for at least a few days. It made you smile and wiggle as you sat on the bed.

Good morning! Or afternoon?

Before you set the device down the reply bubbles started to form. You parted ways seven hours ago. It was a Saturday. This was unexpected. The bubbles disappeared and then reappeared several times. You were on the edge of your seat.

Then your phone started to vibrate. You almost threw the thing, seeing Steve’s name pop up. Instead your smile grew as you slid it to answer.

“Was good afternoon not appropriate? Technically it’s 12:15, that is literally after noon.” You tried to stifle the excitement.

“You want to have a beer with me tonight?” Steve’s voice was just as sexy over the phone. “I would say dinner, but I know you had some things to take care of. There’s this sports bar I love, I promise I won’t spill anything on you and coffee keeps us up too late.”

“I’d love to.” You didn’t see a point in trying to act coy.

“Great, nine o’clock? I’ll text you the address.” Steve’s smile carried over the phone.

“Sounds like a plan.” You ran your hand over your hair and wondered if you could get away without washing it.

“Have a great day. I”ll see you tonight.”

“Bye.” You clicked off the phone and did a little happy dance.

You didn’t see that one coming.

Your phone lit up with Steve’s message right away. You sent a thumbs up emoji. To your surprise, Steve responded:

Emojis, it’s like hyrogliphics are coming back? Why did we skip the sonnets?

You didn’t even think before responding.

You: Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s Day? Thou art more lovely and temperate.

Steve: Sonnet 18, one of the greats.

You: I stole it from Clueless.

Steve: What’s Clueless?

You woke the next morning, at your normal 8 am. Even more thrilled with the date from the night before. It was fun. It was a fantastic time. Of course the texting all day long made the conversation flow right to person-to-person.

“I can’t sleep until noon tomorrow.” You stood up from the bar stool. “Plus I hit my three beer maximum. Maybe once I know you better you can meet four beer me.”

“You’re guarded in the strangest ways.” Steve beamed at you.

“Me?” You were shocked. “I’m an open book. Nothing to hide.”

“Well would this bother you then?” Steve cupped your cheek and before you could react his face leaned in.

Warm lips met yours. You melted into him, your body felt like it was floating. Nobody in the bar paid you any attention as his tongue slid into your mouth before pulling out. A little moan came forward when he pulled away.

There was a devilish grin on his face as he grabbed your hand and kissed your knuckles.

“Let’s get you an Uber.”

All you could do was nod in a numb state. This amazing man kissed you. It was like a dream.

You were all smiles as you rolled out of bed, straight to the bathroom. Sundays were your lazy day, but you missed too much yesterday that you had to squeeze some work in. It wouldn’t be too much.

When you left the bathroom you grabbed your phone. Your heart exploded when you saw there was already a text from Steve.

Today you can say good morning. I have faith.

Steve Rogers was perfect. Three dates in a week, not including coffee night. Every other day he wanted to see you. He made you laugh, listened to you, was always available. Sent you little comics you found funny. You giggled at the last gif he sent you of a puppy eating bubble.

You: I’ve got to head into a work meeting. I’ll text you later.

Steve: Knock ‘em dead.

Supportive too. You smiled as you slipped your phone into your pocket. It had only been a week, but you couldn’t remember the last time you connected with someone this way, if ever.

“You’re smiley.” A coworker bumped you with her arm. “It’s almost like you have a glow.”

“Just a happy person.” You shrugged. “How is your son doing? Any luck on that math test?”

“Oh he did much better!” Your coworker dropped her shoulders in relief. “That tutor was worth every penny.”

She continued to talk and you tried to listen, but your thoughts kept drifting to Steve. This was the best week of your life.

The meeting got your adrenaline pumping. You left and went straight to your office, typing away the e-mails, ready to get the new project off the ground. It was almost time to call it a day, the sun was starting to set.

That was when you picked up your phone. Two messages from Steve. Fuck. Guilt set in.

How was the meeting?

Everything okay?

You grabbed your phone and started typing.

You: Sorry work got crazy. Major project. Just leaving now.

Steve: Do you want to over to my place for dinner? Unwind? I can have a meal and some wine for you, straight away?

Unwinding with Steve sounded perfect, plus you were more interested in the version that didn’t involve a meal.

You looked down at your work clothes, your makeup probably long smeared off, but did that matter? Steve didn’t seem to care about your appearance. He wanted you for who you were. And right now that sounded perfect.

You: Do you have ice cream?

Steve: Oh my freezer is overflowing. Any flavor you like. Popsicles too.

You: I’m in. Text me your address?

Every other time you arrived at a paramour’s place for the first time you were nervous. Not this time. Your brain played a slide show of the last week. The way Steve listened, hung on your words, followed up with questions. He made you feel like the most important person in the world.

Your past experiences taught you that people were either fantastic talkers or listeners. You prided yourself on being both, but Steve seemed to fall in that same category.

With a strange confidence you hit the buzzer for his apartment. The door unlocked and you walked up the stairs, speeding up with each step.

When you got to his floor you spotted him hanging out the door, waving at you. This was going to be the hard part.

“Before I step inside, I have to let you know something.” You rehearsed this in your head a few times. “Work was insane today, and I know tomorrow is Saturday, but I have to put in a few hours. This happens about twice a year, not a common occurrence. But as much as I want to, I can’t spend the night.”

“Okay.” Steve nodded and held the door open. “Again I love your honesty.”

You walked in to see all the only lights on in the apartment two candles on the clothed kitchen table. Your heart started to sink at the thought he’d put into it, but then you noticed the meal set out at each end and began to laugh.

“Full disclosure, all I had was some TV dinners.” Steve came behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. “And there’s no ice cream or popsicles. But I can think of something I want for dessert.”

You spun around and put your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a deep kiss. He reached underneath you and scooped you up. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you, deepening the kiss.

Nothing had ever felt so right in your life. It was as if the cosmos had brought you together.

“You’re too perfect.” You pulled away as he dropped you on the bed.

“You’re a one-in-a-million.” Steve’s breath was heavy as he started to pull at your clothing.

Hands were everywhere, lips randomly touching whatever skin they could. Shoes and socks flying off with pants and shirts. You shoved his boxers down as he unhooked your bra, the feeling of your bare chests pushed together making you shudder.

Steve grabbed your panties and yanked them down as you settled back on his bed. On your back, legs spread, knees up. His arm encircled your thigh as he began to kiss. You moaned and fisted the blanket, lifting your pelvis up inviting his mouth.

He wasted no time and began to devour you. You tried to pay attention to what he was doing, but you couldn’t keep up. Was that his tongue? His lips? You cried out when something slid inside of you.

“FUCK!” Your body convulsed around his mouth.

Your chest heaved while your brain tried to keep up with the pleasure. Steve kept licking, touching, working you. Everything was frenzied. Your head collapsed to the side and you tried to regain control.

“I knew you were primed.” Steve kissed up your stomach. “But you have one more in you.”

He climbed until he was over you, his cock lining up with your entrance. Never had you came that fast from another person.

Steve pushed forward and filled your aching pussy. You squealed and grabbed onto his shoulders. Rolling your body against his.

“That’s it.” He nipped at your neck. “You were meant for me. Never felt this way before.”

You grabbed his face and pulled his lips to your own, enjoying the taste of yourself on him while he railed into you. He returned the kiss and sped up. Slamming his cock, teasing your clit while your g-spot came to life.

There was no hiding your moans and his grunts as your bodies melded together. Your breath started to tighten, and then your muscles started. The edge came fast and you flung yourself over.

Your head went back into the pillow as your screamed, it was impossible to tell if your vision went black since the room was too dark. But Steve let out a grunt and pulled out of you.

Instead of blowing all over your stomach he pushed your head down. You slid down the bed and opened your mouth.

His aim was perfect and for the second time you tasted yourself, enjoying the way he finished in your mouth, letting your lips wrap around his tip. Drinking him all down while your body shook.

“I think I’m falling in love.” Steve pushed forward before pulling out and landing on his back.

You nodded, breathless as you curled up to him. He wrapped an arm around you and pulled you close, kissing the top of your head.

You ignored the tears forming in your eyes, fighting them away. If pure happiness existed, this was it. How did you get so lucky?

Steve: I’m going to hug my pillow all night wishing it was you.

You glanced at the clock, it was already approaching midnight.

You: I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. Thank you for a wonderful night and a gourmet meal.

Steve: Get some sleep. I miss you.

You: I miss you too.

You grabbed your pillow. If Steve was pretending his was you, maybe you could do that same. A huge smile on your face as you drifted off.

You woke with a smile. Maybe Smiley could be your new nickname. You grabbed your phone eager to see what Steve had sent. To your surprise, there was no message.

All week long you’d woken up to messages. You smiled even bigger, maybe you’d finally worn him out and the man needed more sleep than you did.

You rolled out of bed to brush your teeth, thoughts filled with nothing but Steve.

Work was so intense, you turned your phone off. No distractions. When the team broke for lunch you flipped it on, your heart racing to see Steve’s messages. When the screen came to life you saw nothing.

Maybe it was wrong? Messages glitched sometimes. You clicked the app open, all you saw was your last message. It said read at 12:03 am.

You shrugged it off. Steve knew you had a big work day. He was being respectful. You thought about texting him, but you had to get back to it and didn’t want to come off as needy. It wasn’t like you could text him all afternoon.

The project finished an hour early, 4 pm on a Saturday. Everyone gave themselves a round of applause and you did a lazy golf clap as you reached for your phone.

Your heart exploded when you saw a message from Steve.

Steve: How was your day?

You: Good. I have so much to tell you!

There was no bubble response, or read receipt. You stared at your phone. Maybe turning it off had been a bad idea.

After saying goodbye to your colleagues and walking to you subway stop your phone dings with a message.

Steve: Can we meet for coffee?

You giggled.

You: Why not dinner? The real kind this time. It was a big day for me! I want to celebrate, you can supply dessert again.

Steve: Coffee. Now? First night?

Maybe he had a big day too. He’d been so supportive of you, it was due to return the favor.

You: Sure. I’ll be there in twenty.

You headed to the other subway line, more than eager for a sleepover tonight.

When you arrive at the diner you scan it, not seeing Steve anywhere. Maybe you beat him here. You were about to grab a random booth when a man in a black hoodie, baseball hat, and sunglasses sticks his hand in the air.

You smile, wondering if this is some Avenger’s mission.

“Are you going as the Unabomber for Halloween?” You slide into the booth. “I couldn’t even recognize you.”

“There’s no easy way to say this.” Steve cracked his jaw. “Ashley called me last night. Very upset.”

“Whose Ashley?” You blurted out the first thought that came to your mind.

“My ex.” He let out a huge sigh. “She’s a mess.”

“The bitch from the club?” You were a little interested in the drama.

“She’s not a bitch.” Steve put his hands on the table and your blood ran cold. “She has some problems. She is working on them. And we have a lot of history and she needs my help.”

“Oh.” You felt like your soul floated out of your body.

“You’re so perfect.” He reached out and grabbed your hands. “But she needs me. You don’t need me. We have a lot of history and I owe it to her to try.”

“Oh.” Everything went numb.

“I wanted to let you know in person and before things got too serious.” Steve squeezed your hand. “If I could take back last night, I wouldn’t. It was perfect, you’re perfect.”

“You already said that.” Your voice was getting tight.

“But I mean it.” He pushed the hood off his baseball cap. “I can’t leave her. Without me, I mean, you saw her at the club that night. She’s a disaster.”

The tears started to boil in your throat they were so deep. You yanked your hands away, thoughts flying to wild to speak clearly. You didn’t know if you wanted to scream at him or plead with him to pick you.

“I hope we can stay friends?” He let out a sigh. “I mean, you’re amazing and you made me so happy this past week. Probably the happiest I’ve been in my entire life. You’re smart, and witty, and beautiful, and you’re everything.”

The way he said week hit home. It was only a week. Not a month, not a year. Just a week. A lot of digs ran through your mind, ways you could make a joke, ways you could state your feelings. But instead you said one thing.

“Sure.” Your brain started to scream at itself.

“That’s such a relief.” Steve dropped his shoulders.

“I had a really long day.” You stood up from the booth. “Talk soon?”

You didn’t look back as you ran to the door, the tears spilling over. With a shaky hand you pulled out your phone, screaming at yourself for being so stupid to develope feelings, but smart enough to do one thing. You highlighted his contact and clicked delete.

Friends, family, whoever would talk had to listen to you cry. You didn’t hold back for them. You made sure they alternated duty. You even took a week off of work.

“If I would have stayed that night, would he have ignored her?” You sobbed to your best friend.

“No hunny.” She ran a hand through your head. “No. You got caught in a weird game.”

Steve: How do you kill a circus?

It’s a random number not saved to a contact, but you know that’s the first text you get from Steve. You know the punchline, but rather than responding you delete it. The last thing you want is to memorize his number.

You would’ve broken down and sent some very dumb stuff you would’ve regretted. It’s only been five days. He should send his girlfriend those jokes, not you.

Three days later you get another.

Steve: How are you?

You think about deleting it, you think about screaming you broke my heart, acting cool like you’re busy, or just gushing about how much you miss him and what a great guy his is.

You: Fine.

Steve: Glad to hear.

You don’t hesitate to delete the thread.

Steve: I miss you.

Your heart races. It’s been two weeks since the night you had the best sex of your life. The tears sting your eyes. You’ve been apart longer than you were together. Did he realize he made a mistake? Was he coming back to you?

You start typing: I miss

But then you stop. No. You had to frame this right. State it right. But what was there to do? Yell at him into loving you? Did you love him? Your heart hurt like it had, but this was wrong.

With a shaky finger you highlighted the number and moved it to block. The sobs came again and you cuddled your phone, regretting your choice.

The day you hit the month mark you were trying not to think about Steve, but then the celebrity hit: CAPTAIN AMERICA ENGAGED! It ran all over the headlines.

Him and his fiance were plastered everywhere. You couldn’t escape. It hit you then. You were a rebound. You were nothing. A temporary step on his life path. It hurt. It hurt more than anything. No ice cream could repair the hole one week with Steve Rogers had created.

“I’m glad we got you out tonight.” Your friend poked you in the side as she screamed in your ear. “What’s it been, months since you’ve been in a club?”

“Yep.” Two, but you tried not to think about how your last time in a nightclub ended, how it could derail your life. “But I’m here.”

You still hated the loud music. Memories of a sports bar with Steve tried to come forward, but you buried them before they could.

“Let’s dance!” She grabbed your hand.

“Not yet.” You yanked it away. “In a few drinks.”

“I’ll wait with you.” She settled next to you. “But that dance floor is inviting.”

The bodies were moving and you scanned the area. Your eyes bulged when you spotted a familiar face, tongue down a mouth.

“Is that…..is that Captain America’s fiance?” Your friend grabbed your arm, you never told them the mysterious Steve’s last name. “She’s not kissing Cap.”

She pulled out her phone ready to take a picture, but you put your hand out and lowered her arm.

A wave of clarity rushed over you.

“His girl wants to party all the time. He buys her champagne and diamonds.” A weird smile settled over you. “He thinks he can fix her.”

That was the problem. You didn’t need fixing. And if you ever did you would figure it out for yourself, with the support of people around you. Steve hit the nail on the head when he said you didn’t need him. You never would.

“Go dance.” You gave your friend a playful spank on the ass.

For the first time in two months you felt like yourself and turned back to the bar hoping to block the music.

A finger tapped your shoulder and you looked up with no jump.

“It’s loud in here.” A handsome man with dark hair looked down at you.

“There’s a coffee shop a block away.” You stood up. “Can I buy you a cup?”

“Yes.” He nodded and set his drink down.

“What’s your name?” You yelled over the music.

“Stephen.” He was right behind you.

“Do you go by Steve and what are your thoughts on needy women?” You pushed open the door to the club.

The air was hot and you rolled your shoulders back, embracing the lack of obnoxious music.

“If I went by Steve I would have introduced myself that way.” His intense eyes glared at you. “And I am a surgeon. Everyone I encounter is needy. I don’t have time for it in my personal life.”

You stifled your laughter at the response. At least Steve had taught you to speak your mind. Having a flashback to leaving the bar with him.

“Well Mr. Stranger, I will never need you.” You grinned at him. “Except for good conversation and occasional support.”

“It’s actually Doctor Strange.” He chuckled. “I think that’s the first time I laughed in months.”

“Tell me about it...literally.” You kicked at the sidewalk. “How do you kill a circus?”

The man scoffed at you and then wiped off his sleeves.

“You go for the juggler of course.”

#Steve x reader #steve rogers x reader #marvel #marvel fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction

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spencers-renaissance · 3 years

Text

The Noiseless Crash of Crumbling Walls

Summary: After Derek and Spencer are paired up on a science project in their senior year of high school, they become the closest, most unlikely friends possible. But what happens when Derek finally finds out what Spencer's dealing with at home? Inspired by the prompt “where did you get those bruises?”

Tags: high school au, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, hurt spencer, protective derek, abuse, friendship, pre-slash, spencer just turned 16, derek is almost 18

Word Count: 4.6k

Pairing: Derek Morgan & Spencer Reid

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Part Two

This is a platonic Derek & Spencer friendship fic because they are minors, but there are seeds being fairly obviously sown for part two of this series which will be set when they are both over the age of 18.

Spencer unfolds the creased piece of paper he’s holding for the eleventh time as he stares up at the house in front of him. He remembers the address scrawled on the sheet Derek Morgan had ripped from the back of his notebook earlier that day perfectly, the spiky peaks of his handwriting and the surprisingly loopy ‘y’s and ‘g’s are burned into his brain, but nerves have overtaken his helpless body. He’s not exactly in control of his actions.

It’s not much but it’s definitely a cheerful house, that much is clear from the brightly lit windows and colourful curtains, the many gnomes decorating the front garden and the carefully planted flowers neighbouring the vegetable patch. One of the windows upstairs is cracked slightly and he can hear 90s R&B floating through the airwaves, accompanied by a female singing voice. The welcome he knows he’ll receive, though, is exactly what’s giving him pause.

A happy home is so foreign to him he has no idea how to behave. He’s used to being the adult, but tonight he has to play the 16 year old he is, and his mask is so dusty and disused he’s worried he won’t be anywhere close to convincing.

Eventually, though, he summons up the courage to make his way up the stony path leading to the bright red front door. A brass knocker stares him in the face, but there’s a doorbell to his right as well, and the choice debilitates him for a moment, leaving him standing uselessly on the front step. He decides on the doorbell, since it’s a little more subtle, and he only has to wait a couple of seconds before the door is being yanked open and a smiling Derek Morgan is right in front of him.

“I thought you’d never come.” His voice is bright and cheery but Spencer wonders for a moment if he’s mad at him. He’d been early when he first turned onto Derek’s road, but his over-thinking and ritualistic obsession over the address written on a scrap piece of paper had made him late.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly, and his desperation to be understood, his clear discomfort in such a foreign environment must be obvious, because Derek’s face softens even further.

“Don’t be ridiculous, pretty boy,” he grins, slinging an arm around his shoulders and leading him deeper into the hallway as he kicks the door shut behind them.

Pretty boy. He’d used the nickname once earlier that day when they were planning when to meet up for their science project, and Spencer had flushed immediately. No-one’s ever called him pretty. He’s an awkward, lanky 16 year old senior who’s far too short for his age; his appearance isn’t exactly conducive to flattery.

The last time anyone had called him by a fond nickname was when he was eleven years old and his mother was still somewhat rational. She’d pulled him close and called him her baby boy, and while some pre-teens might have recoiled from such a name, he simply snuggled closer and tried to remember every second he was wrapped up in such warmth. Five years later, he’s so thankful he did. He replays it most nights before he drops off to sleep.

He blushes again at Derek’s easy affection, trying to relax into the warmth of his house.

“Is that your friend, honey?” A woman emerges from what Spencer assumes is the kitchen, drying her hands on a teatowel. She looks every bit the stereotypical American mother, dressed in casual, comfortable clothes with a warm smile plastered across her face. “It’s so nice to meet you, sweetheart. I’m Fran, Derek’s mom.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” he says shyly, trying to meet her eyes but failing miserably. He can’t help that this whole experience is so out of his comfort zone it’s ridiculous.

“Do you boys want any snacks to take up with you?”

“Are you hungry, Spencer?” Derek asks, and he internally panics for a moment. Yes, is the answer. Yes, I’m so hungry. The only thing I’ve eaten today is an apple this morning. But is he allowed to say that? He examines the both of them and it does look like a genuine offer, but will they guess that something is wrong if he says yes? It’s only six o’clock, though, so maybe he can swing it.

“Yes please,” he dares, “I haven’t had dinner yet.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Fran says, putting her hands on her hips. “You both head on up. I’ll bring up a tray.”

Derek’s room is big, filled with football trophies and posters. It’s so achingly normal that Spencer’s stomach clenches as he gingerly takes a seat on his bed at Derek’s instruction.

“I did some research that will help us with our presentation,” Spencer offers as Derek sits on his desk chair, spinning around to face him.

It had been a shock when they’d been paired up. Derek’s friends had hollered and laughed when their chemistry teacher had paired them together, and Spencer had gone bright red at the humiliation, not that he could exactly blame them. Pairing up the skinny nerd who’d been moved up two grades with the jock who was almost guaranteed a football scholarship to an excellent university later this year had been a rather bizarre choice on their teacher’s part.

It’s not that Spencer minded: along with being the quarterback with a 4.0 GPA, he was also painfully nice. But everyone else certainly did. Every girl in their science class had sent him death glares as Derek had sauntered over to his desk at the end of class, wearing a lazy grin.

“Chill, pretty boy,” Derek chuckles as he pushes himself side to side in his spinning chair. “We got time.”

“I have to be back home by 9,” Spencer says sheepishly. He’s sure most people in their senior year are allowed to stay out later than that, and he hopes against hope Derek thinks it’s only because he’s sixteen and not that he has to get his mother into bed and try and force her meds down her throat so she won’t wake him up in the middle of the night convinced the shadows in her room are government spies.

“Still three hours. Anyway, I’m sure my mom can drop you home,” Derek shrugs. “It’s not a big deal. Besides, we have weeks until we have to present. Why don’t we spend tonight getting to know each other? I feel like I should know a little bit about my project partner, especially if we’re going to be working together for the rest of the year.”

“The rest of the year?” His voice squeaks anxiously but he can’t help it, Derek’s completely catching him off guard.

“Yeah. Ms Farron keeps partners from the first project together for every assignment that year.”

This is news to Spencer, but he tries to keep calm. It’s a good thing, right? Derek has always been friendly to him, and he’s intelligent, too. It’s unlikely he’ll fob all the work off onto him. But being taken advantage of and subsequently left alone is what he’s used to: ‘getting to know each other’ is decidedly new territory. Spencer’s head is spinning.

“Oh.”

“So, pretty boy,” Derek grins, giving himself another 360 spin, “tell me what a 16 year old is doing in senior year.”

“I got moved up two grades back in elementary school,” he explains, grateful that this is at least a rather impersonal topic. “My teachers wanted me even higher but two grades is the maximum our school district allows.”

“I guessed that much,” Derek points out. “Why were you moved up two grades?”

They’re briefly interrupted by Fran’s delivery of a delectable spread for them to feast on. Spencer reaches for a cracker and dips it in some cream cheese, but as soon as he’s swallowed his first bite, Derek gives him a look that tells him he hasn’t exactly gotten away with it.

He sighs. “The last time I was tested, I had an IQ of 187,” he admits, looking down at his worn sneakers. He’d expected to be told to remove them, but he’s glad he wasn’t. His socks almost certainly have holes in them, and laundry isn’t something he can afford to do often. “And I have an eidetic memory.”

Derek lets out a low whistle. “Damn, I knew you were a genius but that’s some next level shit,” he says, before popping a grape in his mouth. “You’re going places, Spencer Reid.” He’s saved from having to fight his blush too hard by Derek moving swiftly on. “Your turn to ask me a question.”

Spencer takes a second to think before deciding to push the boat out, to ask something he actually wants to know instead of playing it safe. “You’re popular, star of the football team, get straight As,” he starts slowly, not meeting Derek’s eyes. “What makes you so nice? You could easily join in with your friends and be another asshole jock pushing me into lockers.”

When he looks up, Derek’s face is an array of emotions. “Kindness costs nothing,” he says seriously, and the intensity of his gaze surprises Spencer. “I saw my pops shot to death in front of me when I was ten and I got my ass kicked every day in freshman year, believe it or not. I know what kindness can mean to a person just as much as I know what cruelty does to someone.”

Spencer doesn’t really know what to say to that, but he knows that he’s finally relaxed a little. Derek’s stark honesty and vulnerability, as much as he doesn’t know quite the right way to react, is refreshing to him, and it’s made the icon of their school seem much more human.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Spencer says quietly.

“Thanks, man,” Derek says, a half smile crossing his face. “What about your family life?”

Spencer swallows another bite of his cream cheese and crackers, his empty stomach thanking him for finally filling it. “My dad walked out when I was ten,” he admits, treading as carefully as possibly. “It’s just me and my mom now.”

“I’m sorry. Are you and your mom close?”

How does he answer a question like that? They’re close in the respect that Spencer cares for her and spends every free moment he has with her. But he also holds his breath every time he turns down his street, half expecting to see his house up in flames, and they’re going hungry this week because she threw most of their groceries in a nearby river after convincing herself it was all poisoned. They don’t exactly have a typical mother-son relationship.

“Something like that,” he mumbles, stuffing another cracker into his mouth. Derek clearly takes the hint that he doesn’t want to elaborate and moves on.

They spend the rest of the evening taking it in turns asking one another questions, ranging from simple ones like their favourite colours to deeper conversations around their future plans and biggest fears. By the time 9 rolls around, they’re lying next to one another on Derek’s bed both facing the ceiling as they trade questions back and forth. Fran’s dinner tray is now covered in crumbs, her carefully prepared spread having been demolished by two hungry teenagers.

Their assigned topic, Enthalpy, Entropy, and Free Energy, hasn’t even been touched, and Spencer can’t find it in him to care. He could throw together a perfect presentation the night before if he needed to. Right now, getting to know Derek Morgan seems far more important. Ironically, the boy he’s only really started to get to know three hours ago is probably the person who knows him best in this whole world, and the thought makes his chest hurt.

The jittery nerves that had consumed him at the start of the evening have dissipated into a calm companionship, and he can’t believe how comfortable he now feels. He doesn’t want to leave, but he has to take care of his mom; she’s already been on her own for so long today.

As if on cue, Fran knocks on the door, poking her head round. “Would you like me to drop you home, Spencer?”

He feels guilty accepting, but the last thing he wants is a twenty minute walk home through the streets of Chicago in the pitch black December night. “Yes, please.”

Derek comes with them for the short drive, and Spencer feels a little embarrassed as he points out the apartment block he lives in. It’s a shitty neighbourhood and his building is crumbling, but it’s home and it’s the cheapest they can afford on welfare. He ducks out of the car and shoots them both a grateful smile.

“Thank you for driving me home, Fran,” he says. “And thank you for a nice evening, Derek.”

“No problem, pretty boy,” Derek winks. “I’ll find you at school tomorrow and we’ll sort out another night to meet up, yeah?”

The smile the Morgans put on his face doesn’t fade until he opens the door to his apartment and reality brings him crashing back down to earth.

⭐️

Over the next few weeks, Spencer Reid gains his first friend. They finally end up actually writing their presentation and naturally, they get an A+ but Spencer’s anxiety that Derek would want to stop hanging out with him once the project that had brought them together was behind them ended up being for nothing. Derek had fist-bumped him as they’d walked out of their classroom. “Come over tonight?” he’d asked, and once Spencer had recovered from his shock, he’d beamed and nodded excitedly.

As Christmas comes and goes, they continue their bizarre friendship. Spencer runs up to Derek’s room as soon as the door is opened, and dives under the covers on his bed, always freezing cold. The first time Derek had cuddled Spencer, he hadn’t been able to stop smiling. He’s seriously touch-starved, and it’s only more apparent from the way he craves contact with Derek. He’s ridiculously thankful that the older boy is so free with his affection, not consumed by the same toxic masculinity that seems to plague the rest of the football team.

It’s nearing February when Derek asks the fatal question.

Spencer had whizzed home after school and made sure his mom was okay before running over to Derek’s, breezing past Sarah on the staircase and diving onto the soft, clean bed sheets. He’s sometimes jealous of all the home comforts his friend has access to, but he does his best to tamp it down. It’s not like it’s Derek’s fault that he’s well-loved and cared for.

“Whoa, pretty boy,” Derek chuckles as he spins around from where he’s doing homework at his desk. “Where’s that shy boy who sat right on the edge of my bed only two months ago, hm?”

“You prefer confident Spencer and you know it.” He moves up the bed a little to sit with his back against the headboard. He’s never become so comfortable around a person this quickly before but there’s something different about Derek.

“Can’t argue with that.” He gets off the chair and moves to sit next to Spencer on the bed, lifting his arm to let the smaller boy cuddle close. Spencer sometimes has nightmares that the boys at school find out how affectionate they are with one another and call them gay after which Derek doesn’t want to hang out with him anymore. (Secretly, he thinks he might actually be gay, but he won’t tell Derek that. Just in case.)

“Can I stay for dinner?” he asks. It’s a moot point: Spencer always asks if he can stay and the Morgans always say yes, but he doesn’t like assuming, especially since he knows how expensive food is. Not that Fran has ever complained about an extra mouth to feed, though. The dinners at Derek’s house are always a family affair, full of laughter and hearty, homemade meals and Spencer likes pretending he’s one of them, just for a little while.

The guilt that he’s leaving his mom for so long eats him up, only eased by the knowledge that she usually sleeps the afternoon away, worn out by a manic morning. He has no idea how to navigate this anymore. It was easier when the only person he had in the world was his mom, but now he has Derek and his family. And as much as he loves his mom and doesn’t mind taking care of her at all, spending time with Derek doesn’t automatically trigger gut-eating anxiety and heart-wrenching misery.

“Of course you can stay, don’t be ridiculous.” Derek elbows him playfully. “You don’t need to ask every night.”

“What if one night you don’t want me to stay, though?”

“I thought I told you to stop being ridiculous?”

Spencer can’t help but smile at Derek’s relaxed, easy grin. For some reason this popular football player with the world as his oyster and a million friends chooses to spend every evening with the nerd who’s two years younger than everyone in their year. For some reason, Derek chooses Spencer.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Derek asks the question. “Why don’t I come over to your place instead one evening?” It’s a casual suggestion, there’s nothing really behind it. “I’d like to meet your mom and see your bedroom. If you’re gonna make fun of my football trophies, I need some revenge material.”

Spencer freezes. He has no idea how to respond to such an innocent proposition. Derek takes his stunned silence as reluctance simply cured with a little more persuasion. “Besides,” he continues, “I feel bad that you always have to run home first before coming over here. It’s like a twenty minute walk.”

“I don’t know,” Spencer hedges, trying to buy time as he comes up with a cover story. “My mom is really particular about our space and she doesn’t really like visitors. I’m not sure your mom could spare you a family dinner anyway.” He pushes Derek playfully, hoping to God he’s even half-way convincing.

One glance at Derek’s face tells him he isn’t buying it, but he can clearly read Spencer’s troubled anxiety expression so he doesn’t push it. “Okay, pretty boy,” he says, relaxing back into the bed, “we’ll stick with the Fran Morgan dinner delight for now.”

Something tells him he won’t get so lucky next time.

⭐️

Spring is just starting to show her face the next time it comes up, and this time it’s completely Spencer’s fault. He shouldn’t have gone over to Derek’s. He should have made up an excuse and stayed in his shitty apartment with his mom, but he couldn’t help it. He was sore and desperately sad, and all he wanted was Fran’s comforting shepherd’s pie and a cuddle with Derek. So he’d made his way home, checked his mom was still sleeping before limping over to the Morgan’s.

He’d concealed it pretty well all day, but energy is seeping out of him and the pain is only getting worse, not helped by the decent trek across town.

He has a key now, so he lets himself in, hoping to avoid Fran until dinner time. Luckily, he’s quiet enough to not disturb her baking in the kitchen, so he makes his way slowly up the stairs, hoping Derek is not as perceptive tonight as he usually is. He’d briefly considered using bullies as a cover story if it came up, but Derek has spent almost every moment he could at school with him the last few days, he wasn’t out of his sight long enough to really encounter anyone cruel enough for it to be a viable story.

“Pretty boy,” Derek greets him, not turning away from the maths homework he’s finishing up. It gives Spencer a little extra time to make it to the bed like he usually does. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Spencer sighs. “A bit tired. You?”

“Training was rough today so I’m sore as shit, but otherwise I’m fine. Better now you’re here.” He turns to smile fondly at Spencer, finally locking eyes on his pale, sallow skin and defeated expression. He scrambles to try and make himself look slightly less terrible, but he’s not quick enough. “You sure you’re good? You don’t look it.”

“No, seriously, I’m fine,” Spencer tries to persuade him. “Just tired as I said. Can we watch a movie while we wait for dinner?”

Derek doesn’t look even close to convinced, but he gives in and brings up netflix on his computer. Spencer collapses against Derek and lets his eyes close as the film they choose plays across the laptop screen, but he must fall asleep because the next thing he knows, he’s being shaken awake by his friend and he’s in a completely different position.

“Spencer, wake up,” he says insistently, and the urgent worry in his tone makes him sit up, wincing when the movement aches his core.

“What? What’s wrong?” he mumbles sleepily, obediently sitting up at Derek’s instruction.

“Pretty boy,” Derek says, sounding teary and a little desperate, “where did you get those bruises?”

He freezes for a second before glancing down at himself and realising that as he’d slept his shirt had shifted, revealing his black and blue stomach. How the fuck was he going to explain this? Not seeming himself wasn’t such a challenge, everyone has their off-days after all, but bruises like these aren’t the sort of thing your best friend just drops when you don’t want to explain them.

“I—” He has no idea what to say. Tears spring to his eyes in a terribly unhelpful fashion, and Derek moves closer, wrapping Spencer up in a hug.

“It’s okay, you can tell me, Spencer,” he promises as he holds him so tenderly it breaks his heart. “Take your time.”

He cries for a good few minutes — it just feels so good to let it out — but as his painful sobs draw to a close, he knows it’s time to face the music. There’s no other option. He has to tell Derek. And maybe a teeny tiny part of him actually wants to tell his best friend.

“I haven’t been honest with you,” he confesses, keeping his head buried in his friend’s chest so he doesn’t have to look him in the eyes. Derek’s hand combing through his hair doesn’t falter. “The reason I didn’t want you to come to my place is because of my mom… She’s a paranoid schizophrenic. When my dad left I became her primary carer, and I’m— I’m not doing a good job.”

Derek holds him a little tighter and presses his cheek to the top of Spencer’s head, shushing him quietly. “Don’t say that, I’m sure you’re doing an amazing job.”

“The other night she got confused because she’d refused her meds again. She became convinced that I was a spy there to hurt her. I can usually talk her down from these moments, or at least guide her to bed to let her sleep it off, but this time there was no reasoning. Eventually, she got so worked up that she shoved me backwards, hard. It sent me sprawling face first across the coffee table, and she kicked me twice before considering herself safe and barricading herself in her room.” He tells the whole story through thick tears, shoulders still shaking with pent up emotion. He wishes it didn’t feel so good to finally get off my chest.

“Spencer, oh my God,” Derek whispers, sounding thoroughly shocked. He’s suddenly fearful that he’s going to report Diana, and he sits up, finally meeting Derek’s teary eyes with his own.

“You can’t… you can’t tell anyone,” he begs. “If anyone finds out, she’ll be locked away and I’ll be put into foster care. I can’t do that to her and I can’t lose you.”

Derek takes Spencer’s hands. “Okay, okay,” he soothes, making him calm down a little. “I promise I won’t tell anyone, okay? Not without your permission. But I also can’t let you be beat up by your mom.”

“It’s not her fault,” Spencer says desperately, “it’s not her fault. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, she thinks she’s in danger.”

“I know,” Derek promises him, “I know it’s not her fault, but she still hurt you. Has this happened before?” Spencer’s hung head and refusal to respond speaks for itself. “Okay, listen. I know you need to go home tonight, but come over tomorrow morning okay? It’s a Saturday and we can spend the morning figuring out a game plan and the afternoon taking your mind off it. How does that sound?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Is this… is this why you like being here?” Derek sounds nervous asking the question, clearly not wanting to offend him.

“Before I became friends with you,” he whispers, moving back to hide against Derek’s chest where it’s safe, “I went hungry a lot. We don’t have much money between rent and bills and mom’s medical expenses. I had to hide the groceries because she would become convinced they were poisoned and destroy them, but she got really good at finding them. I had to stop keeping them in my room because she would insist that I was corroborating with the government in trying to poison her.”

“Spencer,” Derek breathes, holding onto him for dear life. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t know about any of this, I would’ve done something, I could’ve helped.”

“I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“I’ll keep you safe now. I promise.”

When Fran comes and asks them down for dinner a few minutes later, Derek points to Spencer’s exhausted form slumped against him and asks if they can have it up in his room. She relents, and Derek manages to get him to eat a few bites of the risotto Fran had made, not leaving his safe cocoon against Derek’s chest.

He insists on driving Spencer home himself tonight, surprising Fran who had her coat and boots on already, but he escorts his friend right up to his door. “If you come in, mom will get confused,” he explains so Derek gives him a long hug in front of his apartment door instead, holding him as close as possible.

“Spencer… you know I love you right?” he asks, expression intense and serious as his gentle hands rest on his shoulders. “You’re my best friend. I’m always gonna be here for you.”

“I love you, too, Derek,” he whispers, giving him another hug. It scares him just how much he means those five little words, all the meanings that dance behind them taking him aback. For now, though, he settles on one more tight squeeze before deciding to not procrastinate the inevitable anymore. “I should go in and see mom.”

“Yeah. I’ll pick you up at 9 tomorrow?”

“Perfect.” His heart does an excited little leap at the thought of seeing Derek again in the morning. As he walks away back towards the elevators, Spencer takes a deep breath before inserting his key into the lock on his door and pushing it open. He only has to go 12 hours without seeing his best friend. He can do this.

His life suddenly seems like it holds infinitely more promise than it ever has. He supposes that’s the power of Derek Morgan.

Part Two

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @hotchgans @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith (taglist form)

#my writing #moreid #derek morgan #spencer reid #derek morgan/spencer reid #derek morgan x spencer reid #derek morgan & spencer reid #derek #spencer #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds writing #moreid fic #moreid writing #hurt spencer reid #protective derek morgan #moreid fluff #moreid angst

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august-bleeds-red · 3 years

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Be A Good Boy, Brahms - Chapter Two

Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four

You don’t know how for long you’ve been walking. You don’t even know where you are. The time was 02:47 when your phone died. What time was it when you left the station? You don’t remember. You only had time to grab a handful of things before the crowd started gathering around the body.

The body you’d left there.

The rain is starting to come down in earnest now. You’re soaked to the bone and tired to the point of exhaustion, the soles of your shoes feeling ready to peel away at any moment. Part of you wants to simply curl up at the side of the road and sleep, hardly caring if the cold or a passing car takes you once your eyes close. How long would it be until the police found you?

You’d been as careful as you could on the journey to . . . wherever this was. You’d left your car at home, picked a train almost at random and bought a ticket to the end of the line. The sprawling metropolis of the city faded away to dark countryside, the lights of civilisation becoming more sporadic as you travelled deeper into rural England. You didn’t even recognise the name of the village as it flashed past the window. You pulled the hood of your jacket down further over your face as you left the carriage, but nobody stopped you or even glanced your way. It was nearing midnight – far too late to be paying attention to trainline stragglers. You could have hailed a taxi from the rank outside the station, asked the driver to drop you off as far as the cash in your pocket would allow, but that would be another person to remember your face, so you hitched your rucksack further up your shoulders and headed off into the misty night on foot.

The distant sound of an approaching engine sets your heart racing and your eyes dart through the drizzly gloom for a place to hide. The road forks not ten metres ahead, a narrower path leading off towards the left. You start to run, rucksack bouncing against your back, shoes slapping against the tarmac. The new path slopes uphill, but you keep running, until the surrounding trees start to thicken, and you feel suitably distanced from anyone who might be passing via the main road. The slim trunks give way to broad pines, casting thick beams of moonlight across the ground ahead of you. Shielded by the overhanging branches, the rain eases from a ceaseless torrent to heavy droplets, splashing down around you. As you were leaving the flat, you had the sense to grab the sleeping-bag you once used to go camping with your dad, but don’t want to stop and set up base just yet. Another mile or so away from the road and you should be good for now. Then, come the light of morning, you can take stock and decide what you’re going to do.

Maybe you shouldn’t have run. Guilty people always run, right? Maybe if you’d just stayed and explained what happened . . . but no, who would have listened? Who would have believed that an officer so upstanding and respected as your stepfather could be guilty of such a crime as attempted murder? It was what had kept your mother from reporting him for so long. He was clever – never bruising her in places it would easily show – but his rage towards you made him sloppy tonight. But even the bruises you’d seen around your little brother’s neck would not be evidence enough to condemn him, you knew that. The law would never act against one of their own, so you’d had to.

Which moment had made you a murderer? When you’d crossed the balcony to where he stood, puffing on one of those disgusting cigars like he hadn’t just tried to kill your brother? When your hands had pushed against the broad space of his back, catching him off balance and sending him stumbling over the rail? Or when his flailing body had landed with a sickening crunch on the pavement seventeen stories below?

Something large begins to loom out of the shadows ahead of you and you slow. It’s a set of huge, wrought-iron gates, supported by two intimidating brick pillars, open wide enough for a car to pass easily through. There’s no name or number, no indication as to what may lie beyond. Curiosity has always been your fatal flaw, so you approach, keeping an ear out for the sound of tires or footsteps. The house that awaits at the end of the long driveway is unlike any you’ve seen in the city or the surrounding boroughs; it’s tall and grand, the liquid light of dawn illuminating what seem to be turrets in the architecture. It’s beautiful, in an American gothic style of build. Certainly not the kind of English manor you’re used to in period dramas. The moment you stop before the front steps, your feet and calves begin screaming in protest, as though sensing the possibility of a place to rest. Even if you could just sit on the porch for a while, at least until the sun rose.

The moment your butt hits the floor, the weight of the last twenty-four hours’ events settles on you like a heavy blanket. You’re hungry, thirsty, but all you can think of doing right now is getting an hour or two of sleep. You unravel your sleeping bag and crawl inside, resting your shoes atop your folded jacket beside you. Your sodden T-shirt and jeans don’t make for very comfortable sleepwear, but you’re certainly not about to strip to your skivvies on some stranger’s porch, especially if the milkman may be along within the next couple of hours.

You sleep fitfully, the image of your stepfather’s face floating repeatedly to the surface of your mind like a photograph in water, and you’ll awake scared and sweating, despite the bone-chilling cold. The sun rises milky yellow just beyond the treeline, and you decide it must be late enough for you to risk knocking on the door. With any luck, they might be able to tell you how to reach the nearest village, where you can . . . you don’t know. Gathering your things, you shoulder your pack and approach the heavy wooden door, plucking the dampest patches of your T-shirt from your body.

You notice the door is open just as you raise your fist to knock. Perhaps they forgot to lock up last night – a huge house like this in the middle of nowhere, probably not much foot traffic to run the risk of burglars. You give a few loud knocks, anyway, but no response comes.

“Um, hello?” you call, pushing the door open just a little further.

The inside of the house is as impressive as its exterior, all dark wood and teal blue rugs, and quiet as a graveyard. There is a blanket of stillness everywhere, giving the place an air of abandonment. You walk further into the entrance hall, staring up the grand staircase to where a semi-circular balcony overlooks the lower floor.

“Hello?”

Nothing – no movement, no sound; not the grumbling of pipes nor the hum of a heating system. You drop your rucksack on the floor beside a great stone fireplace and take a few tentative steps up the stairs. As you reach the top, you notice a large portrait hanging on the opposite wall of three people – a man, a woman and a small, angelic-looking boy. You wonder if this is the family of the house.

“Hello?”

Your third attempt also goes unanswered and, with no cars parked outside and the open door, you’re convinced the place truly is empty, at least for now. Your feet make no sound on the carpet stair-runner as you descend, picking up your pack by one strap and going in search of the kitchen. It’s quite small and surprisingly modern for such a grand mansion and, with only the smallest twinge of guilt, you conceal some packaged foods from the cupboards and fridge in your pack. You pick an apple from the fruit bowl on the table and take a bite, the crunching of your jaw loud in the silent room. You didn’t realise just how hungry you were and tuck a second apple into your coat pocket. Through the window, you can see a rambling garden stretching out across the grounds, the grass and leaves tinted blue in the dawn light.

Leaving your pack by the front door, you decide to have a look around. A great house like this must have at least twenty rooms, and its unlikely you’ll get another chance to explore anywhere so richly furnished. You briefly wonder how far the behind you the police might be, but try to calm the panic that rises at that particularly thought. You’re no good half-dead on the run, and this might be your last safe space for a while.

Heading back upstairs, you decide to investigate the nearest bedroom. It looks like it might belong – or at least once belonged – to a child, but there aren’t any toys you’d recognise from a modern child’s nursery. The clockwork figures and wooden mannequins look like objects from the 1950’s, as do the books on the shelves. Some of the toys are scattered over the floor by the bed, in contrast to the almost military neatness of the rest of the room, and one of the frames pictures is hanging askew on the wall. Almost automatically, you reach across and straighten it, and that’s when you see it – on the rug, a small, dark red stain, about the size of a side plate. A ripple of unease passes through you, though you know it could be something as innocuous as cranberry juice or ink.

As you’re about to exit the room, you notice something else – one of the doors on the opposite side of the landing has a large hole through it. The edges are rough, as though someone had forced their fist through in an attempt to reach whoever was on the other side. You wonder if there was some kind of a burglary, and you’re ten steps away from discovering the horribly mangled bodies of the man, woman and boy you saw in the portrait. Perhaps the assailant is still here, lurking behind one of these doors. Out of the corner of your eye, you see something a little unusual – on a large wooden trunk at the foot of the child’s bed is a long metal pipe with a curved end, kind of like the head of a harpoon. Picking this up, you venture out into the hall and move, as quietly as you can, towards the broken door. The room beyond is trashed – clothes scattered everywhere, and an old-fashioned telephone lying broken on the floor. The wardrobe door is standing open, and as you move closer, you see a strange panel standing open at the back. Glancing over your shoulder to make sure the room is still deserted, you push open the panel to reveal a passageway, just wide enough for a grown man to move through, built into the inside frame of the house. Part of you knows it would be an incredibly bad idea, but the other part of you that’s holding the makeshift weapon, allows your feet to lead you inside the secret passage.

The tunnel is dark and dusty, dimly illuminated by the light of the rooms outside and the occasional electric light bracketed to the brick interior. A couple of times, you come across large gaps in the walls, where the wooden slats have been shattered by a great force. By peeping through the slats, you can see exactly whereabouts in the house you are. After ten or so minutes of sneaking, you spy a bright shaft of electric light coming from beneath a door ahead of you. Like Alice venturing further down the rabbit hole, you reach out and push against the wood.

#brahms heelshire #brahms #brahms heelshire x reader #brahms x reader #brahms heelshire/reader #brahms/reader #the boy #the boy 2016 #slashers #slasher lover #slasher x reader #slasher fic #slasher/reader #my fics #slasher community

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random-imagines-blog · 3 years

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Creeping in My Soul {Zacky Vengeance x Demon!Female!Reader}

Requested by: Anonymous Wordcount: 2230 Summary: You find out an interesting secret about your real identity. How is your boyfriend going to take it? Trigger Warnings: Swearing. Notes: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!

You gave your boyfriend a wave and a kiss goodbye over Facetime, and hesitantly pressed the large red button. You always hated to let him go, but you knew that you had to. He was three hours ahead of you and it was nearly midnight where he was. One last show tomorrow, playing with the rest of his band - the rock group Avenged Sevenfold. Millions of fans world-wide and a sold out American tour. And then after the show, he would be getting on a plane and coming all the way back home to you, in sunny California. But there was one big problem with him coming back home to the house that you shared. It was that you have changed. No, you were still changing. And you didn’t know how he was going to react to seeing it.

It had started just a month ago when you were brushing out your hair. It was just like any other day really, you were getting ready for work, applying just a touch of make up, pulling the comb through your hair in an attempt to make it look less like you had just woken up. But it kept getting snagged on something. It kept bumping into something and it hurt a lot whenever it did. God, how you had panicked then, as you touched the top of your head and felt two protruding bumps. Did you have a tumor? Two tumors, growing out the top of your head? You instantly called your doctor, who wasn’t able to get you in for a couple of days. That didn’t ease your worrying. But the fact that they told you to go straight to the emergency room if you started feeling a headache coming on, any sort of dizziness, helped a touch. It was an option. And other than the bit of pain up there, surface and not internal, you were feeling fine. You tried to sweep your hair over the protrusions, but ended up putting on a headband instead, which pushed on them uncomfortably but at least it kept them out of sight.

The next day, you woke up to a sharp pain on your lip. You must have bit it in your sleep. That’s happened before, but this was a rather deep cut, given the fact that the taste of blood on your lips was rather potent. When you went into the bathroom to see if you could find it, you found that not only were the bumps on your head more tender, and that something - some sort of bone was poking out of it, but your teeth - they seemed sharper, especially the canines. You went to touch what was coming out of your head, and your nails nicked your skin. Your usually bitten down nails were long, and they were sharp. Like a stiletto shape you’d seen on instagram, ready to claw someone’s eyes out. And that was a very violent thought for the likes of you.

Everything in your mind was telling you to head for the hospital and now. To book some sort of surgery to get your head fixed. But you take a deep breath. You call into work, saying that you can’t come in, you’re taking a sick day, and then you take a ride over to your parents house. At least that way, if you did go to the hospital, you wouldn’t have to be alone. You were terrified to be alone, but you couldn’t bring yourself to call your boyfriend and make him worried. It would only end up with him coming to you, throwing off the tour, disappointing so many people, just to sit at a bedside and hope for the best.

Your parents were a lot less concerned than you thought that they would be. Your father looked over your head, prodded at the tender skin. You hissed at the pain, and you wanted to lash out, strike him for doing that, but a stern look that he gave you made you calm down. It was like he had known your thoughts. Then he sat down, beside your mother, reminding you of the way that they used to talk to you when they had bad news. And you thought you had been the one going to them with the bad news.

But you were getting more than a ‘Our dog went off to a farm to frolick in the fields’ sort of talk.

“Okay, ha ha, I’m a demon child, great time for jokes mom,” You said, crossing your arms in front of you. “Is this some sort of genetic disease that I’m not aware of?”

But they were serious. They were avoiding your eye, but it wasn’t because they were trying to withhold the truth. They were ashamed of the truth. “We should have told you a long time ago... but we’re not your real parents, my love. We were unable to have children, and there you were - a gift. Demons .... they aren’t as bad as people make them out to be. You could never be bad.”

And they continued to talk to you about it throughout the day and the night, convincing you to cancel the Doctor’s appointment because it was risky to have people find out. The sharper teeth and the longer nails could just be an aesthetic choice but the horns - you’d have to learn how to keep them hidden from the public. Hats would cover it somewhat, or you could learn glamour magic, something that had been helping demons on earth for millenia. It would take a lot of practice in a mirror, but it was something that you were just going to have to do in order to keep on living your life. To keep your job. To keep your friends. And most importantly - to keep Zacky.

You had everything set for his return home. It was a late night flight, and he wasn’t getting in until five in the morning, but you had made breakfast for him. French toast was being kept warm in the oven, coffee was being made, you had squeezed some orange juice - you wanted everything to be perfect. Most of the windows had the blinds and the curtains closed, making it a little dark but you had lit some candles to try to set a mood. The sunlight had been bothering you more than usual lately. Despite the California heat, you had been having to wear Zacky’s old hoodies out to go about your day. But at least for now, the sun was still down, and you were able to wear one of your favorite dresses. Which also happened to be his favorite dress.

The front door unlocked, and you heard the rustle and bustle of bags being set down. And then the door closed. A loud yawn as Zacky stepped into the kitchen, probably smelling the coffee. “Ugh, I can never sleep on planes,” He groaned, stumbling in. His eyes looked red and itchy, he must be utterly exhausted.

“Then you had better drink some orange juice instead of the coffee, then we can go to bed right after you finish eating,” You said, putting a glass in front of him. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” The first thing that he did was come up to you, and wrap his arms around you in a tired hug. You hugged him back, smelling his aftershave on his neck. Fuck, he smelt so good. You almost started to salivate. Just feeling his body against yours, chest against chest - you had to bite down on your lip to hold in a moan. Your sex drive had been insane lately, another thing that your ‘parents’ had warned you about. He pulled away from you, making you feel just a touch of anger, but it faded quickly. “Why are you wearing a hat inside?” He asked, noticing your beanie.

“Uhh - bad hair day,” You said, quickly. “Don’t worry about what I look like, let’s just eat something.” You gave him a big smooch on the side of his cheek, then hurried to get the food out of the oven. Zacky sat down, dropping the topic since he was so tired, while you put everything in front of him. All the fixings. Syrup, butter, berries, sliced banana, whipped cream, chocolate shavings. You went all in for this welcome home breakfast, figuring that he hadn’t had anything real in weeks. You knew how these boys were. They go on tour, eat nothing but fast food, end up working it all off during one show from all of their running and jumping around. But no doubt the girlfriends were all going to be taking care of them now that they were home. “Eat up, buttercup.”

And he did, fast at first, and then slowed down towards the end as he started to feel full, but his eyes kept looking at you, flattering you. You could feel blood flow to your cheeks, and to other places as you started to clean up, putting dishes into the sink for later tonight. You were ready to sleep the whole darn day away, especially now that you had Zacky back in your bed. You could feel his eyes on the spot of your thighs where the dress ended, where it was dancing around.

“There’s something different about you,” He said, putting down his knife and fork. You took his plate, raising an eyebrow. How could he tell? You adjusted the hat around your head, trying to make sure that the horns weren’t popping out. “What did you do, get a bad hair cut or something? Come on, take the hat off.”

He beckoned you over and you felt like you didn’t have much of a choice. You walked back towards him and he pulled you between the legs of the chair that he was sitting on. It was a rather high bar-stool type chair on the island so you two were identical height right then and there. He took the beanie off of your head and looked over your hair, his eyes going straight to the horns. “What the fuck are those?”

“I - I can explain,” You said, taking the hat back, fidding with the fabric. And so you did, only going through some of the major details because though he was interested, and shocked, Zacky looked too tired to really comprehend what was going on.

“Fuck,” He said, getting to his feet once you were done. “That’s - a lot.”

“Yeah, how do you think I felt?” You shot back, crossing your arms in front of you. You were waiting for the worst to happen. For him to freak out, to leave, or to even throw you out. You wouldn’t blame him for having any of those reactions honestly. You already had a bag packed in the front closet just in case of that very scenerio.

“Come on, let’s go to bed,” He said, putting his arm around your shoulders, and started to lead you into the bedroom. Your smile could not have gotten any bigger. Leave it to your man to accept you just the way that you were. Demon or not.

And he did more than accept you. You two spent a straight up week getting re-acquainted. Or more so, he was finding out more about the demon that you were once you had accepted yourself. Your horns had come in. The skin __around was still tender, but oh the spine-tingling feeling that you got when you let him Zacky rub them. It was such a deeply personal and intimate thing. You wouldn’t ever let anyone else touch your horns. Not for as long as you lived.

Although the whole demon thing had messed with your temper - things like Zacky leaving you to get food or to go to the bathroom had you furious for a couple of seconds - it also amped up your sex drive. He seemed particularly accepting of that bit. When you rode him, both of you sitting up, you on top of him, lifting your lips and driving down, your hands had gone to his back and you had riddled him with little scratches from your nails. He never even minded that. Just hissed with pleasure. It seemed like you were having an effect on him in return. He wanted you all the time.

“I fucking love you,” You said after another rigorous session of love making.

“I fucking love you,” He said in return, still holding you tightly, keeping you in place as he softened inside of you. “How are you a demon when you’re so angelic?”

“I wouldn’t say there’s anything angelic about me after what we just did,” You laughed, rolling off of him. He laughed as well, but pressed kisses to your cheeks, giving you affection even when he wasn’t touching you. No matter what was ahead of you - Hell? - you were more than happy now, and would be as long as you continued to be with the love of your life. Though from the looks of things, he might have a little devil in him too. Definitely a lustful sin behind those eyes.

#Zacky Vengeance #Zacky Vengeance x reader #Zacky Vengeance oneshot #Avenged Sevenfold #Avenged Sevenfold oneshot #a7x #A7x Oneshot #oneshot #one shot #x reader #request #zackyv

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dweetwise · 3 years

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yes hello, i’m back on my riconti bullshit again, this time with a cute prompt fill from @dailyau by @hcpelesshcney about fire alarms and sharing a blanket ❤️

i’m also trying something new with splitting a fic into chapters!

ship: felix x ace warnings: briefly mentioned internalized homophobia word count: 3700

[next]

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire (part 1)

It's surprising just how scattered the human brain becomes during a crisis.

When Felix was woken from his restless sleep in the hotel bed by a blaring fire alarm, he'd bolted out of the bed and scrambled out into the hallway without second thought. He'd probably even left the door to his room wide open, with his wallet, passport, phone and laptop all neatly arranged on the desk for anyone to walk by and steal.

And now he's standing in the parking lot in the chilly late summer night, dressed in nothing but his pajama pants and a t-shirt. His socks were drenched as soon as he stepped outside, running straight into a puddle while hurrying to get away from the potential fire.

At least he's not alone in the stressful predicament. There's plenty of other people around, looking just as lost and dazed as him, having been forced to evacuate the hotel in the middle of the night. Most have been sensible enough to bring their jackets and shoes, a couple of kids even huddling beneath a hotel duvet.

And since there's no sign of a fire or even any smoke, Felix feels like an idiot for not having the foresight to bring something to warm him up.

The firefighters have just arrived at the scene and are preparing to search the building for the source of the alarm. Felix tries not to shiver even more as he relents to the fact that they're still going to be stuck out there for quite some time.

The crowd in the parking lot is loud, families and partners gossiping amongst themselves, some people even arguing with the staff members about ruining their vacation. Felix wishes they'd just shut up, more than happy to forget this ever happened if he'd just get to curl back under the warm covers of his bed instead of freezing out here.

This trip just kept getting worse. Not only had he been forced to come on only a day's notice, taking over Lauren's business trip across the Atlantic when she'd unexpectedly caught a cold. He’d also had to take a shitty flight route with two extra stops, and his last flight had been no less than six hours late.

When he’d finally arrived at the hotel and started trying to sleep off the massive jet lag after barely getting any sleep on the plane, he'd been rudely awakened by an emergency. And now, to add insult to injury, he’s gone from the threat of burning to death to freezing to death.

“Hey,” a voice says from right beside him, making Felix jolt in surprise over being distracted from his internal pity party.

He sees a man standing next to him, wrapped in a hotel-issued blanket, looking up at him with curious brown eyes and a pleasant smile.

Felix racks his brain for if he knows this man or not, but draws up a blank, the tiredness and cold making his thoughts feel sluggish. The man is shorter than Felix and looks a little older, if the laugh lines and grey hair are anything to go by.

“You look cold,” the man says. “Wanna share my blanket?”

As the man lifts the fabric just the slightest bit in invitation, mortification hits Felix. Not only is his shivering noticeable enough to warrant someone taking pity on him, he's being offered physical contact from a stranger.

Isn't it a weird thing to offer, especially to another man? Does he somehow know that Felix is gay? Is he making fun of him? Or is it just an American thing? Wouldn't it be weirder for Felix not to accept, since the man has noticed how much he’s freezing?

“Alright,” the man says when Felix isn't replying, lowering the bedding in surrender. “My bad, I just thought—"”

“Yes,” Felix says, interrupting him.

“Uh…” the man says, understandably confused by Felix's social awkwardness.

“Yes, I want to sh-share,” Felix says, another full-body shiver wracking his body.

“Oh! Sure,” the man grins happily, and then he's suddenly very close, shoulder bumping against Felix's chest, and a corner of the blanket is thrown haphazardously over Felix's shoulder.

“T-thank you,” Felix stammers, both from the nerves and the cold, grabbing the soft cotton fabric and pulling it tighter against himself.

And causing the stranger to stumble even closer from the momentum.

“Sure, don't mention it,” the man grins, like he's not now pressed against a stranger's side from shoulder to hip.

Embarrassed as Felix feels, both the blanket and the person attached to it are warm. Felix has to stop himself from sighing blissfully as the other's body heat starts to warm him up, slowly working away at the chill in his bones.

“Well, since we're gonna be stuck here for a while,” the man muses. “My name's Ace.”

“F-F-Felix,” Felix manages through clattering teeth.

“I'd shake your hand, but I think we're past that stage already,” Ace jokes, and then offers a pleased grin as Felix huffs out a surprised laugh through his nose. “In any case, it’s nice to meet you, Felix,” the man looks up at him and smiles, and Felix's poor, gay heart skips a beat.

Yeah, this is definitely preferable to freezing to death.

“I wonder how long they'll take to find the cause this time,” Ace starts conversationally, while pulling out his phone from the nest of blankets. He sets to what looks like writing a text to someone, not seeming the least bit bothered by their predicament.

“You don't seem very nervous,” Felix observes.

“Not my first rodeo,” Ace looks up and grins. “Probably someone just smoked inside and tripped the alarm. Happens a lot in hotels.”

“D-d-do you travel? A lot?” Felix asks, partly do distract himself from the cold while he gets his body heat up, partly to divert Ace’s attention from his phone.

“You could say that,” Ace says. “What about you? Here on business?”

“Yes,” Felix says, with no small amount of annoyance over being reminded he still has work tomorrow. “Thankfully my meeting isn't until the afternoon.”

“Glad you can get your beauty sleep,” Ace says.

“And hopefully get rid of the jet lag,” Felix comments with a tired sigh.

Ace hums in acknowledgement before going back to his phone message. Felix tries not to take it personally; he knows he's not that interesting to talk to.

Ace is so warm, and it's a little awkward being pressed this close, but embarrassingly enough, Felix finds himself drifting even closer. Ace smells like whiskey and cheap cologne, but somehow, it's oddly comforting. He'd probably been drinking last night—well, technically tonight. Thankfully, he doesn't seem drunk, as Felix doubts he would have had the patience to deal with alcohol-induced rambling.

“Whiskey man, I see,” Felix comments. When Ace looks up from his phone in surprise, Felix realize how weird it is for him to admit to smelling the man.

“I reek that bad, huh?” Ace grins, taking the comment in stride.

“I didn't mean—” Felix flounders to explain.

Damnit, he should just give up on trying to make conversation.

“Wow, lighten up,” Ace says and elbows him playfully under the blanket, adding even more physical contact to their already borderline inappropriate situation.

Felix tries to ignore the fluttering in his gut when he feels Ace's hairy forearm brush against his own. This is more physical contact than he's gotten from another man… probably ever.

“Yeah, I had a few drinks earlier. I'm more of a wine man, but…” Ace seems to ponder. “Sometimes, you've got to try new things.”

Like huddling under a blanket with an attractive stranger, Felix considers.

Suddenly, he almost regrets the blanket blocking his view from seeing more of the man. His body feels firm against Felix's, and his shoulders look defined, though that could just be an illusion from the thick fabric covering them.

“What’s your poison?” Ace asks, following Felix's awkward silence.

“I don't drink much,” Felix lies, like he hasn’t been going through his father’s old liquor collection at an alarming rate for the past year or so. “Uhm… whiskey, I guess. And bourbon.”

He could really, really go for either one right now. Not only would the drinks warm him up, they'd also make him act like an actual human being instead of the stiff robot impression he's currently doing.

“Huh,” Ace comments.

“What?” Felix asks, trying not to get defensive.

“Nothing! I would have pegged you as a beer guy, is all,” Ace muses. “Maybe that's just the accent, though.”

“Sorry,” Felix apologizes. Now hyperaware of his bad pronunciation and extremely German accent, he tries to bury his face deeper into the blanket in embarrassment.

“Naw, hey, come on,” Ace turns toward him as much as the cramped space allows him to. “Your English is amazing! The accent only adds charm.”

Felix looks at Ace's encouraging smile and tries not to think too much about their thighs now pressing together. Ace is clearly waiting for him to say something, but all Felix can focus on is his warm body and striking features.

“Where are you from?” Felix asks instead, trying to place the hint of an accent he thinks he hears.

“Huh. Good catch,” Ace smiles, seeming surprised. “Guess!”

Felix flushes and looks at Ace's eagerly grinning face. It's nighttime, but Ace's skin seems darker than his own, and his features look Mediterranean, reminding Felix of countless business trips to Spain. But the accent…

“Italy?” Felix suggests, and Ace's smile somehow widens even further.

“Close!” Ace says. “Argentina.”

“Ehm…” Felix furrows his brow in confusion, thinking that surely, being a whole continent and world sea off doesn't exactly count as "close".

“My family hails from Italy, and it's my native language,” Ace explains. “So it was a really good guess!”

“Thank you…?” Felix says awkwardly.

“I'd ask what you were doing when the alarm went off, but…” Ace pauses, glancing up at his disheveled hair. “From your outfit choice and the bedhead, I'd put 50 bucks on 'sleeping'."

“You'd be correct,” Felix murmurs, self-consciously poking his hand out from under the blanket to run through his tousled hair. “I'm not very interesting.”

“I think I'll be the judge of that," Ace grins. “If, uh… you don't mind chatting to pass the time?”

“Not at all,” Felix says, hoping he doesn't sound too eager, happy Ace deems him interesting enough to talk to instead of whoever he was texting earlier.

They spend some twenty minutes chatting about mostly insignificant things. But as much as Felix usually hates small talk, he now welcomes it, because Ace is asking him interesting questions instead of just talking about the weather. He appears to genuinely care about Felix's story, and Felix might end up sharing a little too much, from the work stress and business trip he didn't even want to come to, all the way to his relationship that ended a few weeks ago.

Ace seems friendly and pleasant, taking Felix's awkward pauses and nervousness in stride, filling in the silences with stories of his own. Felix hears a lot about the different places he's traveled to, along with some hotel horror stories that make him feel much better about the current fire alarm situation. He manages a few laughs, some merely polite, but some genuinely amused at Ace's over-the-top storytelling.

Eventually, Ace's phone beeps again and he excuses himself and engrosses himself momentarily in the screen, and this time, Felix welcomes the brief break in socializing.

He realizes just how nice this is. It feels like a stroke of luck that only a few short weeks after ending his relationship with his ex-girlfriend and coming out in the process, he'd meet a handsome stranger this eager to cuddle up to him.

Not cuddle up—share a blanket, Felix mentally berates himself.

He glances at Ace out of the corner of his eye, seeing his side profile illuminated by the dim glow from the phone screen. Felix never really considered what his type would be, apart from the all-encompassing "men" that he'd only recently come to accept about himself. But taking in Ace's defined features and the smile that seems to be a permanent part of his face, he's starting to get an idea.

Quickly looking away before Ace catches him staring, Felix suddenly feels almost too warm. He shouldn't get ahead of himself; even though It feels like Ace is being a little too friendly, he hasn't actually made a move, seeming happy just with chatting to kill time.

Felix briefly toys with the idea of placing his hand on Ace's hip in a loose embrace, just to test the waters. He'd never be that brave, but if he was, he'd at least know for sure, even if it would probably end in Ace being disgusted and kicking him out of the blanket cocoon.

But… maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d smile even wider and return the gesture, just as eager as Felix to get even closer. Felix would wrap his arms around him, and they'd stand there cuddling and sharing even more body heat, maybe even kissing—

Shit. This is exactly what his therapist said he shouldn't do, the term "excessive daydreaming" flashing in his mind.

“Sorry,” Ace is saying, turning back to face him and pocketing the phone, completely oblivious to Felix's internal dilemma. “Where were we?”

“I, uh,” Felix stammers.

Was just thinking about kissing you.

“Did I tell you about the time a bunch of college kids decided to set off fireworks in the hotel room next to mine?” Ace offers, saving Felix from floundering for a topic.

“What—why would they…?” Felix asks.

“Well, I'd just gotten back from this extravagant New Years party—” Ace excitedly starts telling yet another story, and Felix keenly starts listening in.

Ace seems to be completely in his element, getting lost in talking about just how fancy the party was, followed by a dramatic retelling of some very incredulously sounding explosions that turned out to be fireworks. Felix keeps listening raptly, not entirely sure about the accuracy of the story, but enjoying seeing the other so happy. The blanket occasionally shifts as Ace tries to gesture with his hands to add to the narration, only to remember that he can't, looking sheepish every time.

Felix has never met someone with such effortless charisma. Ace's voice is rich and pleasant, and Felix briefly zones out while he imagines it talking him to sleep.

It's stupid, and he knows it. He's only known the man for half an hour, and even "knowing" him is pushing it. Felix is only in the country for two more days, and he’s very aware that pursuing anything would be pointless.

But he also knows that given the chance, he wouldn't say no to seeing Ace again. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation, the narrowly averted emergency, or simply being far away from home and realizing nobody would ever find out. Either way, he’s feeling more adventurous than usual, the adrenaline in his veins and butterflies in his gut keeping his tired body on high alert.

Too bad he's deathly afraid of rejection and would never dare to ask if the other is interested.

Suddenly, there's the screech of a PA system, and Ace stops mid-sentence, both of them turning to look at a firefighter speaking into a megaphone.

“The fire has been extinguished and the building is now safe. Please return to your rooms,” the fireman announces.

The horde of people immediately start flocking towards the hotel entrance at the same time, creating an annoyed crowd of freezing, grumpy people and managing to clog the entryway immediately.

“I wonder what the cause was,” Felix ponders out loud, not making an effort to move toward the commotion and get stuck between the shoving, complaining people.

“Who cares? We get to not freeze our asses off anymore!” Ace exclaims gleefully.

And Felix realizes they no longer have a reason to stay huddled up together. Reluctantly slipping away from under the blanket, he feels a disappointed pang in his chest over how happy Ace sounds to get rid of him.

“Thank you for lending your blanket,” Felix says, handing his side of the fabric back over to Ace and trying not to shiver as the cold of the night hits his warm skin.

“My pleasure! Thanks for keeping me warm!” Ace quips cheerfully, wrapping the item tighter around himself.

“Ehm… you as well,” Felix says, looking away so Ace doesn't see his face heating up.

“Come on, let's get you inside!” Ace prompts, and then he leans into Felix and shoves him lightly with a blanket-clad shoulder.

It's clearly in an intent to encourage Felix to move, but it still makes newfound hope blossom in his chest. They’re no longer forced to tolerate each other if they don't want to freeze, but Ace still seems far from repulsed by him.

“Right,” Felix says, starting the short trek to the hotel entrance that has thankfully cleared up from people.

“So…” Ace drawls, easily falling into step next to him. “Can I have your number?”

Felix glances at him and blinks in confusion. Is… is Ace asking him out? Or just being polite? Is he going to ask to be added on Facebook too, like all the weird colleagues Felix has met on business trips once and then never heard from again?

“For...?” Felix manages to ask when they arrive at the entrance, reaching for the door and holding it open for the man.

“Just wondering if you wanted to grab some drinks while you're still in town,” Ace says when he slips past Felix into the building. “I wouldn't mind getting to know you better,” Ace adds, looking him up and down with a smile that is definitely not just friendly.

Heat rises up Felix's neck from more than just the warm air of the hotel lobby. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one sensing the tension between them.

“Maybe,” Felix says, trying and probably failing to not seem way too enthusiastic.

“Oh?” Ace says, quirking an eyebrow. And then he's shrugging off the blanket, revealing a rolled-up, button-up shirt and—

Fuck. Broad shoulders and a lean build, that sure as hell doesn't make Felix's predicament any easier.

Felix definitely stares longer than appropriate while they continue walking to the elevator, Ace thankfully too busy with bunching up the blanket to notice his ogling.

“What…" Felix starts, making Ace look at him, cocking his head. "Uhm. What's with the sudden interest?”

“I mean,” Ace says, shooting him pointed look. “I was interested ever since I saw you there, shivering in your ridiculously tight T-shirt,” he winks.

Felix realizes that the shirt probably leaves a lot less to the imagination than the suits and blazers he always wears. He lifts a hand to his arm in a self-conscious manner, making an attempt to cover himself.

“But I didn't wanna freak you out,” Ace adds, giving a one-shoulder shrug. “Would have been pretty awkward if you said no, considering you were kinda stuck with me for a bit.”

That's… oddly sweet, and very much appreciated. Felix would probably have imploded on himself from embarrassment if Ace would have been this forward from the start.

“Thank you,” Felix says.

“No worries,” Ace grins, pushing the button to order the elevator. “So? Are you freaked out?”

Felix considers the question for a moment, only arriving at variations of "no", "I'm leaving in two days" and "help you're really hot but I've never been with a guy and don't know what to do".

“I think the word is…” Felix pauses in thought, trying to ignore his brain screaming insecurities at him. “'Intrigued'.”

Proud of managing to be smooth for once in his life, the ding of the elevator arriving is almost lost on Felix, because he's so focused on Ace's now downright lecherous grin.

But he obediently steps into the elevator, not wanting to keep the few hotel customers still lingering behind them.

“What's you floor, gorgeous?” Ace asks with a flirtatious smile, after pressing the number four.

Wow. How the hell did Felix ever manage to think he was just being friendly?

“Three,” Felix says.

“Looks like you're under me,” Ace flirts while pushing the button for him, making Felix choke on his own spit from the suggestive comment, embarrassed yet curious.

And then Ace clears his throat and averts his eyes as a woman and her daughter walk into the elevator with them.

They stand awkwardly next to each other as the elevator doors slide close. Felix’s thoughts are a mess of excitement, nervousness and embarrassment, not sure what to do in this situation.

He discreetly glances at Ace—

And the other catches him looking.

Felix's heart skips a beat as Ace's lips spread into a lazy grin, eyes shimmering with unspoken promise.

He wonders what it would be like to wipe that grin off the smug man's face. Felix imagines pushing Ace up against the elevator wall, picturing how the other’s eyes would go wide, maybe he'd even gasp, taken off guard at Felix's sudden boldness. Maybe he wouldn't have time to say anything, because Felix would capture his lips in a passionate kiss, and Ace would groan and drop the blanket to tangle his hands in Felix's hair—

DING!

Felix is rudely snapped out of his daydream by the elevator arriving on his floor. He realizes he's been spacing out while staring at Ace's face, and the smirk is gone from the man's lips, but his eyes are somehow even more intense.

“Good night,” Felix offers stiffly, forcing himself to break the eye contact before he gets lost in his own head again.

He takes a step out of the elevator, mentally scolding himself when he notices his racing heart and heavy breathing, getting himself worked up over a dumb fantasy.

Tomorrow, he promises himself when the elevator doors start sliding shut behind him. Tomorrow, he’d go out with Ace and could maybe, hopefully psyche himself up enough to make a move. He'd just text the man in the morning—

Except they never exchanged numbers.

Shit!

#riconti #felix richter #ace visconti #dbd fanfic #dweetwrites #dbd #dead by daylight #prompt #felix x ace

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kilojulietsierra · 3 years

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Seis Dias - Prologue & Chapter One (Frankie Morales x OFC - Triple Frontier meets Six Days Seven Nights)

I watched Triple Frontier and Six Days Seven Nights in the same day awhile ago and... this happened over the weekend lol

It was a lot of fun to write and I hope y'all enjoy it too!

Notes - my Spanish is a work in progress, if there are any mistakes they are mine. Rating is lower than usual for me (T - on Ao3) but I have an idea for a bonus chapter at the end that would bump that up. Canon typical violence and language.

~~~~~ Summary~~~~~

A well known photographer on vacation with her new fiance just got called in on a once in a lifetime, last minute job for one of her biggest customers. Promising her fiance that it'll be a quick 2-3 day trip from the south american resort they're staying at to the job and back. With an overnight bag, her camera and a bribe for the... quirky pilot that flew them to the remote vacation spot, she takes off to the shoot.

A storm rolls in while they're in the air and the quick trip takes a dangerous turn.

Forced to land in the middle of the night when lightning strikes their plane the pair find themselves in the middle of the South American jungle with a wrecked plane and no way to get help and no way out of the jungle but to work together.

They survived the crash but that's the least of their concerns, the jungle has more than one danger lurking in its shadows.

~~~~~~ Prologue`~~~~~

Joanna was grateful to be out of the slush and snow but her annoyance with the February weather soon turned to annoyance towards the crowd of people in the lobby which she had found her shelter in. She shoved and excused her way through the frigid New Yorkers to the front desk, "Hi, I'm here for an appointment with," She was cut off by someone knocking into her camera bag, causing her to sway on her feet and clutch at the strap to keep it from slipping, "Excuse you. Anyway, Robin Monroe? Can you let her know I'm here"

"Floor seven, elevator bank is to your right." The receptionist had no clue that Jo had been here a dozen times already this month. She only glanced up to point to the general direction of the elevators as she reached for the phone receiver.

"Thank you." Joanna squeezed through the gap in the crowd and made a beeline for an elevator just opening. Her and the other elevator riders stood in silence, slowly filtering on and off as the floor numbers climbed. At the seventh floor Joanna took her leave and soon heaved in a deep breath at the wonderfully empty foyer of Ms. Monroe's publication office.

Making her way through the desks and design tables Joanna waved and greeted the familiar faces until she came face to face with a photo shoot set up in complete chaos. Backdrops set in disarray, layout mock ups scattered on the floor, makeup and hair assistants scurrying back and forth and in the center of it all Robin trying to direct the melee. "So... how's your day going so far?"

Monroe turned around in a snap and visibly sagged "Oh Joanna, you'll never believe!" She fell into the long and winding story of how the talent for this particular shoot had fell through and now everything, absolutely everything, was a disaster.

Joanna took a deep breath, situated her camera bag on her shoulder and pulled out her phone to shoot her boyfriend a quick text that she would probably be late getting home tonight.

Later when everything had calmed down and the shoot was completed, a success as far as Jo was concerned, Robin walked her to the foyer where one of the assistants met them with a huge bouquet of flowers. "These came awhile ago for Jo." The young girl informed them, giddy to see what the card said. "They're from Kyle," She grinned and bounced on the balls of her feet while Robin inspected the exotic flower arrangement.

Jo read aloud, "A surprise after a long day, love you, Kyle." She flipped the note over to find a reservation card for one of her favorite restaurants.

~~~

"Fancy flowers, fancy restaurant, what's going on?" Joanna teased as the hostess guided them to their table.

Kyle rolled his eyes, "Don't ask questions, it'll ruin the surprise."

Kyle was a handsome young man, tall and lean, blonde close cropped and perfectly styled hair, bright blue eyes and a worked as a shockingly successful stock trader for someone his age. He and Joanna made a striking couple and they both knew it. Especially Kyle.

Once they were seated and had placed their drink orders Jo pressed again, "Ok, you know I'm not a patient woman Kyle. What's up."

"Okay fine," he chuckled as he reached for the inside pocket of his suit jacket, "Close your eyes."

Jo balked slightly but at his insistent stare, did as he asked. When she was finally allowed to open them she gasped.

"Two weeks from now, you, me and six days, seven nights in paradise." Kyle swiped through pictures of an out of this world, boutique, trendy, South American beach resort."

"Oh my God." She watched as he swiped through the promotional photos; lit, edited and laid out in such a way that she could nearly feel the sand under her toes and the sun on her skin. When he put his phone away she turned to face him, "Kyle, you're not serious! That looks amazing! Are we really going?"

"We're really going. You always say you miss travelling and that I need to take more time off so... tada!" He said with pride and matter-of-factness that was his trade mark. "Are you excited baby?"

"So excited." Jo leaned in to give him a kiss and mentally begin counting the hours.

---

Day One

When they landed in Bogota Joanna swore that she felt a weight lift and her mind clear. All she could think of was being able to enjoy herself, truly, for the first time in a long time. She reached out and grabbed Kyle by the back of his shirt, "Wrong way." As he turned outside the terminal towards security and away from where they needed to go, to collect their luggage and then towards the charters.

"What?"

"Seguridad." she laughed and pointed at the sign he was about to walk under, "We want maletas, and then we have to find the charters, she pointed in the opposite direction. "This way."

Without saying anything he trailed along as she led the way, following the signs, correctly this time. Eventually they found themselves walking thorough the doors and onto a paved tarmac where two men where leaning against a small plane chatting and laughing.

"Disculpe me,"

Jo approached them and Kyle muttered under his breath."I always forget you can actually speak Spanish."

Joanna ignored him. The two men by the plane glanced up as Joanna continued, "Ayudame, por favor? Estamos buscando por..." she paused to pull up the name of the charter service, "Aire Tropical?"

The two men stood up a little straighter, the taller, scruffier of the two cocked his head as he looked her and Kyle over. "Well you found it." He said in a very American accent. He was tall and broad, his arms bulged slightly through the sleeves of his button down shirt. His jeans were faded and worn, so were the cowboy boots on his feet and the Standard Oil cap on his head. He slapped the other man on the back and then stepped up to Kyle and Joanna. "Franciso Morales." He extended his hand to Kyle and then Joanna, "Mucho gusto."

"Mucho gusto," She offered a small smile and was glad to see it returned.

"So you're the pilot?" Kyle asked, incredulous.

Franciso pulled his worn out cap off his head, ran his hand through his shaggy hair and placed it down again, "Umm, yeah."

"And you're American?"

The other man scoffed, short and silent, "Yeah, for the most part anyway. If you're ready to go, I am." He glanced over his shoulder to the plane.

"Great," Kyle interjected before Jo got the chance, "Could you grab the bags?"

Franciso looked to Kyle, his head cocking to the side again as he chewed thoughtfully on a piece of gum.

Joanna cringed, worried Kyle had offended their only ride to paradise.

His eyes jumped from Kyle to Jo and then back. When he smirked it was not in the pleasant friendly way it had been when they shook hands. "You bet."

After the pilot, Francisco, had grabbed their bags and took them to the plane Kyle pulled her aside. "I'm not sure how I feel about this hillbilly flying us anywhere."

Jo smacked his chest with the back of her hand, "Kyle." She glanced towards the pilot to see if he had heard, "He works for the resort. It's fine."

A shrill whistle interrupted them. "Angelica, vamanos!"

A leggy woman with perky breasts and a big smile came bouncing out of the charter hangar. 'Coming!" She giggled as she joined their little group, "Hello!" Her accent was thick and not from South America but Jo couldn't place it. "You must be the couple coming to the resort. I'm Angelica, I work their and I promise you are going to love it!"

For a brief moment Jo doubted that was true, but beside her Kyle was nodding enthusiastically.

~~~

The flight went perfectly well and Jo couldn't stop leaning to look out the small window at the jungle as it passed by beneath them in a blur of green and random villages on their way to the remote section of coast where the resort resided. At some point Francisco must have noticed her excessive staring, "Este es la tierra de los dios, no?'

Jo glanced back at him, seeing him watching her over the rims of his dark aviators and under the bill of his cap. She couldn't help but smile, "Verdad. Es... es increible. No tengo los palabras."

Francisco nodded. "Verdad." He smiled and turned back to the windscreen. everyone remained silent the rest of the flight.

~~~

"Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God." It was all Joanna could say upon setting eyes on the bungalow that would be theirs for the next week. The beach under her feet, the sea in front of her, jungle behind her and a bright blue sky above her. She was in paradise. Truly.

"I know right." Kyle dropped the bags by the door and joined her outside. "It's perfect." He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing the top of her head as she leaned back into him. "This is perfect."

~~~

The first thing Joanna did was put on her bikini and a pair of shorts, grabbed her camera, and headed for the beach. For a change it wasn't model wannabes, actor hopefuls, suburban families or Instagram influencers in front of her lens. She couldn't remember the last time she had taken pictures just for the enjoyment of it. It was the most amazing feeling. Without even thinking about it she spent the whole afternoon wandering the beach and the resort snapping pictures. The ocean, the jungle, the mountains, young couples playing in the surf and lovers cuddled in the shade.

Joanna hadn't realized how late it was until she came back to the bungalow to find Kyle dressed for dinner in pastel shorts and a linen shirt. "Was beginning to wonder if you got lost or something. Got out of the shouer and you were gone."

"Sorry." She shrugged out of her camera strap, "Wanna see what I found?" Jo clicked some buttons on her camera and turned it so Kyle could see the screen.

"I made reservations at the restaurant for us tonight. Why don't you go get ready."

~~~

Dinner had been amazing and when the restaurant served drinks and desert a band had started playing. Couples all around them were attempting their best Tangos or Cumbias but Joanna was worried about Kyle. He had been off ever since Bogota and she worried her wandering off hadn't helped matters.

Just when she was about to ask him he took a sip of his cocktail and cleared his throat. "Joanna." He leaned forward, "Do you know what tonight is?" He took her blank stare as a no, "This is our anniversary. Well unofficially at least, it's the anniversary of the day we first met. Three years ago."

Realization hit her, "Oh, the cab! We fought over a cab and I called you an asshole." She chuckled.

"It's okay, it was worth it. All part of the journey." He stared at her, clear blue eyes glinting in the candles and tiki torches.

Joanna smiled, unsure of what to say. Instead she just stared at his handsome face. Then out of nowhere he was kneeling in front of her, staring at her, his hand reaching into his pocket as the diners around them all collectively began to notice, and look their way.

"Joanna..." He looked as if he was considering his words carefully, hoping to be long and eloquent but found nothing, "Will you marry me?"

Awestruck Jo blinked at him, heart in her throat and forgetting to breath. Now she was the one at a loss for words. So, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him while the rest of the diners applauded and cheered.

---

Chapter Two/Day Two - Read Here!

#frankie morales #francisco morales #catfish #pedro pascal characters #frankie morales x ofc #frankie morales triple frontier #triple frontier #pedro pascal

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prince-septimus · 4 years

Text

hard-hitting

pairing : jack thompson x SSR agent!reader

summary : 3 times jack punches someone because of you, and the one time you punch someone because of him

word count : 2.6k

You rubbed at your eyes, trying to wipe away the sleepiness you were beginning to feel. It was late. You, Agent Thompson, and Agent Sousa had to be the only ones left in the building. You weren’t sure where Peggy had run off to tonight.

You had been at this for what felt like hours. Jack was sure this guy had some information on Howard and with you being one of the best interrogators, Chief Dooley had put you on the job. You were beginning to feel the fatigue set in, though, and you hadn’t gotten much out of this man except that he liked to flirt.

“Do you want to take another break?”

You looked up at the two men in front of you. You had stepped out of the room for a moment to grab some water and try to wake yourself up a bit. It was Daniel who had asked you the question, his eyes filled with genuine concern. Jack just stood, leaning against the table with his arms crossed over his chest as he looked at the man you had been interrogating through the two-way mirror. His foot was tapping quickly, revealing his impatience.

“No, no. No more breaks.” You let out a deep breath, trying to prepare yourself to go back in there. You didn’t like this man, and considering he hadn’t said anything so far, you thought either he knew nothing, or he was never going to say. “You sure he knows something, Thompson?”

Jack’s eyes flicked towards you. He looked just as tired as you felt with his blond hair falling onto his forehead. “He has to. His name was all over those reports.”

You just nodded and turned to head back in the room.

When you saw the man’s smirk, you wanted to hit him. That wasn’t your style of interrogation, though, and if Chief Dooley had wanted someone to beat the information out of this man he would’ve sent Jack in instead.

“Needed a break, sweetheart?”

“You know, we could end this now if you’d just give up your buddy.” You assumed Jack’s previous position of leaning with arms crossed. You so badly wanted this interrogation to be over so that you could go home and get some well-deserved sleep.

“I told you, I don’t know anything about Stark.” He shrugged before leaning back in his chair, using the length of the hand cuff chains to his advantage as he placed his hands on the back of his head. “Haven’t talked to him in a couple years at least.”

“We know that’s a lie, so I don’t know why you keep pushing that narrative.” You motioned to the files you had left sitting on the table at the very beginning of the interrogation. “Your name shows up quite a few times showing that you’ve interacted with Howard Stark within at least the past 6 months.”

The man didn’t say anything.

You sighed. “You know that if you help us with our investigation, we can help you out with some of those misdemeanors you have piled up.”

Still nothing.

You reached up to pinch the bridge of your nose for a second before moving forward and slamming your hands down on the table. You felt your palms sting slightly as they made contact with the rough surface. “You have information on Howard Stark. Valuable information. Maybe you can just give it to us and we can stop playing games here.”

The man brought his hands back down and leaned forward in his chair. “Maybe I like playing games with a pretty thing like you.”

“The information. Now.”

“You know, maybe if you give me a kiss, I’d think about offering up what I know.”

You hadn’t noticed when Jack had entered the room, but there he was, his fist making contact with the man’s face. It knocked the man’s chair back, causing him to fall to the ground though his hands were still cuffed to the table.

Daniel appeared in the doorway. “I couldn’t stop him.”

“Jack,” you tried to berate your coworker, but frankly, you were too tired. Instead you reached out and tugged on his shirt sleeve, encouraging him to step away from the man who was now trying to stifle the blood dripping from his nose.

“You hit me!”

Jack made to step towards the man again, but you kept a firm hold on his sleeve. “I’ll do it again if you don’t tell us what you know.”

“Jack.”

“Fine.” The man made to stand, spitting out a bit of blood. “I’ll tell you.”

You let out a deep sigh and looked back at Daniel, giving a small smile in victory.

Chief Dooley was dead.

You hadn’t quite realized how much that would affect you until it had happened. It had hit you hard, and now, hours after it had happened, you were still shaking, and your eyes were rimmed red.

“It’s really something, ain’t it, Agent?”

You looked up from the paperwork laid out across your desk to see one of the other agents, one whose name escaped you now. He was smirking at you. “What?”

You voice was rough after the events of the day, and this agent seemed to find some joy in that. “Oh, you know, now we won’t have to worry about the Chief picking favorites.”

You stood from your chair then, coming face to face with the man who simply grinned at you. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He motioned to the room, where everyone had been mourning in their own way, everyone other than this man, of course. “We all know Dooley favored you over everyone, even Thompson.”

“How dare you.”

“Roberts.”

It was Jack who had said the agent’s name. ‘Roberts’ seemed to lose all his courage at the sound of his new Chief’s booming voice calling his name.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Roberts looked like he would rather be anywhere else. “Just giving this agent some advice.”

“Like hell you were,” you fired back, but Jack reached out a hand to place on your shoulder, squeezing slightly.

“I got it.”

You were about to turn to look at Jack and question what he was about to do, but you didn’t get the chance before he surged forward and punched Roberts, sending him flying back.

Your mouth fell open, but no noise came out. When you turned to Jack, he simply gave you a nod before turning around and marching back to his office.

You struggled to hold back Jack.

Tonight had been another long one, and the two of you were meant to go out to a local bar to find a suspect.

It hadn’t ended well.

“Jack, come on, let’s get out of here.” You had a hand on his chest, attempting to push him back, but he held strong.

“Come on, I can take him.”

You gave a hard shove to his shoulders, pushing him towards the door. “Not all of them you can’t.”

Work had been hard lately. Jack now had all the responsibilities of Chief and it had clearly taken a toll on him. He had been more hostile, even to you.

“Jack, please.”

“Oh, you need your girl to hold you back, Thompson.”

You might’ve purposely loosened your grip on Jack. He took the opportunity to push forward and get a well-aimed punch in on the man.

You tried to hide your smile as you pulled Jack out of the crowded bar.

“I always feel uncomfortable during these types of things.”

Jack glanced sideways at you, his champagne flute held halfway to his lips. “You don’t like dressing up and roaming around a ballroom, talking to rich people about how rich they are for two hours?”

You playfully bumped your shoulder against his. “Not when I could be at home sleeping, or at the office catching up on paperwork.”

“Am I that bad of date to spend time with?”

Your eyebrows shot up and Jack gave you a smile.

There was something different about you and Jack lately. Nothing major had changed. Work was still the same, and you still spent most of your time working rather than taking time for yourself, but there was something that had changed between you and Jack.

There were more excuses to talk to each other. More fleeting touches between the two of you – pats on shoulders after a successful mission or a hand on the arm in order to get each other’s attention. It had taken a while to realize, too, how much you had begun to enjoy being around Jack Thompson.

You were aware of all this now as Jack put a hand on the small of your back, pushing lightly to lead you forward.

“There’s our target.”

You followed Jack’s line of sight and spotted the person the two of you were after. “Wow,” you breathed out, “she’s gorgeous.”

She was the most beautiful woman you had ever seen, besides Peggy of course.

You missed the way Jack looked at you then.

“Let’s go get her then.”

Jack nodded, placing his still half-full drink onto a waiter’s tray as they passed. “Do you remember the plan?”

You felt the heat rush to your cheeks at the memory of what the two of you had planned to do in order to get this woman alone so that you could figure out what she knew.

You and Jack were to poise as a married couple, one who had an interest in this woman and were planning to drag her off to a corner for a good time. You weren’t sure who had discovered this woman’s desire for nights spent with married couples, but Jack decided it was a good way to get her alone without seeming suspicious.

When the two of you finally reached the beautiful woman, she smiled at you in a way that you knew meant something more than a greeting.

You swallowed hard.

“Miss Chekov,” Jack spoke smoothly. He had clearly turned the charm on. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you.”

“Please call me Mia.” Her accent wasn’t as thick as you had expected, probably from all her time spent working on American film sets where directors encouraged the use of a fake accent. “And who are you, might I ask?”

“Jack Thompson,” Jack stated clearly, taking Mia’s hand when she held it out and placing a kiss on her fingers, never breaking eye contact with her. “And this is my partner,” he added on when he straightened up, his arm looping around your waist. “We’re married.”

Something in Mia’s appearance opened up then. She looked at you with an overly sweet smile. “Really?”

“We were wondering if we could go somewhere to talk?” you finally spoke up, returning the smile. “You know, privately.”

“Well, of course. I know the perfect place.”

You were wondering what you had gotten yourself into when you found yourself shoved up in a corner in an abandoned hallway, Mia’s lips attached to your neck. You were glad your appearance wouldn’t matter any longer since you knew her lipstick would be smeared all over your skin.

“You have gorgeous body,” Mia mumbled, pulling back to give you a lust-filled look. “Maybe you should kiss your husband. He’s looking truly lonely over there.”

You looked over her shoulder to meet Jack’s gaze. You weren’t surprised to find that he had gone tense, but you needed him to continue playing the part. You needed Mia to feel relaxed enough before you threw the truth out there. “Jack, dear? Don’t you want to play?”

Maybe it was because he knew he needed to continue on with his plan, maybe it was the way your voice sounded so sweet and melted into him, but Jack took the few steps forward to meet the two of you and kissed you with so much passion you gasped into his mouth.

Jack didn’t let up. His hand found your waist, squeezing lightly as he deepened the kiss. If this weren’t a mission and the two of you weren’t playing the part of a married couple, you’d think this kiss held some meaning behind it.

Mia put a hand on Jack’s shoulder, pushing slightly. “Alright, you don’t get to have all the fun here.”

“Neither do you,” Jack said simply. You knew he meant it for Mia, but he hadn’t looked away from you yet. You wished he’d look at you that way any other time besides this moment, right here.

Finally, he turned to Mia. “We need you to tell us everything you know about what the Russians are planning.”

“What?” Mia took a step back, her eyes flicking back and forth between the two of you. “Who are you? FBI?”

Jack smiled. “SSR.” He used the hand still on your waist to pull you off the wall and steady you on your feet.

“Agents?” She gave a sigh and a flick of her hair. “How disgusting. So, are the two of you even married?”

“That’s none of your concern, Miss Chekov,” you explained, feeling a little dizzy from Jack’s kiss. You tried not to let it show. “Now, if you could come with us—”

“I’m not going anywhere with the two of you.”

When Mia turned on her heel, attempting to walk away from the two of you, Jack reached out to grab at her arm.

“Miss Chekov—”

There was a loud smack and you couldn’t stop the little gasp that escaped your mouth.

Jack was holding the side of his face where Mia had just slapped him. He was clearly stunned, and without thinking about what you were doing you marched forward and punched Mia, knocking her to the ground.

"Shit,” you breathed out, flexing your hand and gasping at the pain you felt. You hadn’t been prepared to throw that punch, and your already bruising knuckles were proof of that.

“Did you just throw a punch for me?” Jack appeared next to you, reaching for your hand. You flinched as he opened it, carefully running his fingertips across your knuckles. “We’ll have to put some ice on it.”

“Don’t worry about me,” you nodded your head at Mia, who lay on the ground grasping her face. She seemed dazed. “Let’s get her and go before someone comes back here.”

After the punch, Mia seemed more complicit. She caused no more trouble and left with the two of you easily. The rest of the night was calm, and you were left to ice your hand and write out a report as Jack did his thing with interrogation.

When he returned, it was late. He had removed his suit jacket and sat with his sleeves rolled up. You headed for his office with your report, knocking on his already open door and giving him a smile.

“Get everything you needed out of her?”

“As much as I could.” Jack leaned back in his chair and let out a sigh. “How’s your hand?”

You scoffed. “How’s your face?”

“You threw a nasty punch back there.”

“Ah, anything for my friends.” You walked up to the front of Jack’s desk and threw the paperwork for your mission down before flexing your hand for him. “It’ll be fine. Nothing’s broken.”

Jack leaned forward with his elbows on the desk as he looked up at you. “Friends, eh?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that not what we are, Chief?”

“I don’t think friends kiss each other like that, Agent.”

You felt your breath catch. “That was for the mission.”

“Perhaps.” Jack ran a hand through his hair, messing up the neatness of it. “But are you sure it meant nothing?”

You were at a loss for words but decided that being honest was the best way to go about this. “I will admit, I don’t regret that kiss.”

“And?”

Your lips pulled up in a smile. “And maybe I wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

#jack thompson #jack thompson x reader #jack thompson imagine #agent carter #agent carter imagine #my fics

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