summary: Andrew has survived his whole life by wanting nothing. Until Craig introduces one of his friends, and suddenly, Andrew wants everything and more.
word count: 20.7k (yeah kinda lost my mind there)
c.w: age gap implied but not explicit; short suicidal ideation; crying; mentions of blood; light physical injuries; angst to fluff; smut - piv sex, oral sex; praising kink; breeding kink if you squint
a/n: sooooo...took me two weeks. had a breakdown. bon appetit! (and thank you to my wife for proofreading it) I really hope you'll like reading it like i enjoyed writing it.
❤︎ Thank you so much for reading!
Andrew Cody has never been able to sleep properly.
Nights spent pacing the garden of Smurf’s house, bare feet on the cold ground, counting his steps to keep his mind occupied. It never did. He tried to outrun the memories of his actions, to drown his pain at the bottom of the pool. But on those nights, his torment wore the faces of his ghosts.
First there was Julia, then Cath, quickly followed by Baz. And Smurf. Always Smurf. A cycle of misery that makes his ribcage feel as though it might collapse under the violent pounding of his heart.
Some days, seated at a table with his family, Andrew had felt he could scream until his throat gave out, and no one would have heard. He imagined falling into the pool, slipping under the surface, water closing over his head and staying there, lungs burning just long enough for the noise to finally fucking stop, no one coming to pull him out because nobody would have noticed he disappeared.
There were moments when the thought settled heavy in his bones: he would not survive another day in his family, he didn’t want to. He kept straining toward a bond that no longer reached his end…if it ever did.
Over the years, Andrew had grown accustomed to his role. Weird Pope, Creepy Pope, the family’s guard dog: asking for nothing, obeying to the beatings, the killings and never, never, mentioning the ghosts hunting the corner of his eyes each night.
He remembered Smurf’s voice, years ago. “Pop him a few pills and he’ll follow your commands, baby.” She said it to Baz like it was nothing, like he was nothing. This was before prison, before Andrew felt deep in his bones that the other half of his soul left this merciless Earth without him.
Sometimes he let himself think about Julia, since no one else did. He hoped that at least one of them had finally found peace.
Then, you happened.
And Andrew can’t make sense of it, no matter how much he turns it over in his head, how a girl like you ends up being friends with Craig and therefore, near the Cody brothers: you are sweet, kind, nothing but soft edges, and innocent. Almost like the world has spared you the knowledge of what men like him are capable of.
Whenever you are in the house, his gaze follows you from room to room. He tells himself that it’s vigilance and habit that pushes him to act like that. Except he doesn’t need to memorize the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, or how he can recognize the distinct sound of your footsteps in a heartbeat.
He learns and catalogues each of your reactions: the faint frown of your nose at the smell of a particular brand of coffee (gone from the house and replaced before sunset), the soft curl of your lips whenever you are kindly refusing his offer to make you a sandwich.
(He wouldn’t be bothered if you took a bite of his.)
To see you is a special kind of hell and an indescribable heaven, like pressing on a bruise just to make sure it still hurts.
Lately, you shift the air of the house by simply existing in it. Your laugh, in the rooms where Smurf had once lived, seems to almost cleanse the walls of her memory. And Andrew knows. He knows that’s why Craig is friends with you. Because each day, the sun seems to finally be able to reach the house, even his own room.
It frightens him.
His body instinctively adjusts around your presence, his mind reassessing new rules (the glasses on the bottom shelf so you can have access to them, checking how many drinks you have at Deran’s bar). He memorizes your schedule, notes which books you are bringing with you in your bag, times how long it takes you to get home, parks far enough that you can’t notice his truck but close enough that he can reach you if something goes wrong.
All his life, Andrew had survived by wanting nothing. By hollowing himself out until the obedience Smurf wanted from him fitted neatly inside his ribs, because wanting had always been a liability, a weakness someone could press a knife into.
But now…now that life seems finally good and breathable, that he has the skatepark and his siblings and an almost regular life (if one exists for men like him) without Smurf’s claws on his throat, Andrew finds himself cornered by a simple, terrifying truth: he wants you.
He swallows it. Buries it deep inside, trying to drown it with numbness and even more repetitive actions when you are near: chopping, tidying the house, scrubbing counters that are already clean, fixing hinges that doesn’t squeak… Anything to keep his hands busy so they don’t reach for you.
No, Andrew Cody has never been able to sleep properly.
──────────
You remember telling yourself that the house felt wrong before you ever understood why.
Craig had asked you to come meet his brothers and from his tone alone, you knew it was a big deal. That something was at stake.
You showed up at four sharp, even if he hadn’t given you a specific time (something you would soon realize was typical of Craig), a paper bag pressed to your chest, palms already sweaty. You stood outside for a full minute before knocking, taking a few deep breaths, and stepping over the threshold with a smile as he wrapped you in a hug with his tall frame before dragging you straight into the kitchen.
That’s when you saw him.
Broad shoulders, dark curls on a face held tight, back straight and hands braced on his thighs, his posture so still you almost thought he was a mannequin.
“My brother Pope,” Craig said. “Don’t mind him, he almost doesn’t bite.”
His gaze was already on you, unblinking, steady in a quiet unnerving way, like he was committing every detail to memory, a look so intense it coaxed words out of you before you could stop them.
“H-Hi,” you stuttered, giving your name as you tried to stay composed. You extended your hand toward him, and he stared at it for a moment. The pause stretched long enough for doubt to creep up your spine (maybe he didn’t shake hands? maybe you had already broken some invisible rule?).
You swallowed, blood rising to your cheeks, drawing your hand back to clutch the paper bag as you tried not to stammer on your words. “I brought pastries. I didn’t know what you all would like so…I kind of…guessed,” you hated how small your voice sounded.
He stayed silent, brows faintly furrowed, as if he was processing what you had just said. Then he nodded. “Thank you.”
His tone was quiet, almost a hum, pulled from the depth of his chest, the sound settling low in your stomach, warm and heavy, and your first thought (unwelcome and strange) was how that vibration would feel beneath your palm.
Craig sighed with desperation at the conversation with a quiet “Stop being weird, bro!” while his other younger brother, unbothered, simply ignored the awkwardness, nodded as an introduction and handed beers around.
It was a welcome distraction, the cold liquid sliding down your throat, and buying you time to think on what to say next, but the youngest, Deran, beat you to it, asking you about your job and how good a surfer you were.
“You fuckin’ with me? You live in Oceanside and can’t stand on a board?” he laughed and couldn’t stop the slight condescending tone from his voice. “No worry, me or mister El Craigo here will introduce you to it. You’ll only swallow, like…a gallon of water before you get it.”
“Oh, um…I don’t think…” you tried to say, though it was mostly ignored.
Pope hadn’t looked away once, hand gripping tightly enough on the beer that you could see his knuckles whitening. There was something careful about the way he held himself: still, contained.
Your eyes met his again and you smiled tentatively.
“Um…Pope,” you started, uncertain, the name tasting strange on your tongue. “Can I ask you…”
“Andrew.” He interrupted, the tone firm enough to stop you mid-breath.
You suddenly became aware of your heartbeat, your chest lifting as it rattled against your ribs. Your gaze dropped at the intensity. Had you done something wrong? You suddenly felt foolish for the pastries, for the outstretched hand, for trying so hard, and an absurd urge to apologize rose in your throat, even if you didn’t know what for.
When you looked up, he was already halfway out of the kitchen.
You never finished your question.
Later that night, when you slipped into your bed, the sheets cold but familiar in their welcoming loneliness, you turned from one side to the other, eyes pinched shut without any release to exhaustion, realizing that you couldn’t remember what you had meant to ask.
Only that you wanted to hear his voice, just one more time.
──────────
The house is too loud. It always is when there are people over.
It reminds him of being a kid, hiding with Julia, hands intertwined, avoiding the drunk and high grown-ups. Whispering that everything would be alright. That no one would find them. Not even Smu-
(Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the dents on the kitchen counter.)
The volume of the music is pushed too high for his comfort, a constant buzz under the conversations in the house and near the pool while Andrew stands in the kitchen, hands deep in soapy water, scrubbing a glass that is already clean.
He finished the dishes ten minutes ago, but he is still washing, still drying, rearranging things that don’t need rearranging because it gives him somewhere to put his hands, to put his eyes. Because the alternative is the living room. And you.
(You, in that white dress. He has the stupid thought that you look like an angel and immediately hates himself for it. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the droplets dripping from his fingertips.)
He tells himself that he is staying in the kitchen because it lets him see everything in the house, because parties mean unlocked doors, strangers who could wander into rooms they shouldn’t be in. And there are the habits he can’t shake off: watching the exits, the unfamiliar faces, counting heads (Deran, Craig, you), noting who is drinking too much, who is getting loud, who might break something.
He dries the same plate twice in a row before setting it down on the kitchen counter and looking up without meaning to.
You are by the couch, perched on the armrest while Craig, bare chest and shameless about it, tells you the story about the time he smuggled a burrito full of drugs across the Mexico border, story he knew you heard a dozen times these past three months. But still, you are laughing, head tipped back, hair falling down your spine (he wonders what they would feel like underneath his fingertips), one hand wrapped around a bottle you haven’t drunk from in a while, like it has more to do with keeping your hands busy while you are listening.
Andrew noticed it the first week he met you.
But the moment your lips wrap around the drink, he looks away and goes back to washing clean and dried plates, hands in the ice water, soap stinging the small cut on his knuckle.
(Good. Something sharp. Something real. Better than counting for now.)
“I bought you a new pair of gloves.”
Your voice is closer than he expected and his head snaps towards you before he can stop it. You are standing at the edge of the counter, smiling, so close that he can smell your shampoo despite the soap and the lingering smell of weed (it’s so clean, so soft, he wants to drown himself in it).
“Why?” He asks, his nostrils flaring at his own bluntness.
You shrug, small. “I know Craig threw your pair away yesterday. And, um… I know you like wearing them when you clean.”
“Why?” his voice repeats, breaking at the word.
Of course, you ignore his question, and he can’t help but spiral (why did you do that? do you realize how much the gesture is affecting him? no one ever cared about his gloves. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the freckles on your nose.).
“I got the good ones,” you add, beaming. “So the soap doesn’t mess up your hands.”
While your eyes drop to his hands, his are still enraptured on your face, studying every single feature (you really do look like an angel. and you act like one too. maybe you are his salvation. stop, he needs to fucking stop but he no longer knows what to count.).
Andrew swallows what feels like an anchor in his throat because you look like you worry about him (you have done that for a while now, which still baffles him). Nobody worries about him: they worry about what he might do, not whether he is hurt.
“’m fine.” He mutters, not convincingly enough, judging by the look on your face.
You are still looking at his bruised hands and your fingers twitch on the counter like you had the sudden urge to reach for him, like you might take his hand to look at it.
(He has the overwhelming need to know what you would do with his hands in yours. Hold them? Kiss them better? One. Two. Three- would you let his hands run along your hair? He knows what it’s like to touch you when you need help, but he feels that this would be very different.)
“They are under the sink,” you say above the music and Andrew can’t do anything else but stare, not trusting his own voice.
You linger for a moment at the counter and Andrew wants to ask you to stay (in the kitchen, in his life, doesn’t matter), but Craig shouts your name from the living room and suddenly he has some homicidal thoughts. You glance over your shoulder, then back at Andrew, and you look…reluctant.
“I’ll…”
“Yeah.”
You don’t move. Neither does he.
“Thanks.” He finally says, his gaze still tracking every shift of your expressions, trying to burn your smile in his retina, hoping one blink would not be enough to erase it.
“Of course, Andrew.”
Andrew. For you, he is Andrew and that’s all that matters because you are the only one calling him by this name and you make it sound like it belongs to you ever since you first said it by the pool.
With one last little smile, you walk away and his eyes follow you until he knows you have reached Craig but even then, he doesn’t look away, afraid you might disappear, just like every good thing always did.
And Andrew learned, a long time ago, that if you wanted something to stay alive and safe, you watched it. Guarded it. Didn’t blink.
Andrew didn’t blink.
──────────
You stepped outside because the house had started to feel too small, suffocating all at once, Craig and Deran’s voices stacking over each other in the open kitchen, arguing about a job - a part of the Cody brothers’ lives you knew existed but mostly chose not to look at too closely.
You told yourself you only needed a second of quiet, just enough space to breathe properly again after a long day at work full of aggravating customers, meager tips and a coffee spilt by a coworker on your bare legs.
The noise softened once the door closed, letting you draw in a deep breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
“Fucking hell.” You muttered, exhausted by the shouting.
You hadn’t noticed him at first, too busy staring at the pool and ignoring your inner voice telling you to jump straight in the pool fully clothed, a thought that you were soon pulled out of when you heard a sound that didn’t belong to the wind or the trees.
That’s when you saw him, seated at the edge of a lounge chair, head bowed, a skateboard turned upside down across his thighs, one hand spinning a wheel while the other oiled it with slow, precise movements.
“Not a fan of the shouting matches?” you asked, trying not to startle him.
He glanced up, shook his head before going back to the board. “No.”
“So…not keen on loud noises either?”
“No.”
For a moment, you simply watched him, struck by how different he looked when he was doing something he seemed to…enjoy. Less folded into himself, the usual tightness of his posture easing (was it because of the board? the sound of the pool? the absence of his brothers? whatever it is, the view looked precious enough for you to want to capture it).
You lowered yourself onto the warm concrete next to him, your back resting against the lounge chair, knees pulled to your chest, neither of you speaking for a while.
That’s when you noticed his hands: knuckles swollen and red, the skin split near the thumb, a faint line of blood reopening every time the skin stretched.
“They look like they hurt. Y-Your hands, I mean.”
He shrugged without looking at you. “They’re fine.”
Your eyes drifted from them to his profile: from his hazel eyes fully focused on the board to the tight set of his mouth and you caught yourself distracted by his lips for a second too long before forcing your eyes back to the floor, warmth creeping up your neck (don’t think about that, don’t think about that).
“Andrew?”
The wheel immediately stopped spinning. Not gradually, just…stopped.
The entire yard suddenly became too quiet as his face snapped towards you, something unreadable flickering across his face and vanishing just as quickly, and you felt the realization settle in slowly that you had finally said his name after almost a month of avoiding it.
“Do you think I could learn how to skateboard? I…” the words got stuck between your throat and your lips while you searched for the courage to finish your sentence without tripping over yourself. “I mean…I wanted to know if you could help me. Learn it, I mean. If you wanted to. You don’t have to, I just…” (fuck. why? why were you so weird?)
Your fingers picked at the hem of your skirt and pulled on a thread to busy your hands, and from the corner of your vision you caught his brief smile, and the warmth that spread was so shamefully immediate that you bit your tongue until you tasted metal just to keep from blurting out something along the lines of ‘i really, really, fucking love your smile, please do it again so my day goes from moderately shitty to embarrassingly close to perfection.’
“Give me your phone.” he said, and you didn’t hesitate, fishing it out from your pocket, and placing it in his palm.
“There’s no password on your phone.”
“Yeah…I know.”
“It’s dangerous.” His thumb hovered over the screen, nose flaring. “Anyone could get into it. Your photos. Your messages. Your address. Everything is in there.”
You barely heard the end of it, too focused on the pull in your chest as his words kept coming, just for you.
“I haven’t thought about that.” You murmured, feeling foolish while he muttered to himself something that definitely sounded like ‘I did.’
He tapped his number in before going through the settings while you were still struck by his intensity and that he was doing this for you without being asked.
“Six digits. Not birthdates and not something simple like six zeros.” He handed your phone back, his fingers lingering for a second too long before pulling away. “Put one.”
This time you knew it was an order and you didn’t hesitate a second as you followed it, typing something in, suddenly hyperaware of how close he was standing, your shoulder almost brushing his calf, your pulse loud in your ears and a slow, humiliating heat pooling low in your stomach that you refused to think about at the moment.
“Good.” He said after you saved the password. “Text me your work hours.”
“So, it’s a yes? Really?”
He grunted and whether the dusting of crimson over his freckles was real or something you imagined, you couldn’t tell, you were too busy feeling as light as a leaf.
“Yes. And…”
His words were cut off by the screen door banging open, leaning back abruptly just as Craig made his way toward you both with a grin that meant whatever the fight with Deran had been about, he had won.
“Deran agrees for Friday night. And you,” he tapped your forehead. “didn’t hear shit.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s my girl. Now get your ass in the pool.”
Craig was already running to the pool before you could respond, clothes coming off mid-step.
“I can’t believe this man has a kid. Has you brother always been a shameless nudist?”
“Unfortunately…yes.”
You snorted before murmuring. “Thanks, by the way. For the password thing. And for agreeing to teach me. I promise I’ll only be like…average terrible.”
“You’ll be fine,” he shrugged. Then, quieter, “I’ll make sure.”
His gaze dipped briefly to your mouth when he said it, before snapping back up, and something in your stomach turned warm and gooey, a reckless part of you hoping he might add something else. Or step closer again. But he didn’t, just nodded once, before muttering. “Go.”
“Okay, I’ll leave you to your board, Andrew.”
You made it halfway to the pool before you glanced back. He was still watching, not even pretending not to, looking like a leopard ready to jump. Like if you slipped, he would already be moving.
And lying awake that night, window cracked open and the ocean humming somewhere in the dark, you muffled his name into your pillow, trying to quiet yourself, imagining his hands instead of yours. Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.
──────────
Andrew is used to ending his nights alone because wanting people to stay never goes well for him.
So, when the party finally ends at four in the morning, he does what he knows best: throwing the bottles into the trash, making sure no one is passed out in the backyard or asleep in one of the bedrooms and…cleaning.
First the diving board, even if Craig is still making out on one of the lounge chairs with a girl whose name Andrew can’t remember and doesn’t try to (he knows best). Next, the counter, twice in a row for good measure. Then the sink, while Deran claps a hand on his shoulder with a “Don’t stay up too late, okay?” before heading out.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. He counts the second you spend in the bathroom.)
He stands in the kitchen for a moment before realizing it might look strange and make you uncomfortable. That’s the last thing he wants.
He rushes back to his room (he wouldn’t exactly call it ‘sprinting’. sprinting would mean he is trying to avoid you. which he is not. not at all.).
He doesn’t bother turning on the light when he decides to lie on top of the covers, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling because he knows that sleep won’t come. It never does.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the cracks.)
Every time he closes his eyes, something crawls up from beneath his ribs and he is once again plagued by his ghost: Julia’s voice, Cath’s smile, Baz’s forgiveness. Smurf’s words cutting straight through him.
He thinks about the pool and how easy it would be to let the water close over his head. How all the voices would finally be silent forever, his own included.
(Bad thoughts. One. Two. Three. Four. He recites the number of cameras in the bank for the incoming job.)
He forces himself to think of something else.
Of you, earlier, laughing at Craig’s story (and the immediate, unwelcome ache in his chest as he wonders if there’s something between the two of you, if this will end the way things always seem to, if you’ll be another Cath: close to him before preferring his brother).
Then he thinks about the way he made you laugh on your first skateboard lesson, all because he wanted to make you feel safe and seen, how the simple feel of your waist had nearly made him press his forehead to your shoulder and beg for you to stay and keep looking at him like that.
He thinks about that night when you called him for help, and how he didn’t hesitate for even a second when reaching for his keys, truck already running before you even finished explaining because the simple thought of you alone somewhere in the dark, waiting and frightened, had felt like acid running through his veins, the kind of fear that made him beg to the sky “Not here, not her, not again. I won’t fail her”.
He presses his palms against his eyes until he sees bursts of purple light.
(Breathe. One. Tw-)
A faint knock against the door makes him freeze.
Nobody knocks in this house, his brothers just…barge in.
He is already on his feet before he realizes it, his hand finding the handle before he opens to find you there.
Barefoot, hair loose and messy, the mascara smudged at the corners of your eyes and the dress wrinkled. Earlier, Andrew thought you looked like an ethereal angel, something untouchable and holy.
But now…now you just look human, real and warm, which is worse because real things like you can stay as well as leave.
“Hey.” You murmur, leaning against the doorframe.
He grips the handle tightly to steady himself.
“Something wrong?”
“I was supposed to sleep on the couch,” you begin, talking with your hands the way you always do when you try to explain a situation, “but signor El Craigo has decided that it’s now his new make out spot with Sam and I really don’t need that image burned into my brain. And of course, I thought about taking his room in retaliation, but I don’t trust his conception of hygiene,”
That makes him huff.
“So…” you add, rubbing your arm, almost shy which doesn’t make sense in his mind because you haven’t been shy with him in a long time with the skatepark lessons or with the ‘hallway accident’ you both had together, “Can I stay here tonight?”
You don’t say ‘with you’ nor ‘in your bed’, but Andrew understands and he is pretty sure his brain short circuits for a second or two.
You didn’t text Deran or try to Uber home. You just came to him. Because you trusted him.
“Yes.” He replies too fast, stepping back from the door.
“You sure?”
He nods to avoid confessing that he would give you the bed. The room. The house. The air in his lungs.
You slip past him into the room, sitting on the edge of the bed before looking back at him and asking gently, “You’re not sleeping, right?”.
“No. Not…not really.”
“Yeah, figured.”
You lie down beneath the covers first, curling onto the side of the bed closest to the wall, leaving him space.
“Don’t think about staying on top of the covers, Andrew.”
The warning in your tone almost makes him laugh so he complies, lying down beside you, fully clothed and aware of every inch separating the two of you.
He stares at the ceiling again.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your breathing.)
The mattress shifts while you slowly roll onto your back before turning fully toward him, your shoulder brushing his arm.
“Sorry,” you mumble sleepily. “’m cold.”
“It’s fine.” He says it like the ghost of your breathing over his collarbone didn’t just set every of his nerves on fire, like he was not terrified to shift even an inch.
After a few minutes, you drift closer in your sleep, chasing warmth without thinking, your knee pressing against his thigh, your hand sliding across the sheets until your fingers come to rest on the fabric of his shirt, right over his heartbeat and for a moment he genuinely forgets how to breathe.
Your palm is so warm, and he is painfully aware that you can probably feel how hard his heart is pounding.
Nobody has ever touched him like this, like he is something safe and out of everything that has happened to him: the underground fights, the prison, the jobs…none of that ever made him feel this defenseless.
His eyes suddenly burn because he wants to turn so much to see your peaceful face, tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, pull you closer to know just once in his life what it’s like to hold something good without destroying it, to press his face into your hair and breathe until the ghosts quiet down, but he doesn’t.
He stays exactly as he is, lying in the dark, eyes wide open, staring at nothing.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your breaths again. Then the seconds between them. He thinks about the fact that you’re here and the miracle of it.)
Sleep doesn’t come, but for the first time in years, the night doesn’t feel empty.
Because you’re here. Warm. Alive. Trusting him.
So, Andrew stays awake until morning, guarding the only good thing that ever chose him.
──────────
You were so, so late.
You had told Andrew on the phone that you would be at his skatepark at 5:15 sharp after work, and it was now 5:42 and you were sprinting the half mile that separated the coffee shop from there, bag smacking against your hip, your lungs burning, already sweaty before you even reached the entrance, trying to slow your breathing with a few useless deep inhales, hands braced on your knees, pretending that you were not seconds away from passing out.
(First lesson and you were already late and a disaster. Great. Very impressive.)
You straightened, wiped your forehead, and stepped inside, scanning the park before finding Andrew, board tucked under one arm, sleeves riding up his biceps, curls messy from the wind and sweat and you were now positively sure that you had some drool at the corner of your mouth (the universe had decided to sabotage you and that was fucking unfair.)
You watched the tiny smile he had as a girl showed him her board, proud and beaming at him like he had personally hung the sun in the sky (no, you didn’t need to think about him being good with kids. you didn’t need to picture him with kids, him gentle, him…stop. shut up.).
The second his head lifted and locked eyes with you, you were pretty much done for. It was ridiculous, really, how one look from him could short-circuit every coherent thought in your brain, how your feet just…moved, carrying you toward him instinctively, dropping your bag by the fence without breaking your stride as he met you halfway.
His gaze dragged over you once: your face, your hair, your chest.
“You ran here?”
“Yes. And I’m sweating…a lot. Please don’t judge me.”
He took a few seconds, a storm passing through his eyes before he added.
“You’re late.”
“I know,” you rushed, your hands quickly moving and your words tumbling over each other like they always did when you got flustered around him. “but a guy ordered for his whole ‘cheaper by the dozen’ family like three minutes before we closed. I’m probably sure he sensed my despair and fed on it.”
A small huff escaped him. “You didn’t have to run.”
You shrugged, eyes to the ground. “Didn’t want you to think I bailed on you.”
You felt it, his head tilting down just enough to catch your gaze again, stubborn about it.
“I wouldn’t. Now you ready?”
“Born ready.” You lied through your teeth.
“You look terrified.”
“I can do both, you know,” you shot back quickly. “I am large, I contain multitudes.”
There was the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Okay, Whitman.”
“Y-You know Whitman?”
A pause.
“I mean…not that I don’t believe you or think you can’t read poetry or anything…that’s actually super hot, so good job!” you gave him a thumbs-up, aware you had just lost every ounce of dignity you had ever possessed. “It’s just that last week Craig asked me if ‘Pride and Peace’ was a good book to impress a girl, so…my bar was very low.”
Andrew stared at you for a moment. “Pride and Peace.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not…”
“I know, I know. But don’t worry, I did a good deed for society and told him not to mention any book ever. You and Deran are safe from now on. You’re welcome.”
And there it was again: that quiet amusement on his lips, the roll of his eyes like he couldn’t help himself, making you feel the stupid and dangerous need to continue to jest (keep talking, say anything, make him do it again).
He shook his head once. “C’mon Whitman. Let’s see what you got.”
You trailed after him without thinking and the first few attempts were…humiliating to say the least: your balance was nonexistent, your feet refused to cooperate, your arms stood uselessly at your sides, and you had absolutely no idea where you were supposed to look while Andrew hovered nearby like he was ready to intervene at any moment.
“I look stupid!” you complained.
“You’re fine.”
“I’m not fine! This is deeply humiliating. I can barely stay upright and there are twelve-year-olds doing tricks behind me! Tricks, Andrew!”
“You’re doing good.”
“I almost died.”
“You didn’t.”
“Socially, I assure you I did.”
Your heart did a stupid little skip when a tiny, amused sound escaped him.
(You could bottle that sound and live off it. You were now pretty sure you would commit crimes for it.)
“Makes sense you’re friends with Craig,” he muttered. “Dramatic.”
You gasped, unable to contain your grin. “Excuse you mister Cody, but I am layered! I am complex!”
He looked unimpressed and repeated “Dramatic.”
You opened your mouth to argue before your foot slipped, the board shooting forward, and for one horrible second you thought that worse than falling off in front of children was falling off in front of the guy you had a crush on.
But you never got to know the feeling before his hands were suddenly there, at your waist, catching you fast and steadying you while you became acutely aware of every nerve under his palms, of his thumbs grazing your hipbones, of his breath brushing your cheek as heat pooled between your legs.
He moved behind your back, still holding your waist before murmuring “Don’t lean and bend your knees.”
(You were starting to suspect he was fucking with you on purpose.)
But still, he adjusted you gently, palms rotating your hips and guiding your stance before kneeling to help place your legs on the board and you couldn’t stop yourself from blurting:
“I haven’t shaved my legs. Sorry.”
“Me neither.” He huffed, his breath warm on your calf and the faintest hint of amusement threading through his voice.
(Was that…a joke? Was he joking? Since when was he doing that? You liked that. You wanted that.)
Andrew pushed himself back on his feet, stepping away just enough for you to feel the sudden absence of his body, leaving you oddly cold, like you had stepped out of the sunlight.
“Try again.”
You nodded, realizing that his joke had somehow shaken the worst of your nerves away, before pushing off, your knees bent like he had shown you, your weight centered and the board rolled.
“Oh my God, I’m doing it! Andrew, I’m really doing it!” you exclaimed happily.
“You are.”
You risked a glance over your shoulder, and he was watching you with his usual careful intensity, hands half-raised and prepared to catch you, like protecting you was the only thing on his list right now.
So (naturally), you did the dumbest thing possible and tested him. Just a little bit. Just to know.
You leaned and let your weight tip forward just enough to know if…
His hands immediately caught you, his hands on your ribs, scanning up and down if you had been hurt, “You okay?”
You swallowed, realizing that you had never doubted a second he would be there. And that settled something warm and terrifying in your chest.
It was not a silly crush, not your friend’s brother that you thought was hot and interesting, no. It was falling. Headfirst, no parachute.
And judging by the way his hands hadn’t moved from your waist yet, you weren’t entirely sure he wasn’t falling a little too.
──────────
You are screaming and he is too late.
He is always too late.
Your voice breaks into something small and terrified, the kind of sound that doesn’t even feel human anymore, and he is running but his legs don’t cooperate, move in slow-motion, the floor stretching longer and longer beneath him and the house smells like chlorine, metal and something sour he recognizes too fast.
You’re in the pool, face down and the water is red. And you are so, so still. He tries to move, to drag you out, but he can’t.
You turn toward him, eyes open and your mouth spilling blood.
“You were supposed to be there, Andrew. Why weren’t you there?”
He jerks awake, his whole body snapping upright while air refuses to enter his lungs, a pain in his ribcage so intense he thinks it might split him open from the inside out.
He doesn’t understand why at first: why his pillow feels cold and damp to the touch, why his throat burns, until he drags a shaky hand across his face and touches something wet, the realization feeling nauseating.
He has been crying in his sleep for God knows how long.
He presses his palms hard into his eyes like maybe the pain will help him, like maybe if he suffers enough the images will disappear. That you won’t be floating face down in the pool, covered in blood, your blood, your voice joining all the others, the same disappointed tone he’s memorized over the years with his ghosts.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He tries to count but it doesn’t work.)
The house is quiet for once, too quiet, and Andrew has this awful, crawling sensation lodged under his sternum, something cold and irrational that he can’t help but spiral into.
(What if…No.)
He is already moving, because lying back down would mean closing his eyes again and he can’t, he fucking can’t risk seeing you like that again, can’t hear the sound of your voice pleading and begging for him to save you when you are already gone, can’t add you to the long list of ghosts that wait for him every night.
Halfway down the hall, he gets as quiet as he can manage, moving through the house like he is on a job, because it feels the same: this sick, urgent need to verify something, to be sure that you are here, that you are safe.
The living room is glowing faintly blue before he even steps in, the light spilling on the floor and he hears it: a narrator speaking about sharks and the distant sound of recorded waves.
You always pick sea life documentaries when you stay over.
He doesn’t know when you figured out he liked them.
He stops at the threshold and sees you: curled on the couch, hidden beneath a blanket and alive.
(Your chest rises. Then falls. Rises. Falls. You’re not floating. You’re not gone.)
His lungs finally unlock and he breathes sharply, the sound loud enough that you look up immediately, like you sensed him there, like you are now tuned to him in a way he doesn’t understand, and your expression softens the second you see his face.
“Hey,” you say, voice thick with sleep. “Everything okay?”
He nods automatically but knows that he can’t bullshit you.
“You don’t look okay.”
“I’m fine,” he manages, but the words come out wrecked and dragged through his throat.
Your eyes examine him slowly and it clicks behind them. “Nightmare?”
(Oh, he hates this word. Hates how small it makes him feel. Hates how childish it sounds. Hates how accurate it is.)
His jaw locks so hard it aches and he can’t force out anything more than a stiff, miserable nod, his nails digging crescent moons in his palms as he braces himself for questions, for having to justify why he is standing there at three in the morning, shaking over a bad dream. But you don’t push.
You just scrub a hand over your tired face before moving your legs and lifting the blanket, creating space beside you.
“Come here.” You mumble, looking at him, patient.
He crosses the room slowly, the couch dipping under his weight as he lowers himself beside you, hyperaware of every inch of distance, of your arm brushing his, of the warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of your shirt, of how close your knee is to his thigh and how easy it would be to accidentally touch.
Your hand bumps his and even if he should pull away, he doesn’t. The contact is small, just skin against skin but for Andrew, it’s the closest to heaven he’s ever been.
Your fingers linger, uncertain, like you’re giving him time to decide, like he is allowed to decide. His thumb moves before he can stop it, brushing lightly over your knuckles, slowly, reverently, like he needs to make sure you are solid and not a trick of his mind. You feel warmer than him.
(Alive warm. Not water cold. Not bloody and floating. Not like in the pool.)
The memory hits so hard it hurts.
He jerks his hand back abruptly, his breathing going wrong again, shame creeping hot and fast because for a moment he wanted something and asked for it, letting the walls go down.
But you don’t comment, don’t tease and don’t pull away in response to his neediness and instead, you shift closer and you help settling the blanket over both of you, your arm following, tugging him in gently, like there has never been a version of this world where he wasn’t permitted to be here.
He stiffens when your hand finds the back of his neck and he wants to reassure you that it’s not because he wants it to stop but because he wants it too much, and he doesn’t deserve it. But your fingers brush his scalp, and suddenly he is nothing but starving for it, leaning toward it instinctively.
You guide him down gently, so gently and he can’t win this fight tonight, his ear pressing against your chest.
The documentary keeps whispering about tides and sharks, but he barely hears it now because all he can focus on is the rhythm under his cheek and the way your fingers keep caressing his curls in slow strokes like you were calming a frightened wild animal.
He wants to move. To slide his arm around your waist. To press his face into your shirt and breathe you. To hold you tight enough so nothing could ever take you away.
But he stays still, terrified of ruining it and breaking something with the weight of his want.
Your fingers drift lower to cradle the back of his head while your other arm tightens around him and pull him fully into you, closing the remaining space between your two bodies. His relief is immediate and overwhelming, pulling a whimper out of him, emptying him of his thoughts.
His chest caves inward on a shaky exhale, his hand finally moving hesitantly until it rests lightly on your waist, barely touching and giving you room to pull away if you want to, but you don’t. You tuck him closer, your chin brushing his hair.
“I’ve got you. You’re okay, Andrew, I promise. I’m here.”
The words land deep and it takes him a moment to realize he is sobbing in your arms, the tears soaking your shirt while he presses his forehead closer to your chest, just to confirm that the heartbeat under him is real.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your heart now.)
“Shh…It’s going to be okay, Andrew.”
The storm in his head – the ghosts, the pool, your voice – slowly quiets for the first time all night, dissolving under the simple, undeniable fact that you are here and breathing under his cheek, speaking to him, comforting him.
And somewhere, between one beat and the next, his body finally gives up the fight, his sobs stop, exhaustion dragging him under gently this time, no drowning, no screaming, just the steady rhythm of you and your quiet voice drifting above him.
“I’m not leaving Andrew.”
He knows that for tonight at least, no nightmare will come at him.
You promised.
──────────
“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.”
Craig was the worst and you were absolutely going to kill him. Not even metaphorically, but in the sense where you would pick up the nearest heavy object and aim for his head the next time you saw him, if only you were able to find him right now instead of wandering through a house you didn’t know that smelled aggressively of weed and alcohol.
Deran and Andrew would forgive you, you were sure of it, if you murdered their brother under these circumstances. Hell, they might even help you bury the body. Because you could have had a regular evening at home, watching for the hundredth time Shawshank Redemption but no, you had to be alone in a stranger’s kitchen, trying not to panic.
The party had shifted, you felt it about twenty minutes ago.
It had stopped being loud fun and started being loud wrong when little bags started to be passed around, people disappearing in rooms and coming back with pupils blown wide and white powder on their nostrils.
You had looked for Craig. Texted him. Called. Nothing.
You had found someone who vaguely resembled one of the friends he introduced you to earlier, and when you asked if they had seen him, they laughed and replied something about “upstairs with Renn so it might take a while, Sweetheart,” and you stood there for a second, scared. Really scared.
Because you didn’t know anyone there, not really. And you were now surrounded by idiots who were snorting cocaine.
(Okay. Calm down. Breathe. Don’t cry. It doesn’t help your situation at all.)
A guy you didn’t recognize slid a drink toward you with a grin that lingered too long, and the fact that your very first thought was ‘I wonder if he put something in that’ made your decision for you: you were leaving. Immediately. Whatever Craig was doing upstairs with Renn was officially no longer your problem.
The night air hit your face, making you regret for the lack of jacket.
You stood on a sidewalk for a moment, trying to calculate the distance back to your apartment. You were too far, with no car and a phone at nine percent.
“Craig is dead. He is fucking dead. I will kill him myself,” you muttered under your breath as you started walking anyway, heels dangling in your hand, bare feet against the cold concrete, just to put some distance between you and the house.
But the further you got, the louder your heartbeat became, pounding in your ears, the fear crawling up your spine.
Still, you kept walking, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, repeating ‘You’ll be fine,’ over and over to your brain.
(You were not fine. You were alone. In the middle of the night. Walking barefoot down a street you didn’t know. Why were you like this? Why didn’t you just stay? Why didn’t you drag Craig out by his stupid hair to drive you back home?)
You didn’t want to try to call Craig again and waste your last percentage of battery on someone who would not answer.
And before you could talk yourself out of it, before you could rationalize or be embarrassed…your thumb was already pressing Andrew’s name.
(If you called him, he would come. He wouldn’t hesitate. You knew it.)
The phone only rang once before he picked up.
“Yes?”
That was all it took for you: the sound of his steady and low voice to make something inside your chest collapse, the fragile composure you had been clinging to dissolving instantly as you let out a shaky exhale, thanking all the Gods above for Andrew Cody’s existence.
“Andrew,” you said, your voice betraying you immediately with a crack right through the middle of his name. “I-I’m sorry. It’s late, I know. I just…”
“What happened.”
You swallowed, trying to force the tears to back down. “I’m at this party and…and Craig left. I mean…he is upstairs with Renn doing I don’t know what and he won’t answer me. I left the house because it got weird there and I’m trying to walk home but I think that was a stupid idea and I just…”
(You hated how your voice wobbled. How small it sounded. You should have bought pepper spray.)
“I’m so scared.”
In the background, you could hear keys jangling, a door closing and his truck starting.
“Where are you?”
No ‘why’, no ‘what were you thinking’. Just that.
You gave him the street name and the closest intersection you could see, wiping your face with the back of your hand and trying to steady your breathing so you didn’t sound like you were seconds away from a breakdown.
“I’ll be there in five.”
You let out a weak, disbelieving laugh. “It’s at least ten.”
“Five.”
The line went dead before you could argue, the call cutting off abruptly as your screen went black. Dead battery.
You stared at your reflection for half a second on the dark screen, heart hammering while you counted the seconds in your head, hoping that somehow it would summon him faster.
It took less than three hundred for you to see headlights cut around the corner of the street faster than the required speed limit, relief crashing into you. He didn’t even fully stop before the driver’s door was already swinging open, crossing the distance to you in three long strides, eyes sweeping over you from head to toe then past you to the houses.
“You okay?”
You nodded too quickly and he stared at you, jaw locked so hard you could see the muscles twitching. He looked furious.
“Get in,” he said, opening the passenger door, one hand braced on the roof as he helped you climb up into the seat, taking your shoes to put them in the back seat.
You stayed silent, not wanting to know to whom his anger was directed at. It was only once you were down the street that he finally spoke again, eyes flicking between the road and you.
“Did anyone hurt you?”
You blinked at him. “No.”
“Touch you?”
“No.”
“Follow you?”
You shook your head, watching his knuckles tightening around the steering wheel.
“Say anything to you?”
“Just…offered me stuff,” you admitted quietly, wrapping your arms around yourself again. “But I said no. I would never do that. You know I would not.”
You weren’t sure why you felt the need to add that, why you wanted him to understand that you hadn’t been reckless. That hanging out with Craig didn’t mean being like him. That you wouldn’t caught yourself in drugs. You knew better.
The streetlight caught the side of his face and for a split second you saw something raw there before it slipped behind his mask of control. The silence continued to stretch, heavy.
“Are you angry at me?”
The truck slowed to a stop at a red light, allowing him to turn his head toward you fully, eyes dark and intense in a way that made your whole body pulse in response, not from fear but from the weight of being seen.
“I’m not angry at you,” he said, holding your gaze. “I’m angry you were there alone. Angry that my stupid brother left you. Angry that I wasn’t there sooner. But not at you.”
The light shifted to green, but he didn’t move right away. His eyes remained locked on yours, unblinking, making sure you understood the distinction.
“You call me,” he added quietly. “The second you have a problem, you always call me. Okay?”
You nodded, fingers twisting in the fabric of your dress. “I didn’t want to bother you.”
“You don’t.”
And there was something in the way he said it, like he was wounded at the idea you thought you might ever be an inconvenience to him, that made you blush.
The truck finally rolled forward, but the air between you felt different, heavier in a way that you’ll only be to shake off with a cold shower.
You watched the way his shoulders remained tense all the way to your home and understood then that he had come because he had been frightened, that the thought of you alone in the dark had unsettled something in him, and that he had needed to fix it.
And the scariest part was that something warm and traitorous inside your chest responded to that.
You liked that he had been scared.
You liked that he came in less than three hundred seconds.
That he didn’t even hesitate when you admitted you were frightened, he simply moved.
And you liked the way he refused to let you walk barefoot to your apartment, carrying you, as if the idea of your skin touching the cold pavement was something he would not allow.
He didn’t put you down immediately. No, he held you all the way from his truck to your doorway, one arm firm beneath your legs and the other steady at your back, your shoes dangling loosely from his fingers, your body tucked close enough to feel his breathing through his shirt, making you aware of how easily you fit there.
When he finally set you down at your threshold, his hands lingered at your waist a second longer than necessary.
“You’ll be good?” he asked quietly, handing you your shoes, your fingers brushing his in the exchange.
You nodded, incapable of trusting your own voice, because if you opened your mouth, you were fairly certain that something reckless would fall out, something dangerously close to ‘stay’ and you were overwhelmed enough by the urge to step over, to reach for him and press your forehead against his chest just to see if his heart was still beating as fast as yours.
He was still staring at you, something unspoken passing like electricity.
“Good night,” he whispered, the softness of it almost undoing you.
“Good night, Andrew.”
You closed your door slowly, pressing your back against it, listening to his boots on the pavement, realizing that he hadn’t moved until he heard the lock click.
Only then did he walk back to his truck.
You would maybe not murder Craig after all.
──────────
Andrew spends the entire day watching for the moment you are going to change your mind and run from him.
And you don’t act differently when you wake up: you drink coffee while humming along to the songs on the radio, trying to coax a laugh out of him, but he keeps waiting for it anyway: the flicker in your eyes that says you’ve seen too much of him now, that holding him while he sobbed was enough to scare you off for good.
He replays the night while you are in the shower. How he cried in your arms. How your fingers combed through his curls. How you held him pressed against your chest. How he let himself need you.
He wonders if he should apologize, or explain, or at least even just…acknowledge that you saw him at his weakest and that he was thankful it was you.
Instead, he washes the dishes twice in a row to calm his brain, avoiding looking directly at your body when you step back into the kitchen in your coffee shop uniform, hair damp.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the dents on his mug.)
You ask him if he is still taking you to the skatepark after your shift, and he wants to say no. The word sits right there on his tongue, ready to spill, because the park means proximity and proximity means touch and desire which always ends with something being taken away from him.
But you smile at him in such an open and easy way, and if it was something you really wanted to do, far be it from him to deny you after last night when you held him like he was something that could be saved, that was worth saving.
So, he nods and the way your whole face lights up makes him think, not for the first time, that he would probably give you anything you asked for.
That is the part of himself that scares him.
And now that he is finally at the skatepark with you on this late afternoon, he knows that he should be tracking your stance and foot placement the way he always does, but today he notices different things about you instead: how you are not pulling away from him, not avoiding him, how you stand close when you talk, lean into his space without hesitation.
And somehow that unsettles him more than distance would have. Because, if you are not afraid of him, if you are not stepping back after seeing what he is like during his worst nights, then what does that mean?
You sway on the board.
He sees it, but his brain is still half-caught in the memory of your heartbeat under his ear, still waiting for the recoil that doesn’t come and by the time his body reacts, you’re already too far from his reach.
You hit the concrete hands first, palms slamming down on instinct before your knees follow, the skin scraping on the ground with a sound that makes his stomach drop. The impact steals the air from your lungs and for a fraction of a second you manage to hold yourself up before your face strikes the ground with a sickening thud.
Andrew is already moving before you even understand what happened, the board rolling behind you while he drops to his knees so fast, he doesn’t register the sting tearing through his own skin, doesn’t feel the way his jeans split at the knee or how his knuckles scratch raw when he catches himself, because none of it matters to him. He is scanning, assessing and cataloguing the damage, forcing his mind to clear before he dares to touch you.
Your palms and knees are damaged through the torn denim, but it’s the blood beginning to run from your eyebrow that makes him feel abruptly cold. It gathers at the edge of your lashes and runs along the curve of your nose, bright red against your skin, and for a second, the world tilts.
(Blood. So much blood. He knows blood. Knows how to stop it. How to clean it. How to stitch it close. Pope is good with blood.)
The thought lands with cold precision, and even if he hates the name, even if it sounds wrong in his own head, he can’t afford to hate the part of himself that steps forward first right now - efficient Pope, steady Pope, the one who does not panic.
“I’ve got you,” he says, and his voice is low, measured, trying to reassure you the way you reassured him last night while he broke apart against your chest, even though his heart is hammering through his ribs.
Your eyes flutter, dazed, before you try to sit up, but he is already there, placing one hand at the back of your neck and the other on your shoulder to help you.
“It’s okay sweetheart, I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay,” he murmurs, and there is something almost pleading behind his words that has less to do with your eyebrow and more to do with the memory of the pool and your voice accusing him of being too late.
He swipes his thumb gently beneath the cut to assess its depth, his other hand moving to brace your jaw so you don’t move, and when fresh blood coats the pad of his finger, he feels the familiar switch inside him flips into place.
(His breathing slows. His hands stop shaking. This he understands. This he can control.)
“It’s not deep,” he says after his inspection, even though he knows you’ll need stitches. “You still with me?”
Your hand lifts and finds his wrist, fingers curling around it, and the contact sends something through him that is not adrenaline and not fear but softer that frightens him more because it makes him aware of how much he needs you to be okay.
“I’m fine,” you whisper, though your voice is small.
He shakes his head once, tearing a strip from the hem of his shirt. “Let’s get you home so I can clean this properly, okay? Keep pressure there,” he instructs, guiding your hand back to your eyebrow and pressing it into place.
You nod, and that’s enough for him.
He slides one arm behind your back, his broad palm spanning the length of your shoulder blades, the other slipping beneath your knees to lift you, ignoring the sting of his knees and the sticky blood drying across his knuckles because none of it is important compared to the steady rhythm of your breath brushing his collarbone.
He carries you toward the truck, opening the door and lowering you carefully into the passenger seat, one hand coming up to your jaw, his thumb resting lightly on your cheekbone to make sure your eyes focus on him.
“Stay with me,” he says softly.
Your lips twitch despite the pain. “Bossy.”
He goes to buckle your seatbelt, adjusting the strap and closing the door gently before circling the truck, wiping his bloody hand against his jeans.
While driving back to your apartment, his eyes keep darting to you every few seconds.
“Talk to me,” he says after a moment.
“About what?”
“Anything.”
You take a moment before starting to talk about your day at the coffee shop, just mindless little moments. He doesn’t interrupt, he listens and nods at the right moments. You are grounding him on purpose, he realizes, dragging his thoughts back to something ordinary, something alive.
(You are not in the pool. You are breathing. You are not telling him he failed you. He counts your breaths.)
Inside your place, he works methodically, like he always does when someone comes back from a job hurt and bleeding – controlled, shutting everything else out. He lays out all your medical supplies on your desk with a precise spacing: first gauze then antiseptic, needle, sewing thread…The order is important. Order means control.
You sit on the edge of your bed, looking at him and continuing the pressure of the piece of his shirt against your eyebrow.
“Alright,” he says quietly, stepping between your knees so he can reach your face properly. “Hold still.”
He cleans your palms first, his concentration absolute because his entire world has narrowed down to the square inch of skin beneath his fingers.
“I should have caught you.”
“It’s not your fault, Andrew. Don’t punish yourself for it, okay? I’m fine, I promise I’m fine.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t trust himself to.
Instead, he goes silent and returns to the work in front of him, bandaging thoroughly your hands before taking off your pants and doing the same with your knees, making sure everything stays in place.
Finally, he allows himself to look fully at your face again, examining the cut on your eyebrow and tilting your chin upward with two fingers, feeling your breath ghosting on his lips in the small space between you.
“You’re going to need stitches,” he murmurs.
You study him for a second. “You’re very serious about this.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not dying, Andrew.”
“I know.”
“You look at me like I am.”
His jaw tightens and for a moment, he almost says it. Almost tells you that in his head, he’s already seen that version of you, floating and gone, but he swallows it back.
“Hold still,” he says instead.
He cleans the wound carefully by dabbing away the dried blood, and when you flinch, his free hand comes up automatically to steady the side of your head, thumb resting near your temple, not commenting on the way you lean into that touch.
The first puncture makes you inhale sharply.
“Breathe,” he says low, “Just breathe slow for me.”
You obey, focusing on him rather than the pull of the thread, your eyes locking on his face. He works carefully, tying each stitch with precision, trying not to falter at your gaze and even less at the reckless, intrusive thought about pressing his mouth to your brow to undo the wound.
When he finishes, he doesn’t move right away. He studies the line of the sutures, checks for tension, checks for bleeding or anything he might have missed before studying you.
“You’re okay,” he says, trying to convince himself.
You give him a small, tired smile. “I told you. I’m tougher than I look,” you say before your gaze drops, narrowing as you notice what he has been deliberately ignoring. “Andrew.”
“What?”
“You’re bleeding.”
He shrugs, dismissive, trying to pull his hand back so you can’t look too closely. “It’s nothing.”
“No, it’s not nothing,” you murmur, reaching for him before he can retreat, your fingers tracing carefully over his knuckles, making him go still. “You can’t patch me up and ignore yourself.”
He swallows, and before he can argue, you’re already reaching for the antiseptic with your bandaged hand, fumbling slightly. He catches the bottle before you drop it, his other hand covering your instinctively.
“You shouldn’t…”
“None of that,” you interrupt, and there is a flicker of stubbornness there that makes his mouth twitch despite himself.
You tug his hand toward you, and this time he lets you clean the scrape on his hands. He doesn’t look at the wound. He looks at you.
At the crease between your brows as you concentrate. At the way your lips press together. At the way you treat his injuries as if they matter. No one ever does.
Your fingers tie the bandage clumsily but securely, and when you finish, you don’t let go right away. Your thumb lingers, stroking slowly over the back of his hand. He is not sure how to breathe. The room feels so much smaller now. Quieter?
You lift your eyes up to him and whisper. “Can you stay? Just for a bit. So…we can check on each other.”
He could tell you it’s starting to get late and he was supposed to meet Deran and Craig for their next job.
He could tell you he’ll call you tonight to see how you feel.
But there is nothing in him that wants to leave this room.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I can stay.”
He helps you shift properly onto the bed, careful of your knees. When you lie back against the pillows, you reach for him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt.
It takes him a second of hesitation before lying down beside you, stiff at first, but you roll toward him, your bandaged hands pressing against his chest as you settle close, your head finding the space beneath his chin.
He exhales through his nose before lifting his arms and resting them around you.
After a few minutes of silence, when he thinks you might already be drifting, you murmur. “I like it when you called me sweetheart.”
He presses his mouth lightly into your hair.
“Go to sleep now.”
You nod, your body going slack after a few minutes while he stays wide awake, his hands moving slowly along your spine.
“You scared me,” he whispers into the quiet, once he is sure you’re gone.
His fingers move to brush lightly just above the stitches of your brow.
“I can’t lose you,” he breathes, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
(He counts your breathing. One. Two. Three. Four. Not because he is afraid. But because he simply likes knowing the rhythm.)
When sleep finally comes at him, he knows there won’t be any nightmare.
Because you’re there.
──────────
You did not mean to end up alone with Deran.
In fact, if you were being completely honest with yourself, you had carefully avoided being alone with him since you met, not because he had been hostile to you, but because he seemed to have this unnerving habit of seeing through people and you were not a fan of subjecting yourself to that.
Craig had dragged you to the bar “just for a bit,” (which in Craig language meant ‘indefinitely’) before promptly disappearing with a girl, leaving you at the counter, nursing a soda because you had work in the morning.
Deran was wiping down the bar in front of you.
“El Craigo has already left?” he asked without looking up.
“’Flee’ would be a better word to describe what happened.”
“And so now you’re just…” he gestured vaguely toward you with the cloth, “…miserably contemplating on drowning yourself in your drink?”
“It’s a soda.”
“You know what? That’s so much sadder.”
You exhaled, dragging a hand over your face before saying, “Can I ask you something without you telling Craig?”
That caught his attention immediately, making him glance up.
“Depends how embarrassing it is.”
“It’s not embarrassing,” you protested automatically, then faltered. “Fine. It’s…a little embarrassing.”
“A little?”
“A lot,” you admitted.
He huffed once, almost amused, tossing the cloth over his shoulder. “Fine. What?”
You took a breath, suddenly aware of how absurd this was and how you were feeling like you were sixteen instead of twenty-nine. “It’s…” you cleared your throat. “It’s about Andrew.”
(Fuck. This was so deeply humiliating. But Craig was not an option. He would weaponize the information and never let you live it down.)
Deran blinked once before leaning his forearms on the counter, a smirk spreading on his lips. “Oh, I see.”
You groaned immediately. “Oh, please, can you not react like that? You’re making this worse.”
“I haven’t reacted! I’m just…not quite surprised about this discussion. Come on.” he waved a hand. “What’s your question?”
“It’s just…” you stopped. “I don’t know how to tell if he…”
(Oh my God. You had faced worst things than this. You could finish a sentence.)
Deran tilted his face slightly, with a shit-eating grin that you absolutely hated. “If he…what?”
“If he likes me,” you blurted out in one breath.
The silence fell for exactly two seconds before he let out a short, incredulous laugh.
“You’re fucking with me. Right?”
Your face burned instantly. “Okay, great. Never mind, I’m just gonna dig my gra-”
“Easy tiger. Don’t get your panties in a twist. He’s obsessed with you.”
You stopped, your stomach flipping violently.
“That’s not true.”
“It is deeply true,” Deran replied flatly. “He reorganized the shelves in the kitchen.”
You blinked. “Well…I thought he just liked order.”
“Oh yeah, he does. Trust me, he fucking does. But…not that much.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Surely that doesn’t mean…”
“He drove across town at three in the morning to get you out of a party,” Deran continued, counting off on his fingers now. “He cancels family meetings to go to the skatepark with you. He did his ‘scary stare’ to me the last time I drank in your mug.”
Heat crept up your cheeks as you stammered, throat dry. “B-But he doesn’t…He doesn’t say anything.”
Deran snorted. “Yeah, that’s Andrew.”
“It’s just...sometimes I don’t even know what he’s thinking.”
“Neither do we,” he deadpanned. “Welcome to the family.”
You exhaled, frustration spilling over. “So, what am I supposed to do now?”
Deran considered you for a moment. “Just…let him try to go at his own pace here. He is not good at the whole…relationship thing.” he said, his voice stripped of its usual sarcasm before adding. “And for the record, the way you look at him? Not subtle. Like, at all.”
You nearly choked on your own spit. “I am subtle!”
“I mean, yes,” he conceded dryly. “You are subtle…for Andrew and Craig. So don’t be proud about it. That’s the lowest level of subtility possible.”
“I hate you, Deran.”
“Yeah?” he replied with an amused smile. “Well, get in line.”
There was a pause before he said quietly. “You’re good for him. Just…don’t screw it up. You’re in the tribe now. Which means I have to tell you this…”
You straightened slightly.
“…if you’re not sure about this, about yourself, you go now. Not in a few months. Not after he lets himself think this might be real. You don’t get to backpedal if it gets complicated. He wouldn’t recover from it.”
You shook your head immediately. “I swear, I won’t hurt him. He’s…he’s-”
You stopped, because the word felt too large to say aloud. But Deran looked at you intensely enough for you to finish.
“He’s important. To me. I don’t want to fix him, because I don’t think he’s broken. I like him the way he is. I...I think I wouldn’t recover from losing him too.”
Deran held your gaze for a long moment. “Alright.”
You tilted your head. “Alright?”
“Alright,” he repeated. “You pass.”
“Was-Was it an interview? Are you serious?”
“Yep. And congrats, you got the job.”
You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt lighter than it had in quite some time while Deran smiled, a real full grin, almost boyish, making it easier to see the younger brother under his usual cryptic attitude.
“I forgot what it was like,” he said after a beat.
“What?” you asked.
“Having a sister you can annoy.”
“That’s…extremely sweet of you.”
“Don’t ruin it,” he warned, pointing the towel at you. “I will absolutely deny this conversation ever happened if you mention it to my brothers.”
You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head.
Then, he leaned forward and whispered to you. “And if you hurt him, I’m stealing your car and slashing your tires.”
“O-Okay.”
He had a little smile before straightening up. “Welcome into the family.”
──────────
He has not told you.
No one has told you about the job.
Craig said it wasn’t necessary, that you would make a big deal out of it. Deran said it was cleaner that way, the less people know, the less risk and Andrew didn’t argue, telling himself it was better if you didn’t know the details, better if you didn’t have to sit there, waiting for them to come back and spiraling about what could be happening to them.
He told himself that ignorance would keep you safe.
The screen door slams and your voice, sharper than he has ever heard it is rising against Craig, who’s following you in the backyard like a kicked puppy.
Andrew doesn’t turn immediately from his spot, staring at the water of the pool. He closes his eyes, preparing himself for the loud noises.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the tiles of the pool.)
“You asked me to babysit Nick,” you’re saying, your voice shaking like you are about to start crying, “and you made it sound like it was for a date or something stupid! You didn’t say it was because you were going to fucking rob a jewelry store!”
“Jesus, lower your voice.”
“Lower my voice? How about you shut your mouth you liar!”
It isn’t only outrage in your voice, Andrew feels it. It’s fear. A raw, unfiltered fear for them. For him. And he doesn’t know what to do with that because no one has ever been afraid of losing him. When he went to prison years ago, his family moved on, sold his place and went on with their lives. For them, it was an inconvenience, for him, it was three years in Folsom.
Andrew turns then.
You’re standing a few feet from Craig, hands still bandaged, the thin line of stitches above your eyebrow visible, pointing a finger at Craig angrily while he tries to stay calm, running a hand through his hair.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“You’re breaking into a jewelry store, Craig. That’s not exactly Disneyland.”
“We’ve done jobs for years,” he snaps. “We’re good at it.”
Andrew watches the way your shoulders rise and fall too fast with your breath, the way your fingers flex like you’re resisting the urge to grab something and throw it at Craig.
“You know what happens if you get caught, right? You know what that would do to Nick?”
Craig’s jaw tightens. “We don’t get caught.”
You let out a bitter sound that is half a laugh, half a sob.
“Repeat this in the eyes of your brother, I fucking dare you. That’s not how life works, and you know it. You can get caught.”
Andrew feels the words hit him in the chest and rip something out of him. He doesn’t know when you learn about it. Doesn’t know who told you or the extent of your knowledge about those three years of fights and isolation.
If you know – truly know - why aren’t you running away? Why are you still here?
(He doesn’t understand. He can’t understand. It’s too much. It’s too little. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the cracks on the floor.)
“We’re not idiots, just trust us, okay?” Craig argues, rolling his eyes.
“You left me alone at a party in a house full of people doing coke,” you fire back, your finger jabbing hard against his chest. “You are the exact definition of an idiot, Craig.”
Craig winces. “We don’t have to do this right now, okay? I already told you I was sorry about it. Pope, back me up.”
Both of you turn toward him at once, the weight of the fight landing on his shoulders. He doesn’t move immediately. Doesn’t speak either. Andrew has never been good at splitting himself in two, at giving his opinion. He was raised to follow orders.
Craig gestures toward you. “She’s acting like we’re amateurs.”
You slap his arm, wincing, forgetting for a moment about your bandage. “Fuck.”
Andrew walks up to you, checking your hand while you keep repeating him. “I’m okay, Andrew. I promise.”
He lifts his eyes to yours, angling his head to catch them, and when your gaze finally locks with his, he holds it, stubborn and unblinking. Your eyes shine brighter tonight than they usually do, so he doesn’t give himself permission to look away.
(You’re about to cry. It’s his fault. It must be his fault. He should have been better. But the voices are too loud. He doesn’t like when it’s too loud. One. Two. Three. Four. He remembers your breaths when you sleep.)
“I just…I thought you all trusted me,” you say, your voice breaking halfway through, fighting back tears of frustration.
Craig’s shoulders drop while Andrew’s thumb strokes over the back of your hand, grounding himself.
“We do,” Craig says, less combative now. “That’s why I asked you to watch Nick.”
“That’s not making me feel like you trust me. It’s making me feel like I’m a convenience.”
The word hangs there, making Andrew feel like he failed something. He has never wanted you to feel like this. He wanted you to be protected.
His gaze doesn’t waver as he keeps your hand in his, stroking over the bandage.
Craig looks between the two of you, seeing the hand, the closeness and mutters, “Jesus, bro, this is the worst time,” under his breath.
“Okay,” he exhales finally, turning fully toward you. “I fucked up. Massively. About the party. About not telling you. About…probably a million other things. I didn’t mean for you to feel unsafe.”
You don’t look convinced.
“Trust me,” Craig adds quickly, throwing Andrew a sideways glance, “I got my ass kicked enough by Pope to regret this party for the rest of my life.”
Your lips twitch a little, trying to keep it contain.
“Now, if you could hand me back my brother, I would be very grateful because we have a job to do, and you have a kid to entertain,” Craig says, rolling his eyes and retreating inside the house.
Andrew doesn’t let go of your hand, refusing to blink and terrified of losing a moment of you. He has the irrational feeling that if he does, something will waver on your face, the moment when you realize what this life looks like and he won’t be able to see his failure in time.
“We’ve planned it,” he murmurs finally.
You hold his gaze. “And if something goes wrong?”
He doesn’t answer right away because he knows the answer to this, and he is certain you don’t want to hear it.
(If something goes wrong, he goes down first. He makes sure Deran and Craig are safe. He doesn’t come home because he won’t ever go back to prison. He prefers to die trying to escape than go back in a cell. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your eyelashes.)
You are still waiting, searching his face.
“Then I handle it,” he says quietly.
You shake your head, your jaw working as if you’re trying to physically hold yourself together. “Promise me to come back safe.”
His hand lifts before he can stop himself to settle against the side of your face, his thumb resting just beneath your eye, making you go very still, waiting for what he will do next.
His thumb caresses your cheekbone once, just enough to fill his mind with the memory of your skin.
“I won’t let anything happen to me,” he whispers, and he doesn’t know if it’s meant as a vow or a lie he’s trying to force into becoming true. “I promise,” and before he allows himself to overthink it, he presses a careful kiss to your forehead, his lips brushing just above the line of stitches.
He can hear you catch your breath and it makes him pull back, his lips tingling at the contact. He knows it now: if he stays longer, if he lets himself feel the warmth of you, he might not leave at all.
He memorizes the sight of you like this: looking like losing him would break you and it does something unfamiliar to his chest. No one has ever been scared at the thought of him disappearing. No one has ever demanded that he come back.
He turns quickly, putting distance between the two of you before he changes his mind, the promise he made echoing in his head.
He hears it when Deran cuts the alarms. Promise me to come back safe. When he cuts through the back entrance. Promise me. And when Craig tries to improvise. Promise. He is not one to do reckless things but tonight, he is particularly unyielding each time the job almost goes sideways.
He knows you are in the house with Nick, probably pacing the kitchen and waiting to see the outcome of his word. So, when he finally reaches the main display room, he is quick to reach for the highest value pieces that will be cut down and reshaped. No traces or evidence will be left, they have done this long enough to know how to make everything disappear completely.
Andrew’s hand hovers for half a second over a particular velvet cushion before picking up the thin gold chain, a small heart-shaped pendant set in the center. It’s delicate and quiet, reminding him how it feels to bask in your light. He turns it between his fingers once, twice, imagining it resting just below the hollow of your throat, his thumb brushing over it absentmindedly while you are both sitting on the couch and watching a documentary.
He slips it securely into the inner pocket of his jacket, pressing it flat against his chest for a brief second before stepping back into motion and leaving with his brothers without any alarms or police sirens cutting through the night.
And when they get at the warehouse to stash the duffel bags, Andrew doesn’t stay like he usually would to make sure about getting his fair cut of the job. He nods once, quiet, ignoring their snickers and comments about him being ‘down bad’ all the way to his truck.
The house is dim when he enters, a soft glow coming from Craig’s bedroom and before he sees you, he hears your voice. It’s so soft.
“And baby whale swam all the way across the ocean to find mama whale,” you murmur.
He quietly walks up to the threshold to see you sitting on the bed with Nick lying, his eyes dropping with sleep, his thumb in his mouth and clutching to his monkey plushie. You slowly close the illustrated book before pressing a kiss onto the his hair and something expands in Andrew’s.
(You would be good at this. At building something steady. He can picture you pregnant, swelling with a child. His curls and your smile on a being that would never know the kind of hurt he had to go through.)
You stand up from the bed and see him, the relief crossing your face so achingly tender it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs.
“Andrew.”
He nods once, trying to convey his feelings, “I came back.”
You smile, closing the bedroom door behind you and stepping close to him, scanning for injuries the way he did for you at the skatepark. He lifts his hands, showing you his palms.
“I’m fine. I promised you I would.”
Your shoulders drop in a way that tells him you’ve been holding yourself rigid for hours, managing a barely audible, “Thank God.”
His lips tilt upward before reaching into his jacket’s pocket, “Turn around,” before adding a quiet, “Please.”
“Bossy,” you reply, amused, before turning your back to him.
He closes the one last step between you, pulling out the necklace from his pocket, careful not to let his hands shake as he lifts your hair to expose the back on your neck. He fastens the chain, the clasp clicking softly into place and for a second he doesn’t step away, the pad of his thumb grazing at the nape of your neck.
“Andrew,” you whisper, turning back toward him, your fingers lifting to trace it. “It’s…It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
He keeps staring at the pendant who rests exactly where he imagined it would be, then at your mouth before quickly going back to your eyes. You are close enough that he can feel your breath on his face, the world narrowing to the space between you.
He wants to close the distance, to press his mouth to yours.
Instead, he rests his forehead gently against yours, grounding himself with your scent, refusing to close his eyes.
“You should sleep,” he murmurs.
You smile softly and suddenly, Andrew wonders how he can extract a memory and preserve it forever in resin.
Because this moment feels like the dawn of his existence.
──────────
When Andrew was seven years old, the house was already too loud.
Somewhere down the hall a door slammed hard enough to be heard from the bedroom he shared with Julia, who was sitting on the floor with a deck of cards spread between them while he lined them into exact rows instead of playing War.
He liked the rows and the symmetry of it. It calmed him each time the edges were precisely following the pattern of the carpet. With this, he didn’t need to count.
In the backyard, someone shouted about money, making the twins flinch in fear. Julia reached for his hand, and they sat like that for a long time: her fingers curled tightly around his, his eyes fixed on the the cards. (Hearts. Diamonds. Clubs. Spades. Everything will be all right.)
Smurf emerged in the doorway with her bright smile, eight months pregnant with their little brother, tilting her head, “My baby is a strange one,” she whispers to his new stepfather, “But useful.”
Andrew heard it. He didn’t know what strange meant exactly, but he knew it was something you said when you didn’t want to say wrong.
At school, boys kept snatching his skateboard, tossing it across the asphalt because he rode the same loop over and over during recess, memorizing how many pushes it took to reach the fence.
(Fourteen. Fourteen every time. An even number. He liked them. That’s why he always counted till four.)
The first time a boy shoved him and called him a freak, Andrew didn’t respond. Just took back the board and kept doing his loops. The second time, when the board got kicked away and Julia was not there to held his hand, Andrew swung without warning. He couldn’t remember deciding to, just the sound of the impact and how the noise inside him went blissfully silent.
After that, teachers called him difficult, the kids stopped approaching him and Smurf congratulated him with a kiss on his mouth.
At night, when Julia was asleep beside him, Andrew kept staring at the ceiling, wondering something he couldn’t say out loud to his mother or his sister: would anyone ever see that he was trying? Trying to keep himself together so he didn’t explode? Trying to be good? Trying to stop the noises in his head?
-
When you were seven years old, the house smelled like warm cookies.
You were sitting on the couch, your small arms cradling your cousin, afraid to drop her. You didn’t know how to act with a baby. Your parents had sat you down a few months ago at the kitchen table and told you that you were their little miracle, that Santa sometimes forgot things and that maybe it would always just be the three of you – which sounded a little sad until your father had squeezed your hand and told you that three was already perfect.
But it was alright, because now, you had your cousin’s fingers clutching onto your hair, “She’s holding me!” you squealed, delighted and in awe because here, in this house, you were allowed to be amazed and to grow at your own pace.
The day you scraped your knee on the sidewalk, trying to teach yourself how to roller skate, you cried for less than a minute before your mother knelt in front of you, cleaning the wound and kissing the sting away. “You’re gonna be okay,” she said, and you believed her.
At school, you had a best friend who whispered to you how babies were made, and that made you giggle all day, the teacher shaking his head and calling you incorrigible, even though you had no idea what that meant and decided it must be something wonderful if it made you laugh that hard.
And the day you asked what you could be when you grew up, no one laughed. “You can be anything my little monkey,” your father had told you, and you thought about it for the whole day. Because anything was a lot for your brain: a teacher, a vet, a marine biologist. You always circled back to the same answer: something to help people.
And at night, as you looked at your glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling, you wondered about other things: would someone look at you the way your father looked at your mother when she was singing in the kitchen, with that love that said I am home?
──────────
Deran’s bar is louder than usual tonight, crowded by sports fans watching a game between Los Angeles and Atlanta. Craig has tried to tell him why it was so important to win at least five times since their arrival, but Andrew’s attention remains elsewhere entirely, watching you from across the room the way he has been watching you for four months now: trying to read something in your posture or in the tilt of your head that could give him an answer.
Because the truth is…he doesn’t know what you are after last night and if what happened in the hallway, or every night you’ve spent wrapped together, mean the same thing to you that they mean to him. He wants to ask, to spill the question out before it eats him alive: what are we?
Andrew hates not knowing. On a job, he knows every camera, every blind spot, every possible way things can go wrong but with you, there’s no map. And he hates that he can’t predict your next move.
You are standing at the bar, ordering a drink, your back half-turned to him and wearing a dress that shouldn’t be allowed to exist in public. It makes his pants grow tighter and has him readjusting on the stool, trying to pretend he isn’t affected while his brother sits three feet away and would never let him live it down if he knew.
And he knows he shouldn’t be staring, but you keep touching absentmindedly the necklace, your fingers tracing the pendant as it moves with your breathing, and before he can stop himself, he’s counting it.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
You had said thank you last night in a way that felt like you meant something more, had let him secure the necklace around your neck and had met his eyes when you called it beautiful as if you were promising you would always wear it.
Always.
(Oh, how he doesn’t trust that word. Doesn’t trust anything that implies staying. He knows better. He should know better.)
And yet, there you are, wearing it for everyone to see, which does nothing to steady his accelerated pulse, and leaning across the counter to collect your cocktail from Deran. The movement doesn’t reveal much more of your skin, but it still sets ablaze Andrew’s brain, his lips going dry as he tries to resist the urge to walk up to you and beg for you to tell him that he isn’t the only one picturing rings, and a cradle in a quiet house and your head on his chest until he is old and grey.
“You’re not being subtle, you know that?” Craig says, cutting through the haze of his thoughts.
“Don’t start.”
Craig raises his hands innocently. “Jesus, relax.” He immediately reaches for the bowl of peanuts on the table, and Andrew feels his jaw tighten at the thought of how many unwashed hands have touched that bowl already. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you tonight?”
What’s wrong is that he just stole diamonds worth more than all of the jobs he did last year and it doesn’t compete to the way you look with the chain resting against your collarbone.
What’s wrong is that he would give back every dollar from last night if it meant waking up beside you for the next fifty years.
What’s wrong is that he is one second away from walking across that bar and lowering himself at your feet for your hands to baptize him clean, as if loving you were the only absolution worth asking for because whatever heaven exists for a man like him begins and ends with you.
And what’s wrong right now is that a man slides into the empty space beside you, leaning too close and touching your arm to get your attention. You turn toward him politely, your lips curving into the small smile you once called your ‘customer smile’. You had explained it to his brothers and him: that you always kept the worst-case scenario in the back of your mind and that a smile felt safer than a hard no since it could mean the difference between walking away or not.
(Andrew doesn’t know the names or the faces of those who made you feel like that but he wants to find them. He wants to press them on the ground and feel their pulse panic under his thumbs. He wants them to understand what fear tastes like when it turns metallic into the mouth. He wants the air stolen from their lungs the way it must have been stolen from yours when you felt scared. He no longer wants to count. He wants to hurt. To see this man’s blood on the bar.)
Andrew starts walking towards you before he even formulates the thought, shoulders squared, already calculating how much force it would require to grab the stranger by the collar and steer him outside of the bar.
His vision narrows as he sees the stranger laughing, his hand lifting to linger near your elbow as if he was testing whether he can push for more and that makes Andrew’s vision blur at the edges. He is three steps away. Two.
Your eyes find his instantly, and something shifts in your expression. Your hand leaves the cocktail and you smile at him. It’s not the customer smile. No, it’s the real one that unravels him each time.
“Hey, honey,” you say brightly as your arm wraps around his neck and you press a kiss to his cheek, your hand traveling down his side before sliding into the back pocket of his pants, settling against him.
Andrew is almost sure he died at some point on the way there because he is pressed against you and now, he is no longer Andrew or Pope. For a brief moment, he gets to just be honey, and the word makes him happier than any name ever has.
The stranger glances between you. “Oh. I didn’t realize…”
“My boyfriend,” you cut him off with a smile, looking up at Andrew’s face.
His eyes were already on yours, searching for the smallest flicker of fear. Because if the man has dared put some in them, Andrew would dig an unmarked grave without blinking. When he finds none, his hand comes to your waist, his thumb strolling along your hip as he dips his head and presses his mouth above the faint line of stitches on your forehead.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, low enough that the word belongs only to you.
He feels your breath hitch against his skin before turning to the man and saying lightly. “No worries, he always gets a little intense about men crowding me,” you tilt your head, thoughtful. “Not sure if it’s the boxing or the prison time. But don’t mind him…he almost doesn’t bite.”
The stranger’s smile falters just enough to satisfy something dark in Andrew’s chest. “Oh, um…yeah. Sorry man, I didn’t know she was taken.”
Andrew doesn’t raise his voice or move, he just stands there with your hand in his pocket, letting the silence stretch until it feels suffocating. “She is.”
“Right. I’ll go back to…the match.”
Andrew doesn’t blink and keeps track of the man’s back until he is laughing again at his friends’ table like nothing happened and only then does he let his focus shift back to you. You, who’s still close and warm, holding onto him like you have no intention of letting go.
His hand remains at your waist as he turns toward you, the movement bringing your faces close enough that your noses almost brush and your breaths mix between you. He lowers his head slightly, almost enough to kiss you.
“You okay?” he murmurs while his thumb keeps its slow movement on your hip.
You nod, your mouth curving up in that smile he loves. The real one. The one that you have at the skatepark each time you manage to stay upright a little longer than the day before: proud, bright and stubbornly pleased of yourself. And he can’t help but think about those lips and the way they said ‘honey’.
(He wants to hear it again. Wants to hear it softly. Wants to hear it moaned in the dark and against his mouth. He wants to kiss them every day for the rest of his life. To learn them. To know how they would part as he pounds into you. Stop. He has to stop.)
He blinks twice, grounding himself in the feel of your waist.
“Andrew. I’m good, I promise,” you murmur, sliding your hand out of his pocket and lace your fingers with his instead, interlocking them. “Let’s get out of here, please. It’s too loud.”
He doesn’t say it out loud, but relief settles at your suggestion. The bar feels too loud, too crowded and the idea of how many unwashed hands like Craig’s have been over the counters keeps coming back at him. So, when you tug gently at his hand and turn toward the door, he follows without hesitation, grateful that you were the one saying it.
The door swings shut behind you and the noise from the bar dulls instantly, reduced to a muted thud. The air is cooler than inside, smelling like the salt of the ocean mixed with your shampoo and he doesn’t understand how he gets to still have your hand in his and your thumb moving across his knuckles.
It’s only when you stop beside the truck and turn toward him that his eyes drop to the thin gold chain resting around your neck. His free hand lifts carefully to brush the chain first, following it down until the pad of his thumb rests over the pendant itself, flattening it against your skin.
“Still got it on,” he murmurs, tracing the outline of the pendant.
(He imagines doing this, years from now. In the kitchen. In bed. In the shower. Adjusting it before you leave the house. Brushing it aside before he kisses the curve of your throat. Seeing it against your skin when you are carrying his child.)
“Looks better on you than it did in the store,” he adds.
Your fingers slide slowly between his, guiding his hand so it settles flat over your heartbeat. He can feel it beating loud and fast under his palm, matching his own.
You tilt your face enough to find his eyes back. “Thank you for what happened in there, Andrew. You were good.”
His eyes slip shut for half a second because he doesn’t trust himself to survive the way you are looking at him, smiling at him with such warmth he shivers of pleasure.
(Good. You think he is good. If that’s what you want, he can be good. He can kneel. He can find how to rebuild himself from the bones if it means you keep calling him good.)
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he says under his breath.
“Why?”
“Because I’d do anything if you asked.”
Your fingers start to caress the back of his hand. “Anything?”
He nods, his gaze unwaveringly focused on your eyes. “If you told me to walk away from the jobs, I would.”
Your hand pauses against his.
“Andrew…” you murmur, but there’s no panic in it, no immediate rejection. “You know why I wanted to reject him, right?”
He doesn’t answer, too scared of startling the moment with another word.
“You know why I’d reject any other guy in that bar and why I wanted him to know?”
“Know what?”
“That I’m not available.”
“You’re not?” he asks, as his mind races.
“I don’t know,” you say softly. “Are you?”
The question hangs there, in the small space between your bodies, his mind fumbling with a thousand overlapping questions.
(Are you with him? Calling him yours? Defining what this was? Finally answering the question that has been rattling his brain for weeks?)
“Are you available Andrew?” you repeat gently, your hand lifting up to cup his face.
He exhales slowly, trying not to whimper at the contact, shaking his head.
You lean closer, your nose brushing his and your voice dropping lower. “No?”
“No.”
Your thumb traces patterns along his cheekbone and it takes him a few moments to realize that you were mapping his freckles. “How long?” you whisper.
He feels too weak to reply, overwhelmed by the tenderness of your touch. If his heart had not been already yours, he would lay it at your feet right there, so long as you promise to treat him with this gentleness and care for the rest of his life.
“Before the party? When I called you to help me?” he nods. “Before our night on the couch?” another nod. “Before our first skateboard le-?”
“When we met. And you brought pastries,” he replies, on the verge of a sob, shameful to confess that he keeps thinking about you on top of him, under him, any way you want it as long as he could disappear into your light and be drown whole by your grace to wipe out every horror he has ever seen or done for the sake of others.
“Andrew. Honey. Please, look at me.”
He keeps his gaze darted to the ground, like looking anywhere but you might prevent him from saying anything more revealing about the depth of his feelings, before his eyes close on their own instinctively, only realizing a heartbeat later that it’s because your lips found his.
And for the first time in Andrew’s life, that deep pit of misery in his heart goes completely silent, frozen for a flash before kissing you back.
Your lips are warm and a little reckless, tasting like mint and something entirely yours that he knows he will crave for the rest of his life. Your fingers thread into his curls, pulling a groan he can’t control out of him. He moves closer without thinking, his hand sliding along your waist until your back meets the metal of the truck door.
The second he registers the force of it, he pulls back just enough to search your face, to scan for any sign that he has gone too far, but the pause barely lasts a breath before your fingers tighten in his hair, guiding him back down as your body arched into his, slipping his tongue past your parted lips.
You are an oasis and he is nothing but a thirsty man wandering in the dark who gets to finally know what it’s like to drink every drop of it. You taste dizzy and intoxicating and he knows that he has been feeding on scraps of affection all his life and now…now he understands what it means to be full.
He is about to tell you how much sweeter you taste than in his fantasies before you bite down on his lower lip, drawing another sound of his throat.
You tilt your head, your arms wrapping fully around his neck as his drop to your hips, steady and sure, to raise you higher against the door, a gasp spilling out of you that he swallows eagerly and your dress hiking up as your legs wrap around him, denying any space between your bodies.
He feels you pull away for air by an inch or two, making him whine at the loss of contact, but he quickly recovers as he sees the flushed smile on your kiss-swollen lips. “Show off.”
“Yeah?” he asks while one of his arms tightens under you, anchoring your body to the door while the other frees itself to trail up your body and adding a smug, “Yeah,” skimming your inner thigh and marveling at how many sounds he can coax out of you, wondering how much more he’d pull if he could trace his thumb along your heat. But instead, he cups again your cheek, tracing slowly the bow of your lips.
“Dimples,” you murmur.
“What?”
“Dimples, Andrew,” you repeat, delighted, like you’ve just discovered something rare. “I didn’t know you had them.”
(Oh. Of course. You can see them because he is smiling. For real. A real one. Not the tight, guarded version. Not the twitchy one. A full unguarded smile. When was the last time he did that?)
“I do,” he says, trying and failing to smooth it away. “So do you.”
Your eyebrows lift. “I do not.”
“You do,” he insists quietly, shifting his hold slightly to keep his arm secure around you, his thumb pressing gently at the corner of your mouth. “Right there…”
Inside the bar, the crowd erupts in a wave of shouting, making you glance at the door before erupting in laughter, eyes wide.
“Oh, fuck,” you whisper, incapable of stopping your giggles. “I forgot.”
Andrew exhales through his nose, trying to calm the blood pumping hard all the way down his length. He knows that you’ve been feeling him against you the whole time, your hips still rubbing together, and for once in his life, he doesn’t want to excuse himself or feel ashamed of his desires, of how much he wants. He has spent too many nights thinking about how you’d taste, how you’d moan. Too many cold showers to try get rid of his hard-on whenever he was picturing you.
“Maybe…” you murmur against his mouth, pecking soft kisses along his jaw. “Maybe we should relocate.”
He looks at you, at the way your lips are still swollen and glistening from kissing, at your panting and the tremors of your legs.
He nods, lowering you carefully back onto your feet, his hands still trailing along your sides to still have some ways of being connected to you before reaching for the door handle of the passenger seat and helping you in.
He feels, walking around to the driver’s side, that he is still smiling. Dimples and all.
──────────
“Maybe…” you sigh, struggling to keep your composure and pressing kisses along the freckles dusting his jaw. “Maybe we should relocate.”
The intensity of his eyes on you, trailing along your body and taking in your rampant arousal, feels like he is on the verge of taking you against the door. You are pretty sure that if he’d ask you for permission, you’d grant it promptly. You want him. You want to know how long it would take for his unwavering hazel eyes to become pleading wet just by your lips telling how good he is to you.
But he just nods, jaw tight before lowering you carefully back onto your feet, making you bite down a protest at the loss of contact, like even the air feels like too much distance, until you feel his fingertips dragging over your waist.
He opens the door for you and not so long ago, you would have described his current behavior as controlled and cold, but now that you know him…you recognize a man who’s trying to contain himself, like a wild animal finally freed.
(Devour. You want him to devour you. To ruin you. Four months of trying – miserably – to have a date with him and it took only a gross man and a ‘honey’ to get him to kiss you like that and tell you he would quit everything? Fuck. Focus.)
He starts the engine, snapping you out of your thoughts, before pulling out of the parking lot, still smiling. You stare at his profile: the line of his jaw that has now faint traces of your lipstick, the way his tongue briefly drags across his lower lips like he can still taste you and his hand on the gear shift that slowly drifts to your thigh.
Your breath stutters the moment his palm settles just above your knee, the pads of his fingers tracing patterns over it while he keeps his eyes on the road. That definitely doesn’t help your craving for more.
(How much can be a fine for having sex in a car anyway? Andrew has money. Plenty from what you understand so…that would just be a drop in a bucket, right?)
You slide your fingers over his, intertwining them on your lap and stilling his slow, absent movements. He glances at you immediately, probably to understand why you stopped him. But the look you give him is enough to answer his question.
His eyes trail your face a fraction too long before looking back to the road, purposefully, the streetlights passing by a little faster.
“We’ll be there in five,” he declares without looking at you.
“Andrew, it’s at least ten minutes away,” you say, with a barely contained smile.
“Five.”
“I’m timing you, you know,” you smirked, pointing at the car clock.
The truck moves through an intersection just as the light turns yellow - once, then again at the next block – while Andrew doesn’t do so much as blink.
“See?” he says, the hint of a smug smile on his face when the car finally parks home.
You check the dashboard clock. Four minutes.
You shake your head, laughing as you both unbuckle your seatbelts. “Show off.”
Of course, you should know better now, he is not a man to stop there. So, when he opens the door for you before you even reach for the handle, and offers his hand, you should see it coming.
He helps you down carefully and for half a breath you think that maybe this time he’s not going to do it. No, you definitely should know better cause the moment your feet hit the ground, his arm slides behind your knees, sweeping you off while the other moves behind your back.
A breathless gasp escapes your mouth. “Andrew!”
(God you are so fucking gone for him. Is this what it would feel like? Crossing a threshold with him as a young bride? Completely besotted in a white dress? No. Not would. Will.)
He shuts the door with his hip, adjusting you against his chest as your arms loop around his neck automatically, your body relishing his touch as the thought slips out before you can stop it: “I feel like your bride right now.”
His steps slow on his way to the door, just enough for you to notice and wonder if you should just tell him to brush off your stupid words. That you are just drunk (you barely had the time to drink a sip of your cocktail earlier) and tired (you just spent two nights in a row sleeping like a baby in his arms).
The garage light flickers as he reaches the front door. “You are.”
He carries you inside like he’s done it in a million other lifetimes while you are still gaping, mouth wide open at his words. You shake your head a bit wobbly before moving your hand from the nape of his neck to the place on his cheek where you know a dimple is hiding.
“Careful,” you murmur, smiling softly. “Keep talking like that and I might start looking for a dress rea-”
Your words are being cut off by his mouth, kissing you like he is trying to drown in the sensation, tilting his head to fit you better, to take more of you, and you can’t stop the moan passing your lips. It feels like stepping into the fire and realizing you don’t ever want to be pulled out.
Your feet carefully find back the ground as his hands slide along your backbone, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades. His lips part yours with the same confidence he has when he catches you at the skatepark. You feel him everywhere and you still want more.
(Is it ever going to stop? This feeling? This whole tremor that dances under your skin every time he touches you? Every time he kisses you like he means forever?)
He pulls away just enough, heavy breath mingling with yours, hazel eyes half-lidded in pleasure and his nose brushing yours softly with your foreheads pressed together, “We can just kiss. If that’s what you want. I don’t need more. Just you,” he murmured in a broken voice.
The words settle deep in your chest, heavy and large as if they have roots. It makes you want to answer him with your mouth, to kiss him until his doubts leave his bones entirely. You bring your fingers to the bow of his lips and he kisses them gently, one after the other, the softness of it making you tremble.
“Andrew,” you say quietly, smiling despite your racing pulse. “Take me to bed.”
He regards you for a long moment, his eyes moving slowly over your face as though he is searching for hesitation and when he finds none, a smile begins at the corner of his mouth, enough to carve that rare, gorgeous dimple into his cheek. “Bossy,” he smirks before lifting you back by the waist so your legs can wrap up around his waist, walking around the house guided only by his memory since his lips are too busy coaxing moans out of you.
You are almost blacking out from the lack of oxygen when the kiss suddenly breaks. In the soft lighting of his bedroom, you distinguish most of his expression: lustful and bewildered that this is finally happening.
“I want to taste you. Please,” he breaths and you nod, not trusting yourself to reply.
The look that passes through his hazel eyes is hazy, fingers finding the hem of your dress and carefully pulling it up.
“Don’t want to mess it,” he says, folding it neatly on his chair. “You look pretty in that.”
You sit on the edge of the bed, trying not to feel too self-conscious about being only in your underwear, braless as he kneels down to the floor, still fully clothed and face a few inches lower than yours, prying your legs apart.
“Andrew,”
He doesn’t respond, pressing his lips to the inner corner of your thigh and moving further up between your legs.
“You don’t have to Andrew.”
He only lifts his gaze up to yours, unwavering as he continues his kisses, “You don’t want it?”
“I…I’m not saying that. I just…I don’t want you to feel obligated to it. I know it’s not…what men like the most,” you gasp, your hand finding his curls and twisting them around your fingers, making him grunt.
“It’s what I want to do the most, right now,” he says with a sinful gaze. “Can I?”
“Yes. Okay. Sure,” you choke, closing your eyes and lying down as he continues his torturous path, his hands slowly tugging the last piece between him and your pussy.
You don’t think you have ever been this wet with a man. Or a woman. Or anyone at all. Normally, you feel a bit uncomfortable with men going down on you cause they never seem to know what they are doing or are too impatient of having ‘real sex’ to let you finish. But here with Andrew, you are nothing but pleasure, his lips fiddling with you like you are an instrument that he is tuning to his own harmony.
You gasp as his tongue finally probes your folds stopping just underneath your clit, earning from him a low whimper.
“You taste delicious,” he goes, coming up for air by an inch. “Just like how I dreamt,” he adds, making you feel close to delirious.
He lowers his face again, tongue working its way up your pussy again, finally reaching for your clit and rolling over it, making you shudder and writhe on the bed, incapable of keeping your moans down and your hands running through his scalp.
“Andrew, please. Just like that. It’s perfect,” you praise him, feeling how it makes him pick up the pace.
Your last straw is the sight of his face between your legs, eyes burning with nothing but want, his hands used to stealing and hurting now holding onto your legs to keep them open and making you come with a hoarse cry. If there’s a heaven on Earth, you know now that it must only exist in this man. In his hands, his chest, his mouth, his eyes. He is nothing but your sanctuary, your promised land and your altar.
When your orgasm subsides, you feel Andrew crawling over you and pressing his lips against you, making you taste yourself on his mouth as you slip your tongue in it. The small noise of pleasure from the back of his throat is the most delicious sound you’ve ever heard.
“You,” you breathe against him, your lips brushing his, pupils probably wide. “I want you. Like right now. So please…take off those clothes. I love them. Really. But take them off.”
His lips twitches again to the side, “Anything.” as he starts to undress, folding them before going above you, his hard cock pressing against your heat.
His eyes keep searching your face, looking for an ounce of backtrack in your eyes before slowly entering you. That’s when you realize how grateful you are for the previous climax because in any other situation, you would have probably wince at his thickness. Thankfully, he seems to catch on with it - probably due to his gaze not leaving your face and refusing to blink – and takes his time to be fully inside you.
For a couple of minutes, the two of you don’t move, give you the time to marvel at how good he feels inside of you. You know now that you’ll have other days and nights to ask him to stay like this for hours, just to be one.
Andrew presses his forehead against yours, lips brushing yours as he whispers. “I love you.”
The word hums through your body. Love. Love. Love. Andrew loves someone and it’s you. From your scalp to your toes, you can feel it resonating through you. Love. Love. Love.
“I love you, Andrew. My Andrew,” you murmur happily, moving a drenched curl from his forehead. “So good to me.”
His face ends up in your neck, trying to cover his reaction to your words. “You really think I’m good?”
“Of course you are. Look at me, honey,” you say, holding onto his chin to bring back his face close to yours as your legs wrap around his waist. “You are good. You are kind. You keep making me feel safe. And…I’m so lucky to have you,” you add, rolling your hips and making him shiver.
You drink in the sight of him: his sweaty hair sticking to his head, curls messy from where your fingers had run through, the freckles dusting his chest and the traces of old wounds that you’ll ask about one day. But the most important of all is the way he is looking at you – as if he loves you. Because he does. He said it. I love you. I love you. I love you.
You keep whispering sweet nothings into his ear, just to see the flush spreading on his cheeks, his ears, his chest and encouraging his thrusts to go harder, deeper. Soon enough, you are quivering around him, your nails digging in his skin as you bite on his lower lip in retaliation for making you wait so long for this moment.
He lets out a desperate moan. “I won’t…last long. ‘m sorry. You feel so…”
“It’s okay,” you encourage him. “I want you to come.”
He slams his cock one more time and goes. “Wh-Where?”
“In me,” you beg, and you know you have hit the right nerve from the way his whole body trembles.
“Really?” he breathes.
“Please.”
The sight of his body, eyes fighting to not shut tight from the pleasure, mouth pursuing yours, mixed with how good he is making you feel, is too much. Your back arches as you reach your second climax tonight, quickly followed by Andrew, clinging to you as his warm load fills you up. Both of you are gasping for one another, time almost freezing as your eyes are sharing the same thought. I love you. I love you. I love you.
After a couple of minutes, Andrew slips out of you and lays most of his body against your side, putting his head above your breasts, on your heartbeat, intertwining your hands together.
“Tomorrow,” he says.
You brush a kiss on top of his head. “What?”
“Tomorrow, we’re picking out your dress.”
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summary: You've never cared much for Patrick. Maybe the past has something to do with it - something about dating each other's best friend, wanting what the other had, etcetera. But years, careers, and relationships have passed, so seeing him shouldn't be too much of a problem, right? You're mature now. Right?
pairing: patrick zweig/fem!reader
word count: 6.2k
tags: 18+ MDNI, pro!reader, former friends to acquaintances with benefits, mentions of previous tashi/patrick & art/reader, unspoken history, bar-hopping, bickering, iPod shuffle mention, psych easter eggs, spot the rock lee quote, manhandling, penetrative sex.
a/n: 2/3 of the tennis trifecta !! we're not stopping until tashi's posted next lmao. in my mind's eye reader listens to gucci mane's 'go head' on repeat to pump up before matches. gif credit to @jordanlis!! divider credit to @enchanthings-a !!
good luck tomorrow. excited to see you play
The text message that pops up on your screen seems sincere enough; it’s the person who sent it that makes you pause. You’re surprised you even have the number saved.
Sweat beads at your temple beyond just exertion – the indoor-court you’re practicing on having even worse air-circulation than the YMCA by your apartment – and you chew at the rubber nozzle of your water bottle as you debate responding. You haven’t talked to Patrick in nearly two years.
If you’re being honest, you’d rather keep it that way.
“Are we slacking or practicing?” your coach – tall, stern, Nigerian – calls from across the net, a sleeve of tennis balls tucked underneath each arm. Her stare is sharp even yards away. “This is why you can barely win sets, eh? You’ll be lucky if you have even three games in you tomorrow. Put that phone away before I make you serve it to me.”
The Blackberry’s shoved back into your duffle before she can make good on that threat.
You skip back to the baseline. “It’s gone, it’s gone.” you wave her off. “Don’t make me get a new phone. Again.”
She doesn’t answer – just motions for you to fall into position. Gestures to squat lower. Only when she’s satisfied with your stance is the ball machine switched back on, primed to launch blurs of fluorescent yellow-green straight into your racket.
Some of your returns hit the net or the line; most of them sail into the service boxes. The text is forgotten before the second ball even makes contact with the clay of the court.
You’re continuing your steady rotation of drills until long after the burn sets in – your feet, your shoulders, your forearms, your thighs – all of it done in the name of placing high enough in this weekend’s tournament, maybe even enough to shake off the ‘wild card’ label you’ve been stuck with. Because two years on the court as a professional and it still grates at you that you’re punching above your weight more often than not.
It’s only when you’re dripping with sweat that you’re unceremoniously dismissed, permitted to return back to your hotel room and your hotel room only. No drinking, no clubbing, no sneaking into other players’ rooms. Boring, as far as tournament weekends go. Necessary, according to your coach.
“Be good tonight.” She asks of you in the parking lot before you part for your respective cars. “No smoking. I don’t want to smell it on you tomorrow.”
“Yes, coach.”
The drive back to the hotel is silent. The walk through the lobby is more or less the same. You key into your room with dead-weight movements and shuffle across the carpet until you’re slumping face-first into the pristine bedspread.
Later, when you’re fed and showered and lounging in bed – Blackberry in hand, ashtray in your lap, chain-smoking – Patrick’s text still goes unanswered.
You try not to think much about it – what is there to think about? It’s a professional tipping his hat to a fellow player, at best; at worst, he’s just trying to psych you out for old times’ sake. Either way, you’re beyond a response.
And besides – busy as you’ll be, you doubt you’ll even cross paths this weekend.
The morning and afternoon pass in a blur of flying skirts, swinging rackets, and pumped-up adrenaline. You do well in the first few rounds of the tournament, managing to sweep a handful of games until a neat set stumbles its way into your possession, and to your surprise (and your coach’s approval), you’ve qualified your way into tomorrow morning’s semi-finals.
You thought that you’d feel better after today’s matches, but you just feel…tired. Wired. Too much excess energy compared to the fatigue that’s been building since you finished your third game.
Maybe that’s why you find yourself back at the courts.
It’s evening, now – the twilight phase of the 24-hour cycle. Not too many people are around. An orange-pink sky blends with shades of romantic blue, and it’s a wonderful backdrop as you unzip your duffle, unsheathe your racket, and practice your forehand swing for what feels like an hour and some change. You practice until it burns, and then you practice some more. And for a while, it nearly feels peaceful.
“That grip is nasty as fuck.” A voice calls from the sideline, too masculine to be your coach. It’s irritating, grating. Familiar.
You startle mid-swing, and the tennis ball sails to the right of the service box.
Out.
“I mean, seriously –” Patrick continues, hands in his pockets, smiling with all the bravado of an asshole. “Are you trying to shatter your wrist? Because there are easier ways to do that.”
He’s wearing jeans and a hoodie with some indiscernible logo on it – probably one of his sponsors – and he’s sweaty or maybe freshly showered, a bit of today’s sun turning pink across his nose and cheeks. Unfortunately – or perhaps unsurprisingly – he looks more or less the same as he did the last time you saw him, albeit with more stubble and less visible rage.
You’re not exactly kind as you greet him. “The fuck are you doing here?” you pant, wide-eyed and chest heaving as you lower your racket.
If he’s offended, which you doubt, he doesn’t show it. “I thought you knew that I was playing today,” he grins, flashing white teeth. “And tomorrow. Semi-finals. You didn’t watch my matches?”
Obviously not.
“Who’d you play against?” you ask.
“Ludlow and Dvorak,” he answers. “I’m against Lenmar tomorrow.”
Oh.
“Oh.” you say lamely, earbuds hanging around your neck, iPod Shuffle clipped to the collar of your zip-up. You struggle for a response. “Well, that should be easy enough. He has no net game.”
Patrick smiles like you’ve said something both hilarious and true, and he takes a few meandering steps forward to lean against the pole of the net, showing off the length and line of his body.
“I saw you out here earlier,” he mentions, casual. “You looked good. You’re against Sirtis tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” you answer. “You watch her, too?” It comes out haughty.
Secretive like a joke, Patrick smiles.
It almost feels surreal – seeing him, talking to him. The last time you were in close proximity had been on the courts of the Vista Rico Tennis & Racquet Club. You had thrown a racket at him; he had called you a crazy fuckin’ bitch. Your blood had been pumping in a way that rarely ever happened off-game, and you decided then and there that Patrick was a piece of shit, period. No Tashi or Art to defend him back then.
Now, it just feels awkward – at least, you feel awkward. No heat, all nerves. The silence stretches.
He breaks it first, nonchalant. “Did you get my text?”
You sigh, tossing your racket on its duffle as you exchange it for your water bottle. “Yeah, Patrick, I got your text.”
“Huh,” he tongues at his cheek, watching you drink. “You never answered.” That’s rude, his tone implies.
“Oh, come on,” a vein begins to throb at your forehead. Gesturing around you – at the courts, the gear, your sweating figure – you answer with an appropriate amount of exasperation, “I’ve been preoccupied.”
“Uh-huh, too busy for a response. I get it. I use that excuse, too.” he scoffs, bemused and not even close to buying your justification, but not offended. “You demolished your matches today, I’m sure you can afford to take your eyes off the court for a minute. Or is Ojo keeping you on a tight leash?”
He’s referring to your coach, and the fucker grins when you stiffen and glower. “Yeah, I heard she likes to do that with her players. Never thought you’d actually be into it, though.”
You try not to be too obvious in your annoyance when you regard him, but Patrick’s always been an overachiever when it comes to bringing out that side of you.
“Yeah, well,” you start smartly, hand on your hip like a bitch. “There are two different types of players: those like you, who are born with a modicum of talent and don’t have to work at it, and those like me.” You toss the plastic bottle back into your duffle, purposefully turning away from him.
Patrick stares at you for a long, hard moment before his mouth quirks up. “Another piece of fortune-cookie advice from Coach Cunt?” he asks, conversational.
“Fuck off, Pat.”
“Hey, I’m serious –” he shrugs, laughing and grinning. “I’m sure she’s got a lot of insight to share. Perspective. You’ll probably need it if you actually want to, you know…win.”
Your head snaps to him quickly enough that something in your neck cracks, and he’s already looking at you. He’s been looking – waiting for you to turn and address him like he’s a real person who deserves basic respect.
Little prick.
“Oh, so that’s what this is about – this impromptu conversation?” you scowl, because of course that’s what this is about. He can never just let sleeping dogs lie, always needing to poke and prod no matter how inappropriate or discomforting. “You came by to give me a few ‘professional’ pointers, like back in college? Does it look like I need tips from you?”
“Jesus,” he laughs. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Yeah? Fuckin’ ditto.”
You turn your back to him as you pick up your racket and return to the basket of tennis balls, mood significantly soured now as you go through the forceful motions of your drills. Patrick watches for a minute or two before sighing like you’re inconveniencing him, and he scuffs his sneakers against the clay of the court.
“C’mon, don’t be an asshole. I just wanted to talk.”
“I don’t feel like listening to the play-by-play of how my matches could’ve been better.” you grunt, focusing on your backhand, now.
He smiles and leans forward, still trying to tease a bit of banter out of you. “Not everything has to be criticism, does it?”
“What else do we have to talk about?” There’s the sharp snap of your racket, and the next tennis ball barely hits the line.
And that seems to sober him up – he stiffens at the sideline, frowning for a brief second before going intentionally blank-faced. When he scoffs again, it’s with a bit more vitriol. You’d say that he’s pouting but you’re not actually paying enough attention to even tell, too intent on ignoring him. His arms are crossed at his chest as he waits for either a comeback or an additional comment, and when he doesn’t get one, he slumps a bit, almost dejected before he snaps back to his typical posturing. He doesn’t look back as he turns to leave.
“Try not to pitch a fit when you choke tomorrow,” he calls only when he’s a safe distance away, the coward. “They’ll fine your ass for throwing a racket at her.”
The only response he gets is the crack of your racket against another ball – violent this time.
And just like the text, you’re beyond a response. Because assholes don’t deserve responses; to respond is to stoop to his level. You’re above that – maybe not above him, because you like to think that you’re somewhat self-aware of your own faults and flaws, but above the baiting and the irritation.
But more irritating than anything else – more than his attitude or his unwanted conversation or his sheer presence – is knowing that Patrick can still get under your skin and make you seethe.
You’re hot.
You’re so fucking hot.
More than 24-hours later and you’re slumped at what might be your third or fourth location of the evening – starting with a club you could dance at and now aiming to finish at a bar-lounge hybrid not too far away from the hotel. The few passing friends you’ve made on tour have long called it quits, and it’s just you, now – sweat cooling on your skin as you sit on a swivel-stool in a dimly lit corner at the bar.
You’ve had too many cocktails and just enough beers. The bottle you’re currently nursing may be your last of the night as you click passively through your phone, skimming over unread messages and missed call alerts, mostly from Ojo, and you’ll have the sense to feel guilty tomorrow. Probably.
Because it’s not a celebratory night out.
You lost your match, which is a bummer but not entirely a surprise – Sirtis is more or less a beast, and you may have been punching above your weight this tournament. Your coach is kind of pissed, but you’re just grateful for the excuse to get semi-sloppy after such prolonged ‘good behavior.’
And it’s not like you embarrassed yourself out there on the court; it was a fair game, you both played it neat and technical, and Sirtis turned up the better player. It happens in this line of work – and if a player is particularly unlucky (or untalented), it happens more often than not. Thankfully, your win-loss ratio speaks for itself – at least, it does for now.
You’re scrolling through the last of your unanswered texts when you reach Patrick’s from days earlier, and it’s a testament to how much you’ve had to drink that you don’t immediately break into a scowl at the reminder of him. In this bar, under the haze of mood lighting and the disappointment of a loss, you feel almost nostalgic.
For what, you’re not exactly sure. An easier schedule? The lack of pressure? The disregard for something as torturous as dieting? Or maybe just an existing social life beyond what friends you manage to make during tours. It feels like a lifetime, but it wasn’t too long ago that your social circle included Patrick.
Among a few specific others.
You can feel your nostalgia turning into something depressing, and you’re distracted just in time by someone clambering onto the stool next to you. You don’t pay attention to them as you down the remainder of your beer, half-convinced it’s just some asshole who’s been leering at you from across the room, and you search for your wallet to settle your tab.
“Celebratory drinks?” the asshole asks, and the tone is irritating and grating and familiar.
The rat stuck in the glue-trap of your existence. Even when he’s released, he comes back for more.
You’re incredulous as you turn to face Patrick, who’s smug at your side. A glass of something amber rests lazily against his chin, and you briefly wonder how long he’s been here.
Your clouded mind passively takes in peachy-tanned skin and stubble and the peak of chest hair flashing beneath the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, and you find your train of thought instinctively barreling toward something hot and intrigued rather than the typical exasperated disregard you usually hold for him.
And just like a lifetime ago, you ignore the feeling.
“If you watched my match today,” you say instead, “you’d know the answer to that.”
He grins, eyes crinkled as he sips at his drink. “Yeah, I watched. You almost make losing look good. Quality show of sportsmanship or whatever.”
Prick. “Better than being fined for racket abuse.” You’re rolling your eyes, but you find that you’re not exactly displeased at Patrick’s presence – not like yesterday, at least. Alcohol-induced nostalgia can be a powerful thing. “And your match?” you raise a brow, gesturing to the drink in his hand. “Did Lenmar look good when he was losing? Congratulations, by the way.”
Patrick practically preens under the dry praise.
“Nah, not really my type,” he snorts into his glass. “He’s vanilla. Fucking boring. And you know how I like my players – Type-A. Mean. Hungry.”
Specific people come to mind with that description, and you shake away the thought. “Are you projecting again? Because you’re not exactly Type-A.”
“Oh, I’m definitely anal.”
Your laugh is short and loud, like an animal’s bark. Definitely kinda/sorta drunk. Patrick laughs with you in this uncommon moment of amicability, elbows resting against the polished wood of the bar as he swivels back and forth in his stool, and he seems in high spirits as he regards you with shining eyes.
“So, this is how I get a conversation out of you?” he glances pointedly at your empty beer bottle. “Wait until you’re loose enough to shoot the shit with me?” It’s not judgmental, which is the only reason your mood doesn’t sour, but still…
“Oh, come on,” you groan at the topic. “You’re actually surprised by that? It’s not like we’ve ever been buddies.”
“Well, not recently,” he agrees. “But we’ve always had…potential.”
You don’t know what to think about the way he says that – casual with some sort of innuendo. “Your nagging sort of got in the way of that.” you snort, pushing past the unsubtle way he’s eyeing you.
“Nagging?” his brows shoot up to his hairline.
“Yeah, you know…nagging. Bitching about my form, or my stance, or my games. Swinging your big, professional dick around.” It had been more than annoying, and you’d complained to Tashi nearly every time he came to visit.
Patrick scoff-laughs, polishing off the remainder of his drink before defending himself. “Hey, I was giving you pointers – it’s not like Stanford was overflowing with potential pros. You needed the guidance.”
“I had all the guidance I could handle back then.”
“And now?” he asks.
Raising a brow, you turn to him; he’s resting his chin in an open palm, head tilted as he appraises you with something that could be appreciation as he awaits a response, lax and lazy.
You sport a pensive expression as you consider this, and eventually answer, “I think I’ve got my hands full with ‘Coach Cunt.’”
He grins. “I bet. She give you permission to go out tonight?”
“Maybe. Why – you plan on tattling? Or are you gonna start bitching again?”
Hand to heart, Patrick feigns an offended look. “I’m just looking out for my favorite player on the women’s tour.”
“You’re so full of shit.”
“I am,” he agrees readily. “And you are, too. At least my shit wins matches.”
Asshole.
You suck at your teeth, tempering your reaction with a breathy inhale-exhale. He’s just trying to bait you again. “And here comes the nagging – what’re the critiques this time? Too loose? Sloppy footwork? Because I’ve heard it all from Ojo at this point.”
“Nah, nothing like that.” Patrick smiles, indulgent. “I’ve grown up since then. Nothing unsolicited offered here.”
“Really? Nothing?” You’re doubtful of that.
“Well…maybe one or two things.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Hey, I said that I’m looking out for you. And no offense, but Ojo could probably use that mindset to your advantage.” He’s casual but avoids your eye when he says this, opting to signal the bartender for another drink.
You scoff, defensive. “You don’t know her.”
“I don’t have to,” he snorts into his refilled glass.” I just have to watch one of your matches.”
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” The beginnings of a scowl are starting to develop across your expression, and Patrick sighs in exasperation.
“It means you’re high-strung and pent-up,” he answers straightly, leaning in so you can better hear his lowered tone. “It’s obvious and it’s affecting your game for the worse, but hey – I’m sure coach knows best.”
Shrugging, he doesn’t break eye-contact as he swallows down a hefty mouthful of liquor, daring you to contradict him.
Typical, you rise to the bait. “I’m pretty sure it’s referred to as ‘discipline.’” you wave him off, semi-irritated that he’s able to sense this about you by doing nothing more than watching a few of your matches.
Distantly, you wonder if it’s just him who’s noticed, or if it’s just that obvious.
“Ah, okay.” he nods sagely, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth as he pretends to understand. “I get it, this is self-imposed celibacy. Good for you – it worked for Ali, you know.”
“That’s not what it is, jackass.”
“No?” he raises his brows, feigning confusion. “What is it, then?”
“It’s normal bullshit. You know – no drinking, no smoking, no…fraternizing with other players.”
“What?” Patrick laughs. “Fraternizing?”
“I’m not the one who came up with it, okay?”
“No, you’re just following along.” he hums, obnoxiously pleased by this tidbit of your misery. He thumbs at the rim of his glass as he considers this newfound information, and you don’t doubt that he’s scheming.
Irritated for one reason or another, you flag down the bartender for another drink. Something a bit stronger than beer this time around. It’s only after a few sips and some companionable silence that Patrick speaks again.
“When’s the last time you had sex?” he asks, casually inquisitive. It takes you aback just enough for the mouthful you’re drinking to dribble past your lips, and you cough as you wipe at your chin.
Patrick grins. “What? We’re on the subject. I figured I’d ask.”
“When’s the last time you had sex?” you shoot back, although you’re sure his response will be far less lacking than yours.
“Last week.” he answers. Dickhead. “Why? Do you want to hear the details?” His expression makes it clear how much he would enjoy that.
“You’re a pig.”
“We’re animals, girly. It’s natural. Don’t tell me you’ve turned into a prude under Ojo’s tutelage.”
You’re petulant to be even discussing the topic. “Maybe I’ve always been this way.”
“Yeah, right.” Patrick snorts. “Tashi told me stories, you know.”
And that halts the automatic reply of your banter. You blink.
That’s…huh. Unexpected.
Distantly, something in your chest tightens and aches despite him only bringing her up as a taunt; you push past it with gusto as you return his verbal serve.
“Art was always pretty tight-lipped about you,” you swallow a mouthful of something strong and citrusy as you continue, “I kind of figured he was jealous.”
“What? Of me?” Patrick’s surprised for only a moment before shaking his head. “Eh, maybe. To be honest, I was kind of jealous of him.”
“…Really?” That’s hardly what you expected to hear. Patrick’s never seemed the envious type. “Why?”
He considers this for a minute, fingering the rim of his glass. “A few reasons, I guess.” he eventually shrugs. “He had shit that I didn’t back then.”
“You could’ve gone to Stanford.” you’re not unkind as you remind him of the opportunities he’d rejected. “But hey, it’s not like you’re a total failure.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
Pointedly, he stares at you. His gaze remains steadfast even when downing the remainder of his now-empty glass; he sets it on the bar and doesn’t signal for a refill, and that in itself feels like a message that you have yet to translate.
It’s only when one of his legs slides against yours – slow and steady, warm even beneath the fabric – that you understand what he’s talking about with a startling clarity.
Oh.
“Pat –” you begin awkwardly, and it’s your tone alone that leaves him wholly unimpressed.
“What?” he scoffs, leaning back and crossing his arms at his chest. “You’re actually surprised? Jesus, did I not make it obvious enough?”
Your mouth flattens at the ham-fisted attitude. Any unease you may have felt evaporates as you sneer at each other. “Oh, you did. I just figured you were a piece of shit.”
Because what kind of guy would go after his best friend’s girlfriend? Or somehow even worse – what kind of guy would go after his own girlfriend’s best friend?
Something turns sour on your tongue.
…On second thought, maybe Art and Patrick are more alike than you had originally thought; you’ve heard throughout the tour that Donaldson and Duncan have become something of a couple beyond just coaching. It’s something you have yet to fully digest.
But Patrick’s undeterred by your moral judgement. “And I thought you were a prissy fuckin’ bitch – hell, I liked that about you. You’re gonna say you didn’t feel the same?”
A scowl. “I tolerated you, sure.”
“Oh, now who’s full of shit?”
Each growing irritated by the other – you with his unashamed honesty, and him with your tight-lipped bluffing – you both let the chatter of the bar’s crowd overwhelm your now stunted conversation. It’s the last thing you need or want – Patrick’s attention – and you’re of half a mind to call a cab as you finish the remainder of your cocktail. The emptied glass rings as you set it on the counter and you finally manage to take out your wallet, determined to pay your tab this time around.
And again, Patrick interrupts you.
“I still think about you, you know.” he says, probably in a last-ditch effort to keep you around. It’s not so much a confession as it is a verbal acknowledgment of the truth: he thinks of you. Not inherently negative or positive. Nothing more, nothing less.
And for the moment, it works; you stop thumbing through your wallet, stiff atop your stool as you’re once again halted by Patrick Zweig’s big fucking mouth. It’s a routine you should be able to recognize by now, but your time apart has left you forgetting his more bothersome traits.
He’s looking into the bottom of his glass up until he’s suddenly fixed on you, expression showing nothing save for his eyes, and it’s then that you realize – this is something more. He thinks of you, and it’s something more.
Undeterred, he continues, “I thought about you back then, and I think about you now. And you can think I’m an asshole for what I say or how I act, but I’ve only ever liked you.” He repeats his earlier action – sliding his knee against yours, not pressing any further. Just wanting that connection. “I still like you. Probably more than I should, considering you’ve thrown rackets at my head.”
You have the sense to be distantly rueful of your past behavior, and you say, “But you like them mean.”
A nod. “But I like them mean.” Patrick repeats in agreement.
Loaded, you hold one another’s gaze. The noise of the bar swells and dies down to a murmur as the intimacy of the moment settles over you. He’s closer than he was a minute ago, one elbow resting on the bar, his knuckles brushing against yours, and it’s a seduction rooted in history. Vague dislike, miscommunication, and unspoken history. It’s like you’ve been pushed onto the precipice of something you’ve always been conscious of but never expected to encounter. It’s a hassle because it’s Patrick; it’s thrilling because it’s Patrick.
His pinky curls around yours, and a decision has been made.
Because you’ve thought about him, too.
You kiss him outside of the bar.
It’s not something you’re particularly proud or ashamed of; it’s a spontaneous thing brought on by sheer want. You want to feel good. You want to make Patrick feel good because it’ll make you feel good.
The two of you are walking down the alley connected to the parking lot of the bar, heading for his car because he’s had significantly less to drink, and he looks good underneath the streetlights. He guides you with a warm palm pressed against the small of your back – his pinky slipping underneath the waistband of your jeans and underwear – and you think to yourself, I don’t want to wait.
No one else is around. Cars drive by in colorful blurs that streak across the nighttime horizon, their passengers none the wiser to a couple in an alleyway. You slow to a stop, pulling Patrick with you.
When he looks back, his brows are raised and a smile is quirking on his lips. “You okay?” he asks.
In lieu of a verbal response, you kiss him.
It’s hot and heavy off the bat, slack-mouthed and wet. If Patrick’s surprised, he doesn’t show it; his response is immediate, a leanly muscled arm curling at your waist to angle you closer to him, noses slotting together as he licks into your mouth with a low, vibrating hum. He almost sounds relieved. Tongue hot against yours, he’s quick to get sloppy with it and, for a while, there’s nothing but the hum of the city and the audible sound of your kissing.
The hand cupping your jaw slides down to palm at your breasts; you push him backwards until he’s pressed against the brick exterior of the bar. Each of your legs are slotted between the other’s and it’s a sloppy reacquaintance of spit and heavy petting.
Everything about it feels like a dream, or maybe that’s just your buzz wearing off. He gropes you with big, firm hands. Kneads at your tits and the flesh of your ass-cheeks.
He touches you like he’s thought about it before and now that the opportunity’s here, he’d rather kill himself than allow it to pass him by. He wants your attention on him; he wants your thoughts and your affection. He wants you to want him, too.
Your sex pulses beneath your underwear when he suckles at your tongue, bobbing subtly as if he’s giving head.
“S’different than I thought it’d be…” Patrick eventually mutters, pulling back and sucking in a lungful of air. His eyes are dark with the swell of his pupils, lips shining wetly as he pants against your mouth. The hem of his shirt is rucked up from where you’ve been petting at the dense trail of hair leading below his navel and waistband, and you think you can see the outline of his semi beneath his jeans.
“It’s good,” he hums, pleased and wanting to lick inside of you again. The slope of his nose grazes yours as he dips back in. “It’s real fuckin’ good.”
And for once, you and Patrick are on the same page. No miscommunication. No misunderstandings. He’s right.
It’s real fuckin’ good.
“Ah, fuck. Fuck –” you shudder and hiss a wounded noise, body tense as your pussy pulses, and Patrick groans, burrowing into your neck. “Shit, it’s fuckin’ big.”
Patrick’s hotel room is chaotic – bags tossed here and there, toiletries scattered on every other surface, clothes hanging from the backs of chairs and armrests and even the bedpost.
None of it matters; not even remotely. Because he’s thick and uncut and inside of you, and you feel like you’re losing your goddamn mind.
“Relax, relax,” he shushes you, mouthing at your ear and repeating the word again and again in an unthinking trance while he humps you into the mattress, and the angle is so sweet that it makes your eyes roll up and your body drool from both ends. You can feel it smeared against the inner of your thighs, slick and sticky and mixing with Patrick’s spit from when he had eaten you out earlier.
One of his hands slips from gripping the fistful of bedsheets in favor of forcing itself between the mattress and your groin, fingertips finding smears of wet once he finally reaches the beginning of your slit. It takes little searching before he’s making contact with the pert, aching nub of your clit, and you squirm underneath him.
Your writhing only serves to push him that much deeper into the slickened hole of your cunt and he curses lowly; a muscle in his thigh jumps, sac tightening at the snug contractions around his dick.
“There we go,” Patrick mutters as you start to settle, caressing your back like he’s soothing an animal. “There we fuckin’ go…”
When he drags the flat of his fingers against your clit in a mean back-and-forth, you cry out.
“Shit!” you shout, almost miserable as your ass instinctively backs into him, away from the friction and wanting him to hit that angle, biting into your thumb as he continues to rub firmly at your hardened clit and he shifts his hips just right, and it’s good. It’s so good. Your hips and thighs burn as you swivel and work for it, trying to buck against him underneath his full-bodied weight.
You feel thoughtless, and the sheer relief of it – of how good he’s making you feel – is enough to make you slobber across your knuckles.
He notices. You’re beginning to think that he might notice too much about you.
“You drooling, baby?” Patrick nudges his nose against your cheek, tone pleased as he slows his strokes and kisses at the corner of your slacked mouth. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Bet you’re not thinking about any of that other bullshit now.”
And then he adjusts, emphasizing his point by fucking you like a man paid to do it. Each stroke claps against your ass and forces your spine to arch as he rails you inch-by-inch up the mattress. The pat, pat, pat of his balls taps repeatedly against your clit, stringy drools of wet arousal connecting from your mound to his sac, and you keen.
It's overwhelming. It’s hot.
Sweat glistens across the flexing muscles of your bodies, dripping and smearing onto one another as he bottoms out, thrusting his hips as if he can go any deeper, and it’s like he’s trying to get it – you – out of his system. Calloused hands grip your waist as he drags the wet suction of your cunt back onto him in a repeated in and out, in and out. The sound of it is graphic. Explicit.
You want to squirm out of your skin with the way your pussy clenches and unclenches in tight, sporadic bursts around the thick length of him.
The fat tip of his cock barely kisses your cervix with every other stroke, and you want it so badly that you stop breathing for a few seconds. You just lock up, your sweating spine pressed against his hairy chest, and Patrick must be able to tell that you’re close because he ducks his head against the hinge of your jaw and gets to work.
“Yeah,” he pants, mouthing at the nape of your neck. “Yeah, yeah, yeah – I can feel it, baby. Don’t worry, I’ll get you there.”
He’s not laying strokes now; he’s curling his body over yours, hips rutting in a staccato rhythm and clapping wetly against your ass-cheeks as the length of him is sucked in and dragged back out. His swollen tip nudges against that spot over and over and over again, churning you from the inside-out, and the fresh wave of slick arousal it brings is both immediately heard and felt.
“Jesus Christ,” Patrick huffs and curses something indiscernible; tone low and intimate as he pants against your ear. “This tight fuckin’ pussy…gonna make me fuckin’ come, goddamn.”
He’s not wearing a condom. You don’t know why the reminder of it makes you clench like a vice, but whatever the reason, he can feel it – the sudden, pressured resistance of your cunt as it decides whether it wants to let him in or push him out even though he’s mid-stroke. It’s an eye-crossing feeling, and a broken groan tumbles from his throat as he decides for you and snaps in to the hilt.
There’s no further build-up – your orgasm slams into you. Everything tightens – your muscles, your core – and it almost hurts as you feel yourself trying to milk the girth of him, grinding back onto him in thorough rolls of your hips.
Harsh, panting sounds of exertion fill the room, and it’s strikingly intimate as Patrick frantically pulls out, too overwhelmed by his own orgasm to sustain yours. He fists his dick, knees digging into the springs of the mattress as he pulls back the foreskin so the swollen tip of him is visible.
He’s coated in your come – the sound of it as it slicks him up making him twitchy – and it’s hardly a handful of root-to-tip tugs before he’s shooting ropes across your lower-back and ass, panting out low, rough groans as his balls tighten and flex with each pulse. His ass-cheeks clench while his hips move in reflexive jerks of motion.
It takes a minute, but the heat calms.
You pant into the sex-tinted air, twitching through the aftershocks of it all, and Patrick’s palm caresses appreciatively at your flank as you settle. Neither of you say anything.
The thrum of the air-conditioning is the only sound in the hotel room as you come down from your respective peaks, and Patrick cleans you up with a rumpled shirt that he snags off of the bedpost before tossing it aside. The dim light of the bedside lamp casts shadows across the sheets, and there’s hardly a moment to breathe before he’s collapsing back onto you in a full-bodied slump. He groans something low and relieved and satiated as he goes boneless atop your bare form.
“Give me a minute,” he grouses, and it sounds like he’s half-asleep. “I can go again.”
Fucking nympho freak.
“Shit – I can’t.” you wheeze from underneath him with a grim sort of contentedness, like you’ve just gone through something exhausting and harrowing that can only be rectified by fourteen-hours of sleep. You try to nudge him off, but he just nuzzles his forehead into you like a petulant dog.
It doesn’t matter; your orgasm has sent you into half-consciousness. All of your senses seem to blend beneath today’s events until they become discernible from one another, and any regrets you might have will have to wait to be seen in tomorrow morning’s light.
You’re nearly asleep underneath the weighted blanket that is Patrick when he slurs, “Bet this’ll incentivize you to answer my texts.”
He laughs before abruptly going quiet. A minute later and he’s snoring in your ear; neither of you will remember this come morning.
Two months and another tournament later, and Patrick’s name flashes across your Blackberry’s screen.
pairing. frank castle x female! reader.
an. hello!!!! pls reblog & comment if u like !!! love u
warnings. 18+. female receiving penetration, spit play (!!in mouth!!), detailed descriptions of violence, use of the word sir, references to somnophilia (but not actually happening), mouth covering? with hand. frank’s a big meany who loves you.
synopsis. frank’s antsy after a night shift, especially when his buddies were talking smack about how he’s leaving you in bed all alone.
🜼 ⋆ inexperienced!clark watching you ride his abs all mesmerized and pupils blown away.
you’re not sure which of you looks more undone—your thighs twitching from the strain, or clark, flat on his back with that dazed, hungry look in his eyes like he’s been dropped into some kind of fever dream he doesn’t want to wake up from.
“you’re… you’re really doing that,” he says, voice wrecked.
you grin—lazy, breathless—rolling your hips again so your folds glide over the rigid muscle of his abs, spreading slick in your wake. it’s obscene, how wet you are. you can hear it. feel it catch on the grooves of his stomach, every ridged line dragging against your clit like it was made for this. like he was made for you.
“mhmm,” you hum, dragging your cunt back again and shivering when it catches at the crease under his ribs. “told you i wanted to ride your abs, didn’t i?”
he nods, eyes wide, cheeks flushed deep red.
“i just didn’t think—” he swallows, staring at the glossy trail you’re leaving on his stomach like it’s some kind of miracle. “i didn’t know it would look like that. you’re…” he exhales hard. “you’re really wet.”
you bite your lip and rock forward, grinding your nub on the top of his sternum.
“that a problem?”
“no!” he says immediately. voice a little too loud. “no, god, no—i just—jesus.”
he watches you like you’re holy. like you’re teaching him something no one else ever dared show him. his hands twitch at your sides like he wants to help, but doesn’t want to mess it up—doesn’t want to interrupt whatever this is. you lean down, palms flat on his chest, the movement sliding you forward again—fuck, that drag—and you swear his eyes roll back for a second when your slick spreads higher, threatening the center of his chest.
“clark,” you whisper, breath ghosting over his throat. “you’re flexing.”
he blinks up at you—innocent, wide-eyed—and then gives you a soft smile, the barest edge of it.
“am i?”
his abs clench under you and you jerk, hips stuttering forward. the ridges of his stomach tighten into even sharper angles and suddenly it’s all pressure, all friction, your pussy pressed hard against the rough definition of him.
“fuck,” you whimper. “do that again.”
he does. immediately, obedient. eager. hungry.
you gasp louder this time, your thighs starting to tremble, your whole body tensing with each subtle rock of your hips. you can’t even move the way you were before because he’s flexing too hard now, like his body’s become a wall beneath you, made to be rubbed against. his hands slide up your waist, soft and reverent, like he’s trying to memorize what you feel like mid-stutter.
“you’re twitching,” he says quietly, awed. “is that from me?”
“it’s from this,” you gasp, fingers digging into his chest. “your body—your fucking abs—i can’t—baby—”
he breathes out a quiet, helpless laugh, a little shaky. like he can’t believe he’s the one making you sound like that.
“you feel good?” he asks, gentle and open, like he’s really asking. not cocky. not teasing. just hopeful.
“yes,” you breathe. “clark, yes, i’m gonna—fuck, i’m gonna come on your abs, you need to keep flexing, don’t stop—don’t stop—”
and he doesn’t, instead clark kent flexes harder, holds still for you, lets you rut against him like it’s the only thing that matters in the world. he watches your face twist, your body clench, watches your slick smear and shine and drip across his stomach like proof that he’s worth it.
and when you finally come—high and hot and shaking all over, crying out his name with your mouth open and your thighs trembling around his hips.
clark kent is an undeniably gentle lover—clumsy at times, almost bashful, his movements hesitant in a way that’s endearing. sometimes, he looks to you for reassurance, those soft blue eyes pleading, asking if he’s making you feel good.
and he always does.
he knows your body so well it’s almost frustrating. his hands, his mouth, the way his voice drops just slightly when he whispers your name—it’s enough to leave you trembling every time.
he always tells you that you do. “perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath warm and uneven as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. his voice is wrecked, raw in a way that makes you believe him—for a moment.
but there are things you’ve started to notice.
like the way he lingers for just a second too long, his lips brushing your temple as if hesitating to pull away or draw you closer. or how his hands tremble slightly when they release you, the strength behind them still careful, too careful. then, there are the moments he waits for you to fall asleep—the soft creak of the mattress, the shuffle of his feet as he slips out of bed, barely disturbing the air.
it’s always the same. the quiet click of the bathroom door, the faint rush of water as he turns on the shower.
you know what he’s doing in there.
and it eats at you, imagining him under the stream of hot water, head tilted back, his chest heaving as he works through the need that still claws at him. need that you weren’t able to fully satisfy.
once, you caught him. half-asleep and bleary-eyed, you stirred when the bed dipped, his weight returning as if nothing had happened. his skin was still damp, his hair darker and curling against his forehead.
but you want to be the one to help him blow off that steam.
“just blowing off some extra steam,” he said softly, leaning down to kiss your forehead.
no, you need to be the one.
you want him completely undone—panting, his chest heaving, red staining his cheeks while he’s too wrecked to say anything but your name. you want him shaking with pleasure, the same way he leaves you, winded and unable to think of anything else.
you want him gasping, moaning louder, his voice breaking apart as he tries to keep himself together. you want to see spit pooling at the corners of his lips, his body shuddering uncontrollably. you want him to blow load after load—on you, with you, inside you—until neither of you can take any more.
you just have to make sure you don’t turn the tables on yourself.
“you got another one for me, hun?” clark pleads, his voice soft but ragged.
his curls stick to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his face is flushed deeper than you’ve ever seen. his big hands hold your hips gently, fingers twitching as if he’s trying to resist gripping you tighter.
you’re blubbering, incoherent, your eyes unfocused as your nails scrape at his shoulders. it’s ridiculous trying to leave marks on steel skin, but the feeling of him, the weight of him, makes it impossible to stay still.
you’ve finally managed to corner him. after weeks, nearly a month of easing him into the idea that you could keep up with him, he let you try. and now he’s showing you a side of himself you’ve never seen before.
his body trembles against yours, his movements are frantic, urgent, a stark contrast to the measured pace he usually sets. your legs ache as you struggle to keep up, your body pliant and exhausted, while he bucks up against you, doing most of the work after you had given up on riding him.
he moves you easily, up and down his cock, his strength apparent even in his restraint. his head falls back against the headboard, blue eyes locked on yours, his glasses long discarded.
in all honesty, you don’t know if you have another one in you. you’d lost count three orgasms ago. you must’ve been delusional thinking you could keep up with clark kent, a man who is finally breaking a sweat, his broken moans and soft whimpers starting to turn into ones you’ve never heard from him before. even after cumming countless times, making a mess of your sheets, he still wants more, asks for it, begs for it—he needs more, he can take more, wants to give you more.
the slow drag of his cock, sliding in and out of you, has you mewling, tears staining your cheeks as the pleasure mounts again. his grip is firm but careful, guiding you, ensuring you can take everything he’s giving.
he makes you feel so good. your body trembling in his hands, every nerve alight and melting under his touch. you’ve become putty for him to mould.
it’s a little embarrassing, honestly—that he’s got you like this. you were supposed to be the one pleasing him, breaking him down, undoing him. not the other way around.
but he seems perfectly satisfied with the way things are right now.
you’re fully collapsed onto him now, your strength all but gone. his hips jerk upwards, his movements frantic and desperate, breath puffing hot air against your ear.
“can you… can you look at me?” he pleads, his voice cracking as his hands shift from your hips to cradle your face, tilting your head so you’re staring into his glassy, almost desperate eyes. “look at me while you come—it’ll make me come, too. please.”
you mean to whine, his touch burning against your skin, but the sound catches in your throat when you see him.
he looks utterly wrecked.
his eyes are clouded, unfocused, his lips slick and parted, his brow furrowed with something between pain and pure desire. you imagine you look much the same—spit glistening on your chin, cheeks flushed and tear-streaked, wetness trailing down your thighs.
he holds your gaze for a moment, his thumb brushing your lower lip before slipping into your mouth.
then, both of you move at once—you surge forward to kiss him, capturing those perfect, pink lips, your movements slow and languid while he remains restless. he adjusts to your pace, pulling you impossibly closer.
his blue eyes roll back as he thrusts into you again. one hand traces lines up your spine while his lips devour yours, leaving you trembling and teetering on the edge within minutes.
his kisses turn softer, trailing to your cheek, his teeth catching on your skin as he nips gently. “i’m not hurting you, am i?” he murmurs, his voice trembling. “i know it’s sensitive, baby. tell me if it’s too much, okay? i can stop if—”
“no, please,” you whimper, terrified he might actually stop. “it’s so good.”
you’re drunk with desire, clenching tightly around him.
“you feel so good, baby. so fucking good. you’re taking me so well.” his next thrust is sharp, deep, dragging a cry from your lips as he stills, buried to the hilt. “you’re gonna make me come again,” he groans, his voice breaking.
“fuck, please—”
“i want you to come for me again,” he interrupts, his desperation bleeding through. “you’re so tight and hot when you do. i need it again—please, baby, one more for me. can you give me one more?”
“i—yeah,” you nod, trembling, your body already vibrating on the verge of release.
he hardly gives you a moment to recover before he’s crooning, “one more, just one more, please, please, please—”
pairing: bodyguard!jason todd x bratty!fem!reader x bodyguard!dick grayson
summary: for the first time ever, jason needs dick's help with a client. upon meeting you, dick understands why. you're a handful - bratty, needy, the whole deal. luckily for everyone involved, dick has a soft spot for brats and jason has a tendency to follow in his footsteps.
cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, fingering, threesome, voyeurism, exhibitionism, hair pulling, praise/degradation, gun play, brat taming, dacryphilia
wc: 12.9k
a/n: i did not intend for this to be so long, but i am physically incapable of shutting the fuck up unfortunately. anyways comm for the sweetest ever @fearcvlt. thank you again hehe. as always reblogs and comments are appreciated <3
Dick watched the numbers above the elevator door light up one at a time. Every couple seconds, the soft glow moved one space to the right. It started with 1, 2, 3 and now landed on 67, 68, 69. Finally 70 lit up and a soft ding sounded through the cabin.
He shifted his duffel bag on his shoulder and took a deep breath. When Jason had texted him a few days ago, he made this situation sound dire.
Dick had been in the middle of working out, pulling himself up and down using the rings hanging from the ceiling of the gym. The chime of his phone pulled him from the focus that came with his muscles burning and sweat dripping from his hairline.
'Are we allowed to drop clients?' was the first message he saw.
But then another quickly followed.
'It's been a full twenty-four hours.'
At first he wondered if it was a joke, but Jason didn't really joke about clients.
He tried thinking to himself what case he'd even been assigned to. That gig at the shipping yard had wrapped up by now, and that stalking victim had canceled on them for another security firm.
Then he remembered. That Monday Jason was supposed to start with the senator's daughter.
Something must have really been wrong for him to want to drop that. It was one of the best jobs they'd been offered since starting up their agency. It was full-time protection, meaning round the clock, 24/7 pay. Also a high profile contractor like a senator meant word of mouth getting around to his colleagues, similar types who would want some security for their own twenty-something-aged brats.
'We can't drop her. Maybe I can see about someone swapping cases with you. Did something happen?' was all he responded with.
The reply was instant. 'I'll take literally anything else.'
'She can't be that bad,' he sent in return.
'You take her then. Find out for yourself.'
He rolled his eyes at his dramatics. There was no way you could really be so awful. While Jason didn't joke about work that much, he loved to complain. Shaking his head, Dick typed back a final message.
'Keep your head for the next few days. I'll come see what I can do over the weekend.'
So that was what he planned on doing for at least the next five or so days. He had said the weekend, but it was Thursday now, and he didn't have to do anything else till next Wednesday. Plus, he figured Jason would try his hardest to rope him in for longer if things with you hadn't changed.
He walked into the entrance hall of the penthouse, eyes briefly scanning his surroundings like they always do upon entering somewhere new. The design was sleek. A classy white end table sat below a large mirror with delicate decorations adorning its surface. A plush rug rolled down the hallways to a set of French doors.
One glance around told him this was all expensive. Every detail chosen by someone young, experiencing their first taste of independence. It was cute in a way. At least he thought so. He could only imagine the distaste Jason had reacted with upon seeing the pink candles or vases of dainty flowers.
He continued in the direction of what he assumed was the living room. Though he had only taken a few more steps across the fuzzy rug before he heard loud voices muffled by the doors ahead. He paused and narrowed his eyes for a moment, trying to determine the severity.
The first voice he knew belonged to Jason. It boomed with annoyance, loud and brash. The other was higher pitched. He waited a few moments, feeling out the rhythm of the argument. Back and forth, back and forth. There was no third party, which meant it wasn't any serious danger.
He took another breath and braced himself to be put in the middle of whatever spat you two were having. Jason still hadn't been clear about what his exact problem with you was, so he didn't know what to fully expect. From the few things he had said over the phone, he gained the impression you were just a spoiled rich girl, and Jason's temper wasn't made to deal with any of those.
Grabbing one of the bronze handles, Dick pushed the door open. From where he stood in the alcove that held the doors, he didn't think either of you had noticed him enter.
The scene looked as he expected. Jason leaned against the pristine ivory island in the kitchen while you stood at the back of the large taupe sectional that spanned through the living area. You had your arms crossed over your chest, your foot looking as if you had just stamped it on the hardwood below. Jason, on the other hand, appeared as though he was about to explode. His fingers rubbed at his eyes before he spoke.
"For the last goddamn time, I'm not taking you, so find something else to do.”
"No. It's not your job to tell me what to do. You're only getting paid to follow me around where I wanna go," you retorted.
"I'm not taking you to the fucking mall!" he exclaimed, flinging his arms open, "Christ, you have a cell phone, a laptop, and an ipad. You could probably even use that watch you got on your wrist to shop."
"But it's not the same," you pouted.
Upon hearing that, it seemed like Jason's brain was actually on the verge of malfunctioning. In an attempt to help out, Dick walked the rest of the way in.
"Am I interrupting something?" he asked, his voice much cooler than the tense argument that preceded it.
Immediately, both sets of eyes were on him. Jason's features melted into relief while yours swirled with curiosity.
"Is this your boss?" you asked. Your arms fell to smooth out the small shorts you had on before they rose again to make sure your hair was in place.
Meanwhile, a sneer spread on Jason's face again. "No. We're partners," he said.
"C'mon, Jason. I like to think of us as friends before coworkers," Dick teased and flashed a smile. That earned him one out of you in return. Right then, he knew this would be easy.
He headed over to the area where you stood, and acting charming as ever, stuck his hand out in search of yours.
You gladly returned the exchange, offering your palm up for shaking like a trained puppy.
"I'm Dick Grayson," he introduced. He wrapped his fingers around your hand with a firm grip.
Your smile widened before those soft lips parted to expel the syllables of your own name. You were being so much sweeter now that your sights had been set on someone besides Jason. Jason, who was currently watching with a mix of disbelief and irritation as your bratty temperament melted away before his eyes.
"Would you mind showing me where I could put my stuff?" Dick asked.
"Oh sure," you answered, "Follow me."
You waved him in your direction before prancing through an archway that led to a small area with a few doors and the stairs.
"I'll just show you where everything is while we're at it. That's the main bathroom. That's the office. And then up the stairs is where all the bedrooms are."
He followed behind you through the small room and then up the curved staircase. Jason trailed behind him, watching like this mask of pleasantness would fall away to reveal your true attitude any second.
Your hips swayed as you walked up each step. He felt like the way your ass jutted out a little as they did was intentional, but it didn't matter. Dick could be professional when he needed to be. He kept his eyes averted and stayed along your path.
After the stairs, you led them down a thin strip of lofted walkway that overlooked the living room and kitchen. With one hand on the silver railing, you explained each door that lined the wall as you went.
"That's the smaller living room. That's the second bathroom. That's the guest room Jason is staying in. And here is yours," you said as you got to the second to last door. You pushed it open and gestured proudly at the space.
"Looks nice. Thank you," he said before heading in.
He tossed his bag on the bed and glanced around. It truly was nice. The bed looked like one out of a five star hotel. The end tables were polished and seemed as though they'd never seen a visitor throughout their time here. And then there were the floor-to-ceiling windows against the farthest wall. There was nothing to see outside right now. This floor rested so high up, clouds engulfed the glass panes.
"Mhm," you hummed before biting your lip, "And my room is the last door. There's always extra space in my bed if you don't like this one."
"But I thought you said I was a perv for suggesting that?" Jason interjected and shot you a glare from where he leaned against the door frame.
"Ummm, yeah, you are," you deadpanned, "I'm offering it to him, not the other way around like you did, obviously."
"It was a joke," Jason grumbled.
Before the tension could bubble over again, Dick laughed and looked over his shoulder at your teasing expression. "You know, I appreciate the offer, but this looks like more than enough for now."
"Ok, well let me know if you change your mind. I'll let you put your stuff away while I figure out what we can get for dinner," you told him before stepping back out of the room.
Dick waited a few moments to make sure you were really gone before turning to Jason and smirking.
"That's who you've been having such a hard time with?" he mocked.
"I swear that's the best she's been all week. When it's just me, she doesn't quit. She goes on and on and on. Whining, complaining. It's borderline harassment to be honest," he responded and crossed his arms.
"Oh come on," he laughed, "She's as hard to deal with as a kitten."
"For you," he responded, "Once she gets bored of you, she'll act the same."
"Guess we're banking on the fact that I'm a lot more entertaining than you then, huh?" he teased.
"Shut up," Jason scoffed before turning and leaving the room too.
Over the next couple hours, Dick got settled in his room and then migrated back downstairs to feel out the situation here. Already he could guess why Jason didn't like you, but if things continued the way they were, he wouldn't mind slipping into his place. A full day of pay, and all he'd have to do is flirt back and forth with you every now and again.
In the living room, you laid back in the corner of your couch. Some tv show played as background noise while you scrolled through your phone. He made an effort to talk to you, to subtly observe more of your personality. Fortunately, you were pretty open to his attempts. Once he found a subject you liked, it was like flood gates opened. You couldn't have been more eager for someone to talk with.
Poor thing, he thought. You had everything you could want, but you were still so starved for attention.
As he listened to you chatter about your favorite tv show or something that happened last summer between you and your friend, he could see the quirks in you that drove Jason up the wall.
For one, you had a tendency to pout. He didn't think you were even aware of it most of the time. While he found it kind of cute, he knew that every time your lip started to puff out, it would send Jason's blood pressure through the roof.
You also were very touchy. Over the course of the short conversation, you drifted from your end of the couch to the cushion right next to Dick. Whenever you laughed your hand landed on his forearm. If he joked around in return, you'd lightly shove his bicep.
It was all pretty juvenile, methods of flirting used most often by kids with their first crushes, but he didn't mind. You were sweet and well-intentioned. Just so desperate to feel wanted.
And admittedly, he played into your desires a bit. He knew Jason would have lambasted him if he was down here right now instead of taking a break in his own room, but Dick didn't really care. Technically, he wasn't the one on call. Though even if he was, it's not like was overtly flirting with you. He was just having some fun and keeping you entertained. A few compliments and well-placed touches. That was it.
He straightened out his behavior a little by the time Jason did return downstairs to join you both for the dinner you'd had delivered.
You stood at the end of the table, graciously distributing the containers of food while they took up a seat on either side of you. Things went pretty smoothly overall. Once you each had a plate with your dishes of choice, you sat down and began to eat.
"You have that big kitchen," Jason commented after a few bites, looking over his shoulder at the room in question, "Do you ever actually cook anything?"
You narrowed your eyes for a moment but responded in the most calm tone of voice. "Yes, I do. But not for you."
Luckily, all that came from the tense exchange was Jason rolling his eyes. Neither of you seemed interested in launching into a full argument when you could focus on the food in front of you instead. A few minutes of quiet passed, but then conversation sprouted back up without an issue.
You asked them how they got into “bodyguarding,” making sure to add that modeling had to have been on the table for Dick. As with most interactions, he responded with a charming laugh. Though this time Jason interrupted to give you the spiel about their past - they worked together under the same mentor at a security company and decided to branch off and start their own as partners.
"Yeah, but why?" you questioned when he concluded his story, "Isn't it like... scary? You have to protect people from stalkers and stuff? That sounds so nerve wracking."
"It's not if you're good at your job like us," Jason dismissed.
Dick saw the frown appear on your face, and he swooped in with an answer of his own to make you feel less discarded.
"It can be tense sometimes on rough cases, but it's really rewarding, you know? Getting to help people and protect them from the worst parts of life gives us a purpose," he explained.
"That makes sense," you nodded before laughing a little, "I could never do what you two do. I'm wayyyy too scared of being shot."
Dick chuckled, but Jason's look didn't soften at all.
"What is it you plan on doing with your life?" Jason asked.
His tone was short, prime for judgement, but you tried to let it roll off you. You kept your shoulders back as you answered the question, like it was a part of an interview you'd prepared for.
"I'm not totally sure what I'm gonna do with my whole life, but in the spring I'm gonna start working for my dad as an aide. Like when he takes office and everything."
"So what was the point of you going through college when you're guaranteed a job like that anyways?" he asked next.
Dick shot him a look across the table. It was one thing to respond to your whining, but picking a fight was another. He could see the question pricked at a real insecurity of yours. You bristled and tried not to let the weakness show itself.
"Because," you huffed, "I'm still supposed to know things and have skills of my own. And we're not like the Kennedys or something. I can't get by on my last name forever."
"Right..." he said and redirected his focus to shoveling some more food into his mouth.
Again, Dick took it upon himself to resuscitate the mood. He chatted with you some more about school and potential areas you were interested in for your future.
As things wrapped up and the three of you cleared the table, he finished by offering to take you on that shopping trip you'd been asking about earlier tomorrow. That seemed to be all it took to fully brighten up your mood. You eagerly accepted before heading off to your room for the night.
After you'd left, the room clouded with silence for a minute. The two of them migrated over to the living room. Both him and Jason took a moment to enjoy the peace that plumed up in your absence. It dissipated when Dick decided to speak again.
"You know, part of the reason she gets snippy with you is because you're not exactly pleasant to her," he started.
"No, she doesn't like me because I won't play into her flirty bullshit like you do," Jason replied and shrugged.
"It's more than that. You dismiss almost anything she says, and you try to provoke her into lashing out at you."
"Like she doesn't do the same to me? All that whiny, pouty shit she does for you, she tried for me at first, but I hurt her feelings because I didn't act like it was cute. It's pathetic"
"Alright, but as the professional, you're supposed to keep the appearance that she doesn't bother you. I'm just saying you could try playing it cool around her," Dick suggested.
Jason glared at him. "I wasn't hired to be nice to her."
"You're not getting paid to be an asshole either."
The harsh look deepened in the other man's green eyes. "What are we getting paid to do here exactly? She's not in any actual danger."
So that was his problem.
Dick sighed, but before he could provide some form of justification, Jason was pulling up your case files on his phone. He turned the screen to Dick.
"Look. Read it. Why'd we even accept this bullshit? He basically admits there's no real threat in the request," he said.
Dick took the small device and scanned over the document with his eyes. He didn't have to read it to know why they accepted it, of course. The money was great and the connections they could gain from it would be even better for the firm. He still skimmed the tiny words staring back at him though. The request for protection that asked you be assigned a full time guard in the potential event of political retaliation. Political retaliation that both sides of this arrangement knew was not coming. Your father had won his race by a comfortable margin. No one even attempted to contest the result. All of his positions were uncontroversial as well.
It was obvious to Dick that he and Jason were simple pawns in a power struggle here. They were the expendable pieces your father could tote around and punish you with for whatever reason. Maybe you'd been too outspoken about something. Maybe you had a tendency to get too wild when you went out. Maybe you'd just outsmarted the last move in this lifelong game of chess.
Whatever it had been, this was just the next subtle method of control. He'd seen it before in rich kids like you. Shitty as it was, it was part of this business.
Handing the phone back to the other man, he answered. "You know why we took it. And I know it's frustrating, but not every case is gonna be something out of an action movie. If he wants to pay for someone to ease his mind, then that's just how it is."
"He hired a babysitter for an adult," Jason spat with disdain, "That's all this is. The only thing I'm protecting her from is maxing out daddy's credit card or taking a laced bump at some shitty party."
"There are worse jobs in the world than watching over a pretty girl, Jason," Dick said and rubbed his eyes.
"Oh bullshit. This isn't just watching a pretty girl. This is listening to her run her fucking mouth. It's putting up with her bitching and moaning in my ear 24/7 about how she doesn't want me here."
"Look. It's not that hard to figure out," he interjected, "She was spoiled rotten growing up, but that also means she probably had a lot of people trying to control her life. She's getting her first real taste of freedom being out of college and living on her own, and then her dad takes it away by hiring us. Can you blame her for being a little pissy about it?"
"So what? Poor little rich girl. She has people who want to be involved with her life and make sure she has a future," he scoffed, "If she doesn't like that, she can take it out on her dad. Why do we have to deal with the fallout?"
"I know it's not what you want to be dealing with, but you're smart enough to know that things aren't that simple," he responded, "Everything in this place - the clothes she wears, the furniture we're sitting on, I'd bet even her phone she carries around - doesn't belong to her. None of it comes from her own money. Maybe her name's on the title of this place, but you know it's not really hers. She probably plays nice and puts up with things that don't really bug her to make sure he doesn't start taking it all away or offering to give it to her in the first place."
Jason still wouldn't drop his scowl. He understood Dick was right, but you were so goddamn irritating, he didn't want to admit you deserved even the smallest degree of grace.
"You don't have to act like a boyfriend or even her best friend," Dick offered as a compromise, "All I'm saying is that if you weren't so aggressive from the jump, she might feel more inclined to listen to you."
"She's a grown woman," Jason grumbled with hushed incredulity, "I shouldn't have to handle her like a little girl or a puppy or something."
"You're right. You shouldn't have to. But it's the way it is, so adapt or drive yourself crazy. It's your choice," he said.
"I guess," he huffed before slumping back in his seat a bit.
Dick relaxed back against the couch as well. Looking at Jason now, he couldn't help but think that part of the reason the two of you butted heads at every opportunity was because you both were in the running for the most headstrong person he'd ever met.
The next day, Dick made good on his promise to take you shopping. The two of you drove to an upscale mall and spent the next few hours roaming the wide corridors. He stayed close to your side, his muscular arms covered in the bands of your shopping bags as you led him from one place to the next. You talked his ear off, but he didn't mind. It was better than lounging around the penthouse and listening to you and Jason bicker.
And in your defense, while you had him carrying all your stuff, you took plenty of chances to offer to buy him a few things. Anything his eyes lingered on for more than two seconds had you playfully waving around your card. Each time he'd decline. He had to keep some appearance of doing his job. Jason would never let him hear the end of it if he thought he indulged in this shopping spree too.
He was still somewhat playing his part though. His eyes scanned the exits and entries (when they weren't lingering on how your lip gloss shimmered on the soft curves of your mouth). He was focused on making sure no suspicious characters tried approaching you (when he wasn't ogling the way your t-shirt stretched across the swell of your chest).
"So only one last place, right?" he checked while you typed away on your phone.
"Yup!" you chirped.
You trotted along a few more paces before coming to a stop in front of a store entryway framed by two dark, tile pillars. The words above glowed in a light, classic font. He eyed it and then shifted his gaze to the display windows. That was when he realized this was a store for lingerie.
He let out a laugh and shook his head. "Really?" he said, raising his brows at you.
"What?" you asked, "Don't tell me you're one of those guys that gets all weird about bras and panties. What do you think I'm wearing under this?"
"I don't really think it's my place to be imagining that," he chuckled.
"Well you don't gotta imagine right now. Just stay close to me while I pick some things out," you replied with your own little smile.
Unlike Jason, this wouldn't be a hill he died on. He followed you into the store and remained quiet within a few feet of you while you checked over the stands for items you liked. You seemed pretty picky when it came to this stuff. Your face contorted into contemplative expressions, weighing if you should go with the lacy black or the baby pink.
"So... do you actually have someone to wear these for or...?" he asked while trying to seem aloof.
"I wear them because I like them," you corrected while shooting him a playful glare, "But to answer your question, not yet."
"Ah, yet," he grinned.
"Mhm. It doesn't hurt to be prepared," you said.
He huffed out a small laugh and kept in line with your footsteps. After a while, you selected a few pairs and seemed almost ready to go. You weaved through the array of perfume stands and seasonal racks. On the way to the register though, your eyes caught on a pair of silk pajamas. They were dainty, thin, and striped. Just the kind of thing that looked as though it was sewn specifically for your closet.
"Oh my gosh. Dick, can you hold this?" you said. The question was pointless as you'd already shoved the basket of panties into his arms before the words finished leaving your lips.
You pranced to the display with the sleepwear and looked it over with adoring eyes. With a wave of your hand, you summoned a nearby attendant to ask for a set you could try on.
Moments later the worker guided the two of you towards the back of the store, showing you the changing area. It was nicer than most shops. A large mirror sat on the wall that was covered in floral paper. Next to it a small door concealed the private fitting section, and in the center was a couple seats.
The woman waved you in. She glanced over each of you with a tight-lipped smile before adding that "your boyfriend" was welcome to wait inside for you.
He opened his mouth to amend her definition of him, but before he got the chance, you chimed in with a cheerful "thank you!"
His eyes zipped from the exiting staff member to you. Upon looking in your eyes, he could see your amusement dancing there. You grabbed his free hand and led him to the plush couches. Then you took off with the pajamas in your hands into the private part of the room.
"So boyfriend, huh? Is that my title now?" he called to you through the open space above the door. While you changed, he set the endless supply of bags down on the loveseat across from the one he chose to sit down on.
"It could be," you replied, "Isn't it like safer if bad guys think a girl has a boyfriend?"
He'd dealt with clients flirting with him before, but never one as flagrant as you. Only one day with you, and he could tell you'd never experienced true shame in your two decades and some spare years of life.
"Yeah, I think so," he chuckled in return. Even though your confidence humored him, he couldn't deny the part of him that was flattered. The same part that got turned on.
Suddenly, the door swung open, and you strutted out. Your luscious legs stretched out from the tiny shorts that bedizened your hips. The button-up top hung off your shoulders and framed the curves of your waist. With a few steps, you stood in front of him, as if you were a model in a fashion show organized personally for him.
"Exactly. So, how do I look, darling?" you teased, doing a little spin for him.
He reached out and grabbed your hips. His fingers dug into your skin, feeling your flesh squish beneath the pads of his digits. Your eyes connected with his as he dragged them up from your waist to your face.
"Stunning, sweetheart," he played right along.
A small giggle trickled from your lips before you turned to the side to assess your appearance in the mirror. He kept his grip on you. Both his and your eyes glided over your frame, lingering on his hands clasped around the bottoms.
"I'll have to get them then," you decided after a few moments.
His pupils shifted up, sparkling under the fluorescents on the ceiling. "I think that's a great choice. Though when you wear them later, you may want to fix the pocket," he said.
Trailing his right hand up from its post on your hip, his fingers coasted over your breast to the shirt pocket that was flipped slightly inside out. He pushed the material back into place, delving two digits beneath the silk flap. The tips teased the curve of your breast. They dragged on the skin just above your nipple through the cloth.
Fortunately for you, he pulled them out seconds later, allowing you to step back and hide the way the small bud had begun to pebble for him. The smirk on his face hinted that he still knew though.
"Ok, well I'm gonna change back. Then we can check out and go home. Maybe we could get some food on the way back or something," you said, laying out the plan as a distraction for the blooming heat you felt in your abdomen.
"Yeah, sounds good," he responded and shrugged.
He watched as you capered back behind that door. You were a tease through and through, and that couldn't have pleased him more. It's what made this all so easy. You could flirt and bat your eyelashes and speak in that seductively innocuous tone, but when you caught scent of any real arousal, you pulled back quicker than a skittish dog.
It could make it easier for him to remain professional. A way of keeping him from crossing the line that was supposed to divide him and all clients. But it also made you so much more tempting. An elusive prey animal just begging to be caught.
The rest of that day followed the plan you had set in the dressing room.
You checked out of that last store then had Dick carry your collection of purchases to the car. The two of you picked up some food on the way home. Despite your lavish taste in just about everything else, when it came to dinner, you were a pretty cheap date.
When you made it back to the penthouse, Dick shoulders the weight of everything you bought again. The two of you don't bother asking Jason for help, knowing it would only cause more drama. Instead, he let the thin handles on the bags of clothes and jewelry and trinkets dig into his skin and nearly cut off his circulation.
Besides that though, everything went fine. Jason gave you both a look of disdain when he saw the evidence of your shopping trip, but he didn't comment.
Maybe he was taking Dick's advice.
That seemed to be the case even as you came trotting down the stairs not too long later. You'd changed into your new silk set. The fabric didn't leave anything to the imagination in terms of your figure and that was what it did cover. Most of your legs and a sliver of your chest remained exposed to any eyes that should wander by.
You had a little smile on your face as you entered the room. Of course, you knew how you looked. You were bratty, not stupid.
Upon spotting Jason in the kitchen, you headed in that direction. He'd been standing in the corner where the counters met, eating something for a few moments. The calmness of solitude that had previously filled the space dissolved when he caught sight of you.
As much as he couldn't stand you, Jason was still human. His brows raised and his eyes stuck to your scantily-clad body, raking over your curves and smooth skin. You watched with absolute joy as he finally acknowledged you in some way other than a nuisance.
It only took him a few seconds to catch himself, but the damage had been done. You bounded over to stand on the opposite side of the kitchen from him. He kept his eyes down now, intent on trying not to gauge if you were wearing a bra under that skimpy thing by how your breasts bounced.
"So Jason... What did you do while me and Dick were out?" you asked.
"Desperately awaited your return," he grumbled sarcastically.
The question obviously meant nothing to you. He could hear it in every syllable. It served as a placeholder. A plausible reason you could linger around him to flaunt yourself.
His response brought a laugh out of you in spite of the backhanded nature of the statement. "You could've come with us. It probably would've been more fun," you smiled.
"For you maybe."
"Well yeah for me," you said. You pushed off the island and stepped a few paces closer to him. "What do you think of my clothes? They're new. Dick said he liked them."
You did a small twirl like you had in the dressing room. An attempt to lure Jason's gaze back onto you. He didn't take the bait so easily though and locked his gaze on the food he'd been snacking on.
"If you got Dick's opinion, then why do you need mine?" he shot back.
"Cause I want it," you answered.
With a deep breath, he brought his eyes back to you. He could control himself, both his temper and other kinds of impulses. Plus, there was no way he was going to let you win. You had enough smugness in your voice as it was. No way was he gonna make the problem worse by letting you feel as though you had him intimidated.
"Looks the same as the ones you normally wear," he shrugged.
"Yeah, but I didn't ask that. I just wanna know if you like them."
"Why? Are you gonna throw a fit or something if I say no? Call daddy and have him hire someone with better taste to babysit you?" he mocked.
That put a scowl on your face, which made him smile. The two of you worked like a seesaw of emotions, one extreme on each side, animosity shifting so rapidly the bar could never rest at a balanced middle.
"No," you scoffed with a glare, "I was just trying to be nice to you-"
"Oh really? It felt more like you were fishing for compliments to me," he said, "You bought the clothes, so obviously you like them. Why do you need me validating your choice?"
God, this felt so much better than getting worked up over you. Watching your face morph into increasingly petulant expressions gave Jason more joy than imagining the day a month from now when this job would finally be done.
"Whatever," you huffed and rolled your eyes before retreating to the living room to be with Dick.
That was fine with him. He didn't cause a blow up or have to deal with Dick's lecture while simultaneously getting you out of his immediate vicinity. Though, that was probably for the best for reasons other than his anger too.
He would never ever admit it out loud, especially not after the point he'd made about it last night, but seeing you in that tiny get up, all desperate for his approval... it had him craving some alone time to quell the heat he felt beginning to simmer within.
He cleaned up his plate that was now empty and then ran a hand through his hair. His eyes shut for a moment, and he let out a sigh. After a few moments, he decided he didn't need to shove down the feelings. He'd been pent up enough over the last week. Nonstop hours of you trying to get under his skin and make him snap. It left him yearning for some outlet, for some relief. Maybe that was why he was so pissed off all the time.
Right now, Dick was with you. The chances of you wandering up to his room to bother him were slim. He could sneak off for a while, spend some quality time with his right hand and chill the fuck out.
So that's what he did. He headed off upstairs and shut the door to his room.
Now you sat beside Dick on the couch as an old movie played on the tv. You were so close to him that your bare thighs rested against the grey cotton of his sweatpants.
It wasn't that late, but only a third of the way into the movie you felt yourself sinking into the cushions behind you, tiredness overtaking your body. Your eyes grew droopy and glazed as you tried watching the action playing out in front of you.
A few minutes later, you started to accept this might be a pointless effort. In your defense, shopping was a tiring activity! Malls were big and required lots of steps to get through. When you combined that with doing all the spending math in your head, talking to Dick, and trying things on, it made sense that you were beat.
You let your head slump over and hit his shoulder. Your temple thudded against the curve of it as a yawn made its way out of you. You brought your legs closer to your body and wrapped one of your hands around his bicep as well. If you were gonna go for an inch, why not take the whole mile?
His head swiveled in your direction when he felt the gentle contact. He didn't protest like you knew Jason would have though. Rather, he let you grip onto his muscular arm and rest against his broad frame before bringing his free hand over to smooth down the nape of your neck.
"Are we still playing boyfriend and girlfriend?" he asked.
Your eyes fluttered open as you tilted your face up to look at him. After a moment's thought, you bobbed your head in a lazy nod.
Upon seeing your confirmation, a lascivious smile spread across his lips. He leaned back further into the couch himself and stretched his legs out onto the extended part of the sectional. Once he was adjusted, he pulled his arm free of your grasp. You showed slight dismay at first, displeased with the loss of support and heat. Though it quickly evaporated as he draped it over your shoulders and pulled you into his chest.
"Well if I was your boyfriend," he said, drawing out the syllables pointedly, "I think we'd be sitting like this."
Even in your tired condition, you felt a bit flustered. You wouldn't show that though. It would take more to get you to willingly show how he affected you. You snuggle into his sculpted side and nestle your face against his chest. Below his skin, you hear the faint but steady beat of his heart.
"You're probably right," you mumbled against the fabric of his t-shirt, "It's comfier like this."
"Mhm. Safer too," he teased.
You nodded, not needing words this time around. One of your arms encircled his waist to keep you snug against him while you continued to watch the movie.
It was honestly a miracle in your own eyes that you hadn't passed out yet in the few seconds you'd been sitting like this. He was so warm, and he smelled so good, like fresh laundry. And now his hand had started rubbing up and down your back. The steady rhythm of his palm and the perfect amount of pressure seemed like it would be lulling you into unconsciousness in minutes.
But then he spoke again.
"And if I was your boyfriend, we'd be doing a lot more than just watching this movie," he whispered.
The words hit your ears in soft puffs of air, sending chills down your spine. You bit your lip and willed your eyes to open wider before looking at him again.
"What else would we be doing?" you asked.
"What do you think? With you sitting here, all cute in your little outfit..." he began, lowering his mouth to your neck. A soft gasp left you as he began laying kisses up your throat to your ear. His teeth scraped over your earlobe before his tongue grazed the skin behind it. "I think I'd have a pretty hard time keeping my hands to myself," he finished lowly.
The skin of your shoulders prickled beneath the satiny material of your top and continued to do so down your arms and legs. You weren't completely inexperienced, but you'd never had such intense attention focused on you. You'd never felt like the center of someone's entire world like you did right now.
Your hand lands on his thigh, gripping the meat of it with your fingers. You turn your head into a brief kiss before pulling back an inch.
"If you were my boyfriend, you wouldn't have to keep your hands to yourself," you murmured.
And that was the last thing he needed to hear.
He dove in and kissed you like it was the millionth time. His lips moved against your own sensually before his tongue found its way into your mouth. A tender moan slipped out of you in response. He played the part of your boyfriend better than any actual candidate for the role before him.
Your palm migrated up from his thigh to his lap. With a few delicate swipes, you coaxed a bulge into rising against the fabric of his pants. Your hand then fled the area and trailed up his abs onto his chest. Every inch of him felt as though it had been crafted by divine beings. A gift for anyone who should have the pleasure of experiencing him.
He tugged you closer, guiding you so close that you were all but in his lap. His right hand groped the dough of your ass while his left crept onto your breast and gave it the squeeze he had wanted to earlier in the changing room.
You squeaked like a chew toy in response, which drew a laugh out of him. He teased the mound again by kneading it a few more times. His fingers dragged across the soft curves before zeroing in on your nipple, tweaking and pulling at the sensitive little nub. That brought some whines out of you.
"My little girlfriend's so responsive," he whispered.
He knew he was acting like an idiot right now. He wasn't just crossing every client-contractor line in the book, he was practically leaping over them with joy. If Jason came down here and saw this opening to a porno playing out on the couch, he would never hear the end of it. But he just couldn't stop now. The way you arched into his touch was fucking intoxicating. You had him hooked, and he hadn't gotten farther than feeling up your tits.
And then you whimpered and nipped at his bottom lip. It wasn't like you could really defend yourself from his words. Every touch had you keening for more.
He hummed at the mini bite before pulling you closer and deepening the kiss. The arm wrapped around your back continued to support you while the set of fingers that had been playing with your chest fell towards the junction of your thighs. You seemed a little nervous at the start of the descent, but by the time his hand made it there, your legs spread open for him with no hesitation.
Both of your harsh breaths drowned out the sounds from the movie that had been long forgotten by now. And then your soft, sweet moans joined them.
He started out with a few loving caresses over your center. A few pets to get you warmed up. It was all you needed to let out those cute little noises. You rolled your hips at his hand, already signaling your need for more.
Without a second thought, he obliged you. His hand slid beneath your waistband and into your panties before his fingers slotted between your lips, finding your clit with expertise. They danced over your bundle of nerves and pressed down on it. More whines trickled from your mouth. He could only hope his lips on yours did a sufficient job of muffling them.
"That's it, sweetheart," he crooned, "You're so cute. Not worried about anything but feeling good."
You bucked your hips without a care in the world now, just like he said. They rocked up into the friction his digits were providing. Wet sloshing sounds emanated from where his hand moved beneath your shorts.
After a little while longer of just touching, he worked a finger inside of you. Then another. He pumped them in and out, relishing each precious mewl that erupted from you in turn. His digits curled. Each stroke inside you brushed a tender spot that made your thighs quiver and jerk.
"Fuck," you inhaled sharply before reaching forward to try palming at him, a haphazard attempt at returning the favor.
His free hand brushed yours away though. Those cerulean eyes glimmered with cockiness.
"I can take care of myself, baby. I'm being paid to service you, remember?" he purred.
Your eyes rolled back, and your head followed in that direction, hitting the backing of the couch. You weakly nodded before allowing the pleasurable sensations to cloud your head. He just kept thrusting his two fingers in and out while his palm ground against your clit.
You vaguely felt him start to grind his hips against the side of your leg. He used the pressure as stimulation, giving himself some muted relief while tending to you.
In the throes of bliss, you hadn't realized how close you were until the edge was right there. You whined and squirmed, trying to alert him that you were a few skillful pumps away from unraveling.
"Dick... gonna..." you whimpered.
"Yeah, I can tell. You're getting nice and tight," he murmured.
You nodded. Your lip started to jut out, those pouty habits making themselves known in the heat of the moment. He grinned before kissing it away.
"Let go, baby. Soak through your new shorts. Get 'em all messy for me," he cooed.
Your walls clenched around his fingers as your toes curled. It was impossible to resist the urge to release when he was guiding you to it like that. Your whole body tensed up and then relaxed over and over, the highs of pleasure washing over you in waves.
He watched every little move you make, drank it all up like a dehydrated man in the middle of the Sahara.
"You look so pretty while you cum," he praised. You heard him say the words; though, they sounded distant amidst the haze of bliss surrounding you.
When you finished, he could tell you were exhausted. Your eyelids drooped as if keeping them open was an impossible task. You laid there limp beside him, just about ready to melt into the couch.
He chuckled and slipped his hand from your shorts. Bringing his fingers to his lips, he sucked them clean and then ducked in for one last kiss. You squeaked in surprise but didn't pull away. He let you taste yourself for a moment before retreating.
Even though he hadn't cum himself, he figured it would be fine for tonight. There were four weeks left of this job after all. He'd have more time with you. Tonight he could deal with finishing himself off in his room after taking you to bed.
He shut the tv off and then scooped you up. Your body draped between his two arms. You didn't complain or protest; rather, just leaned your head into his shoulder and accepted the aid. He walked with you up the stairs, down the walkway to your bedroom. The last door on the path.
Nudging the door open with his foot, he crossed the threshold into your space. It appeared like the rest of the apartment, just more concentrated. A more pure embodiment of you. All the other parts of this place he'd seen had traces of your personality throughout, but each and every part of this room represented a piece of you.
He didn't spend any time snooping around or getting a better look. Like the perfect gentleman, he placed you in bed, draped a blanket over your body, and made sure you were situated. Then he retraced his steps back out into the hall. He headed down to the guest room and slipped inside, planning on taking care of himself and then passing out for the night.
The next morning, Dick woke to a thudding on the wall behind his headboard. Knock. Knock. Knock. The noises pounded against the barrier in an even-rhythm, every second or so. He wasn't sure how long they'd been going on by the time he reached full consciousness. They'd invaded the last part of his dream, so he assumed maybe a few minutes.
Even though the sounds should probably concern him, all he felt was annoyance. The wall behind his bed was the one connected to Jason's. He figured the noises were a result of him working out or moving some things around. Maybe you two had gotten into another argument and he was packing his things in anger.
Dick dragged himself out of bed and stretched. He'd slept longer than usual last night. A lazy smile rose to his face as details came flooding back to him. How you'd felt around his fingers and whined for him to keep pleasuring you.
Once he'd figured out what the noise was about, maybe he'd head over to your room, see if you were up yet. It'd been less than twelve hours, but he was already craving another taste of you.
He stepped out into the hallway, walking in the direction of the room the noise was coming from. As he got closer, he could hear some grunting too. It sounded pretty intense. Either Jason was working out really hard or you'd really pissed him off. Maybe a combination of both.
"Hey, Jason. Some of us are trying to sleep. You don't need to compete with the construction crews around the rest of the city with all this-" he started to call out, but the words died in his throat as soon as he saw the source of the banging.
He felt like a flash grenade had gone off in the room he was looking into. The source of the loud sounds was no longer a mystery. It was coming from Jason's headboard slamming into the wall. The headboard was doing that because the man in question was kneeling on the bed with you pinned down in front of him, fucking you like he was an animal in heat. Dick saw your body jerk in panic as soon as you heard the sound of his voice close in.
"Jesus, man!" Dick said and spun away from the explicit sight before him. His mind reeled and tried to grasp onto what he just witnessed.
As he was trying to come to terms with the fact that he just saw Jason balls deep inside you, he also realized that the lewd noises weren't stopping. He slowly turned back to get another glance - just a curious one, he told himself.
His eyes found the two of you again. Jason kneeled on the edge of the bed. One of his large hands gripped your hip while the other held your face down against the pillows. Now that Dick was really listening, he could hear your little muffled whines and squeaks.
Jason's body glowed, flush from arousal and shimmering with a sheen of sweat. Your limbs were folded up like pieces of a portable chair. Dick tried not to focus on the flicker of heat in his gut, and instead, think about how even with another set of eyes, neither of you had stopped going at it. In your defense, he didn't think the decision was up to you. Jason had manhandled you into a position that gave him all the leverage.
Finally after another second or two, the other man looked his way.
"You need something, Dick?" Jason grunted as though he'd been interrupted while reading a book rather than pounding you into the mattress.
He blinked at him. "What are you doing?"
"Do you really have to ask that? You're not a prude, and you're far from innocent," he mocked. His voice was breathless as though he found some deep satisfaction in this act. Dick believed that. He'd felt how soft and tight your cunt was last night, warm enough to melt even someone as tough as Jason down a bit.
"I'm not a prude, but you could at least shut the door," he responded. The absurdity of this situation then began to dawn on him. He stepped closer to the bed. "Really, Jason. What the fuck are you doing? She's a client," he finally said.
That brought a laugh out of the younger man. "Client, huh? That's not what I was hearing last night when you had her out on the couch."
Dick tensed in the face of the accusation. Shit. He'd thought the two of you had been quiet enough. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
"That's different..." he defended weakly.
In reality, he of course knew that it wasn't. Him fooling around with you last night was, on a technical level, no different from what Jason was doing now. Either one if found out by your father, their employer, would get them fired and possibly slapped with a lawsuit.
But he did feel it was honestly different on some level. He'd just been playing with you. Going along with your flirting. Having some fun. Jason was fucking you. Every thrust was like an act of revenge for all the pouting and whining and huffy glares. He bullied his cock deep into your cunt with every swing of his hips. Your body jolted from his momentum, your fingers curled around the edges of the pillow. It was intense and raw.
"It is not," Jason denied, "Plus, I thought you'd be happy. We're not arguing anymore. You wanted me to act cool with her? Well she thinks this is pretty fuckin' cool. Don't you, princess?"
Before you could mumble something against the satiny linens below you, he looped an arm around your neck and pulled you up against him. You squealed at the sharp angle this new position put you at. Your eyes rolled back, and the only sounds that came from your lips immediately were hazy babbles.
You eventually collected yourself enough to nod. He laughed in your ear, slotting his face right next to yours. You could feel his breaths against your cheek, his sweat smearing on your skin.
"Use your words, sweetheart," he purred.
A shudder coursed its way through you. Your dazed eyes opened just enough to connect with Dick's bright blue ones. You didn't know what to say, so you let out the easiest thing you could think of.
"F-feels good..."
Dick nearly winced at the fucked-out sound of your voice. It was sultry and slurred. If you weren't so disgustingly rich, he was sure you'd make a killing doing this stuff on camera.
His eyes scraped over the shape Jason had you propped in now. Your body was arched like a bow, tits bouncing with each of his thrusts. He had your arms hooked over one of his behind your back while his other was wrapped around your throat. Your chin rested on the thick muscles there. Saliva spilled from your mouth while the beginnings of tears pricked at your eyes.
Everything about it was turning him on, but he tried to disguise that fact. He shifted where he stood in an attempt to readjust himself and not let his cock fill out. But then his eyes caught on the slight bulge in your stomach. The faint outline that protruded in rhythm with the man behind you thrusting.
He almost came on the spot. A groan worked its way up his throat, and he ran a hand over his face into his messy hair.
Jason huffed out a laugh at the noise. "You should've seen her. She came in here trying to pick a fight. Probably a warm up before she scampered off to your room to get you to relieve her frustration."
"Nuh uh," you whimpered pitifully.
In response, he released your arms and shoved you down onto the mattress again. You whined at the force he put into slamming your face against the blankets. His hips rutted into you even harder too, clearing any further words of denial from your mind.
"I wasn't asking," he chided. He gave your ass a firm slap before holding onto your hips.
You mewled and clawed at the soft bedding.
"Maybe you are being honest though. Maybe you didn't plan on getting Dick to help you out. You probably knew he couldn't give it to you like you needed," he said. His green eyes flitted up to the man standing beside the bed, letting him know it was an open challenge.
Dick knew he shouldn't take the bait. This was weird enough as it was, standing there and watching the two of you fuck. But wouldn't it be weirder not getting involved? If he just left, he'd still be half-hard. He'd probably skulk off back to his room to jerk off, and that would be more pathetic than whatever he was about to agree to.
"Sure, Jason. If that's what you have to tell yourself," he mocked, "She knows how good I can make her feel. She just knows that you're easier."
Jason’s usual scowl appears on his face. "You cracked first. Gave into her and acted all sweet," he grumbled.
"Yeah, but look at you. She didn't have to work at all to get you to fuck her," he taunted, "I'm sure she'll be so tempted to not act out anymore when this is how you deal with it."
He closed the gap between himself and the bed, reaching for your face. He cupped your jaw and tilted your head upwards to face him. Swiping his thumb over your bottom lip, he smirked at the cute, pouty look on your face.
Jason growled and tugged you back. His hips clapped against your ass. You whined in a mixture of pleasure and pain, screwing your eyes shut. He leaned over your body like a dog guarding its favorite toy while continuing to pound into you.
"You know I'm right," Dick said, "You're so rough because you know you have to compensate."
Now Jason was actually getting a little pissy. He was the one who made this competitive, but it didn't take much to trigger his temper.
He let go of your body and pulled out. "You think you can do better? Go ahead then," he said, gesturing to your twitching form. You whined at the emptiness you now felt, but it did nothing to change his mind. He gave you a quick swat between your legs, ripping a cry from you.
"No whining, little brat," he said, "Not when you're getting so much attention. More than you deserve."
Dick watched with interest before connecting his stare with the other man's.
"You just want me to what? Strip down and fuck her?" he asked.
"Why not? Don't act like you don't want to. I can see the tent in your pants," he responded.
Looking down, he knew he was right. The front of his sweats had puffed out with his desire. He didn't bother feeling embarrassed about it right now though. Jason was shameless as could be, so why should he try to keep up an appearance of modesty?
He shrugged and began peeling off his t-shirt before pushing his pants and boxers to the floor. Both pieces crumple up next to his feet as his cock comes into view. He gives it a few lazy strokes while reaching for you.
You glanced up at him, your pupils dilating upon seeing his length. It was slightly skinnier than Jason's but just as long. Your mouth watered for a taste. He chuckled, your admiration stroking his ego.
"Come here, baby," he cooed, much more gentle than Jason.
The sound of his voice revived you from your fucked out state, and you were happy to be guided into his arms. He sat against the headboard and took you onto his lap. Pressing a few kisses to your lips, he ran his fingers down your jawline.
He knew he wouldn't have to do anything to get you ready. You were already dripping onto his thighs from the mess Jason left between your legs. He shifted you around by your waist, laying you back against his chest. The both of you faced Jason who sat at the end of the bed.
"You think you can ride for me?" he murmured against the shell of your ear.
Your legs were wobbly and your mind still felt a little cloudy from the euphoria Jason pumped into your veins, but you nodded anyways, not wanting to disappoint Dick.
He rewarded you with a grin and pecked your temple. "Such a good girl. Gonna show him how sweet you can be when you're treated right, huh?"
Again, you nodded, but he also caught Jason rolling his eyes.
You rose onto your feet and positioned yourself above his lap. He helped you out a little, lining his shaft up at your entrance and sliding it through your slick.
Slowly, you began sinking down on him. He couldn't help the choked moan that slipped out of his mouth. "Fuck, you're tight," he rasped.
You didn't let up, lowering yourself all the way down in one go. Your ass rested against his pelvis, and he gave you a few moments to adjust. Hell, he needed them too to catch his breath. He couldn't cum too quickly right now. Not with Jason watching. He'd never hear the end of it.
But eventually you do start to bounce. His hands hold onto the little divots in your side to help you keep balance. Your warm slippery walls squeeze around him with each of your movements.
More whiny sounds seep from your lips. They were higher-pitched than last night. Less drawn out and delirious. Each time you took him all the way, your hips jerked. He reached around, swirling his fingers over your clit.
"So sensitive," he teased.
You whimpered and continued to bounce yourself in haphazard bursts. Your pussy gushed for him, your juices dripping down to his balls. By the time you finished, there would be a wet patch for sure.
He tilted his head back against the headboard, just letting himself feel for a moment. Meanwhile, your eyes meet Jason's. He had a fist wrapped around his cock. He kept his strokes slow, as if trying to hide the fact that he was doing it at all.
"Feeling good?" he asked, but you know it was intended to mock you, "You like sweet and gentle? Better than how I do it?"
Before you could answer, Dick slammed you down on his cock. Your eyes fluttered, and you loosened up, allowing him to take over in lifting you up and down on his shaft.
"If you're asking, that means you know you're losing," Dick chimed in a sing-song voice.
That just spiked Jason’s blood pressure. He stood up. "My turn again," he demanded.
Dick openly laughed in his face while continuing to pump you like a fleshlight. "No," he said.
"Yeah. You've had your turn, now it's mine. Give her back," he said. He was getting more agitated because he realized how petulant he sounded.
It only brought more laughter from Dick. "Give her back? What is she? Your favorite doll or something?" he taunted, "It doesn't really seem like she wants to go back to you. I think I'll keep her here till she finishes."
"You're the one who interrupted."
"You're the one who practically invited me to."
"I don't care. You had enough time, now it's my turn to show you. I'll get her at fucking gunpoint if I have to."
Both of them knew he was just blowing off steam. When Jason got mad, he would say things like that without thinking twice. But you'd never heard his voice so gruff, dripping with the potential for violence. When he got pissed at you, he was annoyed and agitated. Frustrated more than anything else. This was something else, and it turned you on.
You clenched around Dick's cock and let out a shaky whine. They simultaneously dropped their bickering and looked at you. Dick slowed the pace as he eyed you, but Jason's lips curved upward.
"Oh you like that idea?" he chuckled, "Thought you were afraid of guns, princess?"
"I- I am," you said, trying to backtrack.
His dark locks swayed from side to side as he shook his head. The moment he headed towards the nightstand Dick knew what he was doing.
"Jason-" he started, but his gun was already in his hand. The dark pistol pointed towards you.
"Come here," he said.
Your eyes widened, thighs quivering as Dick stopped moving you and let you slide off of him. He watched as his cock slid out of you, still coated in your arousal. You crawled forward towards the man pointing the gun at you.
He grabbed a fistful of your hair when you were close enough and dragged you the rest of the way. His cock kicked at the yelp you let out.
"That's a good girl. You know to come when you're called," he praised.
You whimpered in response, looking up at him with wide, puppy-eyes. He didn't soften in the slightest though. Scooping you from behind, he dumped you onto your back.
"Spread your legs for me nice and wide," he directed. You clasped your own legs behind the knee and made sure there was ample room for him to get at your center.
The gun remained aimed at you. It kept your heart pumping so hard you could hear it in your ears. A sick combination of fear and lust ran through your limbs. Jason didn't mind the shakiness though. With his free hand, he guided his thick cock back to your entrance and slid right in.
"Fuck, you take it so well for such a prissy little thing," he growled.
He didn't give you the adjustment period like Dick had. Instead, he pushed all the way in and then dragged his hips back before slamming in again. You mewled at the stretch. The sweet burn of him splitting your cunt open.
"Jason..." Dick said again in the tone of a parent about to count to three.
Jason didn't drop it though. He leaned forward, pressing the cool metal barrel against your shoulder and folding you in half under his bulky frame. He was so deep inside you that you couldn't really say he was thrusting anymore. Just grinding his hips. Deep, even rolls. Those tears that had been teasing you before leaked out freely now. You hiccuped out a broken sob as he continued fucking you within an inch of your life.
"She's fine," he grunted, trying to suppress a moan of his own, "Fuck... you know I'm careful."
It was true. Dick didn't actually believe Jason would shoot you, but still, this felt like the exact opposite of what they were supposed to be doing. This was probably the most danger you'd been in over the course of your entire life. It was definitely the first time you'd had a gun aimed at you.
Heat sweltered between you and Jason, making it almost impossible to breathe. Your head lolled back in search of some relief. Some semblance of breathing room. But he was just all around you. Every part of your body felt under his control.
Your vision went spotty for a moment, but when you came back, you saw Dick's face above yours. Jason had leaned back a bit, allowing you to cool down. His hips maintained a steady rhythm though.
The older man stared down at you, stroking your cheek gently. He swiped your tears away with your thumb. His palms kept your head cradled as if you were the most precious, fragile thing in the world. It just made you cry more.
"You're so pretty crying like that," he crooned. His knuckles swept over your heated skin. "Such a sweet girl. Not used to getting it so rough."
"She'll be used to it by the time the month is over," Jason said. He put the gun aside now, using both hands to hold onto you.
Dick rolled his eyes and continued showering you with soft words and tender touches. It was like each half of your body was in a separate world.
You could tell Jason was close by the way his thrusts were becoming more sporadic. His breaths puffed out in harsh pants while his fingers gripped you tight enough to bruise. Luckily, you were getting there too.
The only one left behind was Dick, but he wasn't worried. He had the patience for you.
Jason thumbed your clit, dragging you the rest of the way to the finish line. You came with a scream so loud that both of them were thankful the penthouse suite meant no neighbors to hear you. Your body quivered and convulsed. You sobbed out cries for both of them. Your hands flew to Dick's wrist to hold onto something.
Jason kept pumping into you for a few moments more, but you were tight as a vise. He knew he was about to cum, and he knew he should pull out. But as he was going to, you locked your shaky legs around him and shook your head.
"I'm-" you tried before cutting yourself off with a whimper, "I'm on the pill."
In that moment, it was like he heard an angel speak to him. He slammed into you as hard as he could and collapsed onto your body. His larger chest crushed you against the bed, his face nuzzling into your neck as he spilled himself inside you. You swore you heard him whine, but it was hard to tell with everything going on.
He fucked his cum into you, not pulling out until he was completely satisfied. Once he was and that dreamy bliss of post-release had settled over him, he reluctantly rolled off and landed next to you flat on his back. His chest rose and fell with deep, slow breaths.
But you weren't done yet. Dick slid around to where he had been and pushed his cock into your hole that was still leaking Jason's cum.
"The best goes on last," he teased with a lazy smirk.
He sighed, his long lashes dusting his cheeks at the sensation. His grip was much softer. He took his thrusts slower too, knowing your poor pussy was aching from how rough Jason got.
You whimpered and twitched at the slight overstimulation.
"Shhh, doing good for me," he cooed, "Pussy's so warm and soft. She wants me. I’ll make her feel all better."
The sounds coming from where your bodies connected were absolutely obscene. And even though Dick wasn't going as fast, he was getting just as deep. His tip brushed your sweet spot over and over. Your toes curled and your back arched. This time it was Jason you held onto. You gripped his hand tight as you could, and he let you. He didn't baby you like Dick did, but he allowed you the comfort of his large, warm palm around yours.
You were totally gone by the time Dick was ready to let go. He angled his hips to guide you into another release. Your walls fluttered around his length. His head tilted back and he let out a groan, feeling his own peak bubble up inside him.
He came inside too, pumping your cunt full of another load. Like Jason, he fucked it all in. He stayed snug in the tight grip of your pussy for a moment before pulling out. Sticky, white cum gushed out, dripping down onto the bed.
Dick landed on the opposite side of you from Jason. He leaned in and planted a soft kiss on your cheek.
The three of you laid in silence for a little while. For you, it was out of pure exhaustion. You wondered if it was that for them too, or if they were processing what they'd done. The lines they'd crossed and the secret they'd now have to keep.
But you didn't get the chance to dwell on it for too long because soon enough, Dick guided you off the bed.
"Let's get you cleaned up," he said.
With a hand on the small of your back, he led you to your bedroom and into the en-suite bathroom. You assumed Jason stayed behind to take care of the bedding, but you didn't ask.
Dick drew you a bath and helped you in. He did like he said he would, cleaned you up. Every move he made he did so with all the care in the world. Gentle hands wiping the dried drool and tear streaks from your face.
When you were done, he helped you out and dried you off. He let you go about the other parts of putting yourself back together on your own, taking a few moments to tend to himself.
You didn't know how the rest of the day would look. If things would be awkward now or if they just wouldn't acknowledge what happened. You waited on your bed for Dick, dressed in a pair of fresh clothes and your skin smooth after being lathered in lotion.
He came in after you a few minutes later. Immediately, your fears of things being weird were extinguished by the smile he gave you. The same charming one he'd had since a few days ago. He climbed on the bed with you and laid back against your pillows. You followed in suit, leaning your head against his shoulder.
You were content like this, just relaxing with him. In the back of his mind, he knew this was the quietest you'd been since he arrived.
Moments later the door opened and Jason came in. He crossed the room without a word. You opened your mouth to ask what he was doing, but he basically answered the question when he reached the other side of your bed.
He laid down next to you like Dick had on your other side. You eyed him suspiciously. Never would you have imagined he'd willingly spend time with you. He caught the look though and gave it his usual frown.
"What?" he scoffed, "I was the one actually hired to watch you. I gotta make sure you're not getting into trouble."
Unlike before, his speaking didn't provoke you to whine or insult. Instead, you smiled and wrapped your arm around his bicep.
"It's ok. I won't make you admit that you wanna cuddle too," you grinned.
He shook his head in denial. "I'm just doing my job," he asserted, "Plus, I think I won the contest, so it only makes sense that I'm the one who stays with you."
"Hey, we never decided on a winner," Dick cut in.
"I mean, we didn't have to because it was pretty obvious."
"Well we got a whole month, so if you're so confident, we can always have a rematch later," Dick challenged.
"Um, you guys didn't even ask for my vote on who I think won," you interrupted with a pout.
They both turn their eyes to you. For once, Jason didn’t look at you with total disdain. In this moment, you could see some fondness under the top coat of annoyance.
"There's that attitude. I guess it was naive of me to hope we fucked it out of you," he said.
Dick chuckled at that. "It'll take a couple more rounds before that's even a real possibility."
You glared at the both of them, but like Jason, your eyes didn't hold real anger or frustration now. Only the hope that they'd try to put you back in line again.
Pairing] Spencer Reader x glasses wearing! shy! librarian! fem!Reader
Synopsis] Despite Spencer's best efforts to keep you his Sunday solace, you become all he can think about.
Warnings] Gruesome descriptions of typical CM gore, references to sex, Spencer's POV, insecure/anxious reader, poetry excerpts, like 3k of Spencer pining over reader (sorry not sorry), tech stuff I know nothing about
Word Count] 14.1k
Author's Note] These are links to the poetry from this part: "Your laughter", "The Insect", "And because love battles". Though I use important excerpts, I would highly recommend reading these because I reference them throughout. Sorry to make you do homework but I promise it's cute bc Spencer is falling in love through poetryyyy.
Spencer spent four days in Seattle, but he would be lying if he said that was the only reason he didn’t get to finish all ten of his library books by Sunday.
He read one book last Sunday evening while sipping tea on his couch and then he read two of them a day from Monday to Wednesday in between his work hours. Early Thursday morning Penelope rallied the troops to the conference room to explain that they were going to Seattle because four women had been found butchered. No case was easy exactly, but this one was especially hard. The women were found in horrific states, cannibalism was suspected, and Spencer was in charge of doing the geographic profile. The problem was the unsub was very criminally sophisticated and it seemed like he had no comfort zone, so Spencer was struggling. To top it all off, one of the victims' mothers had broken down wailing in the police station, right in front of Spencer’s map, begging for someone to find her daughter's killer. . . and the rest of her remains.
Spencer had nothing he could say to the poor mother. JJ ended up trying to comfort her, old instincts from her liaison days kicking in. He went back to his hotel room that night and cried. It’d been a while since he cried on a case, a few months or so, but it happened every so often with bad ones, mostly children. So he let himself cry on the loveseat in the corner for a few minutes before taking a shower, putting on some soft PJs, and crawling under the covers of his double bed. For a while he stared into the ceiling picturing the map, the circles he drew, and the pins he placed on it. Half the pins marked an abduction site and the other half signified where a body was found. If he concentrated too hard, he could see the bodies in the morgue: their blue lips, sheet like skin, the carved out flesh.
Most people would assume there was no downside to an eidetic memory, but Spencer knew there was. He could remember every horrendous, gruesome detail of a crime scene, a victim's injuries, an unsub’s taunts. It all haunted him, swimming around in his vision and fogging his brain when he wanted peace. Reading helped because it kept his brain busy and his head clear. When he couldn’t take the horror anymore, Spencer leaned over the side of the bed to his go-bag on the floor.
Inside was a couple outfits, sleepwear, his usual toiletries, and a few of his library books. He wasn’t sure how much time he would have, so he brought all three of his unread ones. When Spencer unzipped the bag, he remembered he brought four borrowed books. The Poetry of Pablo Neruda sat atop the rest of his clothes and books. It must have floated to the top as Spencer rooted through the bag for his comfiest pajamas. He hesitated to bring it up onto the bed, thumbing the curling corners, but eventually took it into his lap.
Spencer wanted to read the book as soon as he got home from the library. He actually almost blew a stop sign he was in such a rush, which Spencer never did because he was a very careful driver. Some—Derek—would call him too careful, but there wasn’t such a thing as too careful. However because he was so reckless and excited, Spencer couldn’t bring himself to read the book. It was too distracting, too enticing—he couldn’t allow himself the pleasure of it because it would consume him. Already you were nagging his thoughts, distracting him from his day, his job, and he had to curb it somehow. He certainly couldn’t feed into it by reading the book you gave him. So, he decided he would wait until Saturday to read it so you would continue to just be his solace on Sundays.
But Spencer wanted a distraction, he needed one really, and he wanted it to be you. He opened the book and immediately smiled as he was met with your handwritten notes in pink pen ink. He couldn’t explain why the loops and lines were so you, but they were, and it only made it easier for him to hear them in your gentle whisper.
Spencer read 20,000 words per minute, but he read close to three per minute as he combed through the poems and your little comments and analyses. He savored them as much as he could, because he could only read them for the first time once and never again would they be so fresh and sweet. Every other line his heart would flutter and his breath would pause as he searched between the stanzas and in the margins for your own reactions.
Pablo Neruda wrote some powerful political poetry in support of the Communist Party in Chile, but it was only a sliver of the book's poems. The rest of the pages consisted of beautiful and heartbreaking romance poems. As he read them, he thought of you. Because you’d given him the book, of course, and it was your thoughts scrawled out on the page right alongside Neruda’s. In his drowsy head, the words merged, printed black and scribbled pink swirling, and suddenly the woman Neruda was talking about was you. You were the woman he longed to forget, but would forever plague him. You were the woman made for his arms, his kisses, his soul. Your body was the journey his hands itched to make.
But Spencer couldn’t think that of you. When his eyes would glaze and your image would appear on paper, he blinked quickly and rubbed his eyes raw. It was wrong to think of you like that because you were an acquaintance—a friend at best. He had no right, even if you’d given him the book. He thought then about why you’d given him the book. Sure, it was because he reached his check out limit and could always read more, but why had you given him this book? It was clearly a favorite by how worn and full of notes it was, but the notes were your deepest thoughts on love. Obviously he would consider you as he read them.
He tried not to though, he really did, until he came across “Your Laughter.” Upon its title alone your giggle echoed in his ears and he leaned closer to the lamp light to read it unobstructed.
“My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.”
Perhaps he had imagined those other women Neruda wrote about as you, but this was you. Your laughter gave him life, comfort, and he was starting to think he couldn’t be without it. Every stanza solidified it in his mind that he loved your laugh, that he would take it over bread or air, because in the dim library it stole him away from the world and relieved his burdens, if just for a moment. He finally fell asleep in the early hours of the morning with the page open on his chest.
—
On Friday morning Spencer woke with you on his mind, and that couldn’t happen. He had to banish you from his head, lock your memory away in a deep, dark vault just to get his work done, because every time he saw a flower, or a book, or even heard a laugh, he was thinking of a line from The Poetry of Pablo Neruda and you were that poetry. He had to stuff the book at the bottom of his go bag and swear off it until the case was finished—and he did. He redirected his entire focus back to his map, pins, and circles.
But every night when he went back to the hotel, depressed and exhausted, he sought the book out and found comfort in your words. He fell asleep to them and dreamt your thoughts, then woke up in the morning to you clouding his mind and he had to lock you away again to stay focused.
He was successfully able to rid you from his thoughts at work until Sunday when he woke up antsy at the idea you were in a different state. He tried again to concentrate solely on the case, but when his watch rolled over to 11 he got stuck staring at it, thinking about what you were doing on the other side of the country. It was already 2pm in Virginia due to the different time zones. He wondered what you were thinking. Did you stand at the desk, perched over it for the best view of the front doors? Were you also sad when the hour hand crept slowly passed 11 on the grand clock above the door and he did not walk in? Maybe you didn’t care and the day continued as normal. Or maybe you were only upset he was not promptly returning your book. He thought if only he solved the case faster he wouldn’t have to wonder.
He shook his head, shaking you away, then focused back on the map. Not more than 20 minutes later he solved it thanks to a call from Garcia about a fifth missing woman fitting the victimology. When he added a pin to her abduction site, he found the pattern, the comfort zone, and the unsub. He gathered up the map to present his findings to Hotch, to show him where he knew the secondary location had to be, and just like that the police station was bustling with a new vigor.
They wrapped up the case late Sunday evening. They put away a monster and were able to give that grieving mother and three others closure on what happened to their daughters. That night, a woman went home to her family and Spencer returned to his hotel room, gathered his belongings, and rushed to the jet. He’d never been more ready to get back to Virginia because as exhausted and relieved as he was, he was also sad. He shouldn’t have been, but he was, because 11am came and went in a police station and not in the library ten minutes from his apartment. You’d called him so reliable and he missed it. He should have warned you about his unpredictable hours, he realized, but now he was just anxious to explain himself. He didn’t want to be the unreliable man leaving a trail of disappointment and broken promises, it was so much like his father the thought made him shiver.
He was so quick to the jet he beat Hotch and JJ, who were always prompt to get back to their kids. She eyed him as he bounced on his heels, checking his watch. It was nearly 9:30pm which meant they would arrive in the early morning anyway. He would return to his apartment and sleep, hopefully for a while, because the library wouldn’t be open for hours. But Spencer bounced with anxiety because he was late and he hated being late. All he did was think and he was overthinking. He hoped you weren’t.
“Spence?” He realized JJ’s eyes were on him. She had her usual concerned expression, knitted brows and tilted head. “You okay?”
He nodded because he was okay, technically. There was nothing really wrong. “Yeah, of course.”
She didn’t look entirely convinced, and by now Hotch was watching their exchange. “Are you sure? You look a little. . . stressed.”
She wouldn’t give it up then. “No, I just sort of had plans today I missed. I had to return some library books and I don’t like to be late,” he explained, hoping it would soothe her worries. It wasn’t a lie. . . maybe a bit of a half truth, but his weekends were meant to be his and he wasn’t obligated to talk at length about his personal life.
JJ scoffed, checking her phone as she relaxed, calmed by his explanation. Hotch’s eyes swept back across the street, waiting for the others to arrive. “Well, you know better than to make plans. I missed date night with Will again.”
“That sucks,” Spencer hummed absentmindedly, eyes also watching down the road for the rest of the team.
It was approximately seven minutes later when their SUV pulled up and the six of them boarded the jet. The team took their usual seats, mostly in silence as Hotch did paperwork, Morgan listened to music, and the rest of the team tried to get some sleep. Spencer took the familiar couch at the back of the jet, but he didn’t curl up to sleep just yet. Instead he opened his go bag to the book he had packed away right at the top to ensure he brought it. A smile spread across his face unbeknownst to him as he took it into his hands. He brought his legs up onto the seat and leaned with his arm on the armrest and his head tucked into his elbow as he got comfortable. Unfortunately, he was used to folding himself up on the small couch, long limbs and all, but it was a good enough position to read in.
Spencer picked up where he left off reading slowly again, tasting the words as he mouthed them to himself alone. Every so often his silent recitation was interrupted by a quiet chuckle or a snort, because not only was your commentary deep but it was witty. Your takes on Neruda’s physical interest in love was so intriguingly sardonic he couldn’t hold back a laugh.
Spencer found one particular poem, “The Insect,” sensual until he spotted your jokes scrawled along the bottom near the page number.
“From your hips down to your feet
I want to make a long journey.
I am smaller than an insect.
Over these hills I pass,
hills the colour of oats,
crossed with faint tracks
that only I know,
scorched centimetres,
pale perspectives."
In your hasty, sloppy handwriting you responded:
“He better be adept at
licking between those hills
if he is smaller than an insect”
Spencer cracked a wide grin, stifling his laugh in his collar. Your humor, tucked between the pages of an unassuming book, was uninhibited by your meekness. He couldn’t help but think you would never say such a crude thing aloud, or maybe you would, and he only needed to know you longer to hear it from your lips. Neruda’s next stanza was even more lewd.
“Now here is a mountain.
I shall never leave this.
What a giant growth of moss!
And a crater, a rose
of moist fire!”
He followed a loopy arrow from the section of lines to your reply.
“Crater??? I suppose my razor bumps must be the
stinging rocks that tearing out the moss uncovered”
Spencer snorted, wondering if you remembered writing those quips when you generously handed him the book. They weren’t abundant, most of your responses were scholarly thoughts or opinions on love, but he could see your mood ebb and flow throughout the poems, crossed out thoughts and new additions from when you reread and re-examine with fresh eyes and new ideas. When he got to the end of the poem, he could see how your tone had shifted.
“Sliding down to your feet
I reach the eight slits
of your pointed, slow,
peninsular toes,
and from them I fall down
to the white emptiness
of the sheet, seeking blindly
and hungrily the form
of your fiery crucible!”
Another arrow from the last word guided him to the next page where he assumed you added more thoughts after going back over the poem again.
“Neruda is only a man, so his metaphors of the body
have to be expected. But his unrestrained desire and
dedication is the important subtext. To make the journey
long and slow and appreciate it all with unparalleled reverence?
A girl might just have time to fall in love.”
Your interpretation of the poetry spoke volumes about your outlook on love. How you searched between the lines for the words unsaid, that between the carnal romance, you found desire and dedication. That was what you valued, as well as “time to fall in love.” The sentiment gave him pause because Spencer had a habit of. . . fixation. Spencer cared fast and deeply, and maybe that was too much for you. He would have to cool off, give you space, even if he was starting to want everyday to be Sunday.
“What’s so funny over here?”
Spencer looked up, tucking the book into his chest, startled by Derek suddenly standing right in front of him. “Nothing. Just. . . reading.”
Derek leaned down his head to see the title, eyebrows rising with a scoff. “The Poetry of Pablo Neruda?” He shook his head as he continued behind the curtain to the bathroom. “Only you would be laughing at poetry, pretty boy.”
Derek would laugh too if he took a look at your writings, but Spencer didn’t feel like sharing you. He went back to his reading and it took him about an hour to finish the book. The feeling of turning over the last page was hollow. Of course, he could remember every single word, could recite it backwards if he wanted to, he studied it so intently, but the feeling of reading it, of getting inside your head was over. He drifted to sleep with the book tucked into his arm, trying to hold onto that feeling just a little longer.
Rossi shook him awake when they landed. The sun wasn’t up yet and a glance at his watch told him it was only 5:30 in the morning. The team wasn’t expected back until Wednesday, so Spencer only dipped into the office to grab paperwork before he got into his car and drove back home to his apartment. Blasting the radio was the only thing that kept him awake while driving. He didn’t realize it when he first got on the jet, but his body and mind were exhausted. His limbs ached and his head was foggy. Once he got in the door he dropped his bag on the floor and slumped into his bed, drifting back off into deep sleep.
—
From the way the light filtered in through the blinds, the sun was arching high in the sky when Spencer finally woke up again. His eyes were practically crusted shut and his mouth was dry, all the moisture leaking out onto his face and bedspread. He rubbed a hand over his face as he sat up and stretched. The rest did him good. He had more energy, at least, and he didn’t feel like weights were attached to him. He sat there for a minute, just adjusting to the world, then his eyes drifted to his alarm clock. It was 12:43pm.
At once he jumped up from his bed, raiding his closet for a fresh pair of clothes. He didn’t mean to sleep in, he meant to be at the library early to explain himself. All he bothered to put on was a clean button up and slacks before he slipped on his converse and grabbed his keys. He stopped himself at the door when he remembered he was going to the library to return his books, so he swung back around to pick up the basket on his coffee table and grab The Poetry of Pablo Neruda from his go bag.
He jogged down the stairs to his car, breezing past his neighbor Mrs. Cavanaugh who greeted him kindly. Of course, he drove just as carefully as he normally did, using his turn signal, completely stopping at each stop sign, and maintaining the speed limit, all the while his fingers rapped the steering wheel. His parking job in the library lot wasn’t great, though if he was being honest it never really was, but he didn’t hang around long to admire its crookedness as he grabbed his basket and speed walked into the library.
It was comforting to be met with the familiar chill and paper air. A hand thoughtless combed through his hair as he took his time to walk down the rug to the front desk. He realized he didn’t put a comb through his hair before he left which meant it was definitely wild. He would have spent time being embarrassed about it if he looked over the counter and saw you, but he didn’t. In your chair was an elderly woman who squinted through her own glasses as she read a thick book she clutched in her wrinkly hands. She looked up and saw Spencer standing there, an unamused look on her face.
“Checking something in?” She asked in a smoker's voice.
“Oh, uh, yes,” Spencer floundered, surprised you weren’t there. He took your book from the top of the basket and then brought the rest up to the counter. The woman watched him as he pulled the books from the basket, an over plucked eyebrow raised. He had to dig around in his wallet for his library card too, but eventually set it on the counter to avoid the talons at her fingertips. She let out a sigh as she began scanning them.
Spencer tapped his fingers against the countertop, eyes roaming around the library. Was Monday your off day? He never asked. He actually didn’t know much about your personal life besides that you were in graduate school. Maybe you had classes today? He could come in again tomorrow. . . but was that weird? He wouldn’t have any books to check in, so he didn’t have any actual reason for coming in besides seeing you. Would you find that odd? That he sought you out? He didn’t want to wait until next Sunday to talk to you again.
Spencer looked back at the librarian as she cleared her throat. She finished checking in the books and slid back over his library card, but he was still just standing there. “Is there something else you need?” She asked and he whispered your name. “What?”
“I–I mean, is she working today?” Spencer clarified quickly. “The girl who is at this desk on Sundays?”
She blinked at him, leaning back in her chair and picking back up her book, a sharp finger turning the page. “She’s working.”
He nodded, gathering up his library card and basket and briskly walking away from the desk. With no additional clues as to where you were, he went to the second floor and began walking around. You had to be around there somewhere, eventually he would find you. He scanned the shelves as he walked, looking in the sciences for books that interested him, but he was too preoccupied looking over his shoulder for you walking by. Eventually he was fed up waiting for you to walk by and roamed the library just looking for you.
It took going to the fiction section to find you. He rounded the corner of a bookcase and saw you up on a ladder, arm full of books, the other busy nestling them into their places on the shelves. Your hair was done up and you wore a long, patterned skirt, but also a fitted long sleeve shirt. It hugged you like you hugged the books, and Spencer’s eyes trailed the outline of your figure illuminated by a gold halo from the window behind you. In over a week of not seeing you, Spencer didn’t forget a single detail of how you looked, but the feeling he got when he looked at you was new and invigorating.
He saw you in a new light, literally and figuratively. He knew some of your inner thoughts; each poem he read felt like a conversation. Maybe it was one way, but you read the book so many times perhaps it wasn’t. He hoped maybe you knew exactly what you were doing when you gave it to him, as if, in your own shy way, you were saying all those words to him.
A quiet gasp broke his train of thought and suddenly you were looking at him, turned on the ladder to see him at the end of the bookcase. “Spencer?” You looked surprised, caught off guard, and when you tried to scramble down the ladder clinging onto the books and nothing else, you tripped on your skirt and teetered on the foothold.
Spencer was next to you instantly, the basket sliding up his arm as he steadied you with a hand on your waist. You took hold of his other hand, delicate fingers wrapping tight around his palm, and slowly came down off the ladder. He let you go once you were on the floor again, unsure of what to do with his hands warmed by the feel of you.
“Thank you, I was really trying not to twist my ankle falling off that again,” You smiled nervously, embarrassed, and looked down at the books you held against yourself.
“Again?” Spencer asked, brows quirking up, lips twisting into a smile. Not only were you shy, but you were klutzy. He wasn’t sure which made you more endearing.
“Oh yeah. I was laid up for a week after falling off a three foot ladder. Now I don’t reach so far out,” you explained, finally chancing a look up at him and finding his eyes already on you.
“I got shot in the knee once. I was on crutches for five months, two weeks, and five days and I hated pretty much every second of it,” he blurted out, and to his delight you breathed out a quiet laugh.
“Well you’ve got my twisted ankle beat,” You shrugged at him. He chuckled in reply, and slowly the conversation faded away. He had so much to say to you, to explain, but it disappeared from his mouth when he stood in front of you. Suddenly he felt self-conscious. He wondered if you thought about him even half as much as he thought about you. Finally, your voice came out in the softest whisper. “I didn’t know if you were going to come back. . .”
“I was in Seattle,” like a dam burst, at last his words came rushing out. “I travel for work a lot and I’ve been in Seattle since Thursday. I only got back this morning.”
He searched your face for your reaction but your eyes were unreadable. “You just got back from a four day work trip across the country and the first thing you do is go to the library?” He couldn’t tell whether you were weirded out or not. Normally your emotions were all over your face and he read it just like a book, but suddenly you snapped it shut.
“No. Well—yes, kind of. . .” When you only continued to look at him, he felt the need to keep talking. “I had to return the books, y’know? And. . .” He searched your eyes for an indication to stop or keep going, but they were only pools of hope with borders of acetate. “You called me reliable—before, I mean—and I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t. I didn’t have any way to contact you either to let you know I wasn’t going to come in so I just. . . came here as soon as I could.”
The meekest of smiles lifted the corners of your lips and Spencer nearly let out a sigh of relief. “I guess it’s silly, but I was a little sad when you didn’t come in. I thought I really messed it up, and that sucked because it gets kind of boring in here without a genius FBI agent to be surprised by,” you shrugged, finger tapping along a hardcover book in your arms. Spencer opened his mouth to reassure you that you didn’t do anything wrong, but you continued. “I think it’d be better for both of us if we had a way to contact each other—so you can warn me of course! When work has you too busy to come in.”
Spencer stood in front of you for a few seconds, processing what you were saying. Then you inclined your brows at him and he scrambled to get his phone from his pocket. “Oh, right. You can just put your number in and I will, uh, text you.”
You struggled to adjust the books in your arms to get a free hand, so Spencer set the basket down and offered his help to take them. “Oh, thank you,” you mumbled, passing the books into his long arms and taking his phone. As you thumbed in the numbers, Spencer turned to the shelves and began putting the books in their rightful places. You furrowed your brows at him, mouth falling open. “Oh, Spencer, you don’t have to do that.”
“I’d like to help.” He gave you a smile over his shoulder and went back to fingering over the spines to find the correct placement.
“Thank you then. Just. . .” Your head craned outside the end of the bookcases, glancing either way before walking back to the trolley that carried the books that needed reshelving. “Don’t let Mrs. Wilson see you. I think she’d actually fire me.”
“Mrs. Wilson?” Spencer questioned, brows creasing. “The woman at the desk today?”
You just gathered another armful of books from the trolley when your head snapped back to Spencer, then glanced between him and then the nearly empty basket on the floor, worried. “Oh my God, she checked your books back in. She didn’t say anything mean to you, did she? Nasty little comments are her specialty.”
Spencer took more books from the cart, his eyes glued to you as you scaled the ladder again. “No. She wasn’t exactly friendly either, but she didn’t say anything mean.” You wiped fake sweat off your brow. “Is she your boss?”
“Kinda, yeah. Technically I’m a library aid, but I do pretty much everything she does as the librarian,” you said, voice dry and tired with annoyance. “Actually I do everything she’s supposed to do besides berate people for late books, that’s her favorite pastime. Most of the day she manages the desk while I do everything else. I only work the desk Sunday because that’s her off day. I’m pretty sure she spends it at church because she’s always telling me I should be going.”
He glanced at you as you talked, continuing to organize the books. It was the most he ever heard you talk, and he was starting to hear the same voice he heard on the margins of The Poetry of Pablo Neruda. “I’m glad I came in on Sunday then,” he said. He likely never would have met you if he didn’t come in on Sunday, what with you rushing around doing all the other day to day library duties. That meant there was a 1/7, or 14% chance of him meeting you at the library the way he did. He didn’t even want to think about how slim the chance of him meeting you was after also factoring in the other libraries in the area he could have visited.
“I’m glad you did too.” You smiled over at him, shelving your last book and carefully heading back down the ladder. “She never would have let you check out all those books at once.”
He quickly placed the remaining book in his hand on the shelf, joining you at the trolley as you divided up the last of the books left. “So, if she’s so mean and awful at her job, why don’t you report her?”
You paused, eyes going distant and your shoulders slighting curling in on yourself. “I could report her to the director I guess, but. . .” You only considered it for a moment before collecting the books and spinning away down the bookcase with a shake of your head. “I don’t see the point. She’s just a grouchy old woman. It’s not like I can’t handle it. I think the reason she hates me so much is because she thinks I’m going to replace her.”
Spencer eyed your body language and shift in tone. It was the confrontation that scared you, he realized. He saw it before with Todd and now with Mrs. Wilson and the director. You didn’t stand up to her or advocate for yourself because of some self conscious doubt or fear of rejection. Sure, Mrs. Wilson might be mean and a bit scary, but that shouldn’t mean you have to deal with her blatant disrespect. He wanted to give you some encouragement, but seeing your reaction to his question—the way you curled in on yourself to protect yourself from the discomfort just considering reporting her gave you—made him not want to push you, so he finished putting the books in the bookcase.
“If you say so. I'm just sorry you don’t get along with your coworker. I feel like my team at the BAU is my family and I couldn’t imagine it any other way,” he confessed. His only real family was his mom, but he felt it wasn’t appropriate to talk about her just yet. Although he did feel like the team was also his family, so it felt right to talk about them.
You hummed, a dreamy look on your face. “That’s nice. It makes sense too, since you all have to trust each other with your lives, don’t you?” You brought your bottom lip between your teeth suddenly, hesitating to look at Spencer. “I um, I looked up what the BAU was the other day because I wanted to know what you did exactly. It just said you created “profiles” of serial killers, but it didn’t mention field work.” You slotted onto a shelf the last book in your hands, fidgeting with your fingers as they became idle, eyes wandering back and forth between him and the floor. “I was just thinking if. . . are you in danger often? You didn’t seem very scared of that guy the other day—obviously he’s not nearly as scary as a serial killer, but you also said you got shot in the knee?”
Spencer held back a smile because you seemed upset, but the fact that you took the time to look up what he did and worried about him made his stomach swirl in a way which was more pleasing than nauseating. “Field work is a part of my job, yes. We profile serial killers and other criminals, but we also help the local police catch them. I’ve had other injuries besides getting shot in the knee, too. So, yes, often it can be a very dangerous job.” It also felt wrong to bring up Tobias Hinkel, the trauma Spencer experienced, and the path it led him down. Maybe at a later time he could bring it up, but now he was more comfortable recounting exactly the amount of times he’d been shot at and every injury he’d gotten on the job from being punched to poisoned. Spencer did none of that though, because your face became sickly and your brows knitted so tight with concern he thought they might merge together. “I’m always okay though! I trust my team and we all keep each other safe. I wear a bulletproof vest to protect my vital organs and I carry a gun, so I’m kind of hard to kill.”
You crossed your arms, nodding as you calmed down from the worry. Spencer wondered if you were also an anxious person, it would make sense since you were so concerned about him and his job. It was a dangerous job, sometimes in the moment Spencer dismissed the probabilities that he could actually die, but it was always possible despite his experience, knowledge, and skills. Unlikely, but possible. “It’s a really good thing your coworkers have your back then,” you joked, but it was weak and Spencer could tell you were still unsettled.
He wanted to calm you down, because there wasn’t anything to be worried about. He was good at his job, safe, and he always ran all the probabilities and took the best course of action. Most importantly, he always had a thorough and accurate profile, which Gideon always said was the deadliest weapon he could have. You didn’t need to worry about him despite the danger. “‘What more can they tell you? I am neither good nor bad but a man, and they will then associate the danger of my life, which you know and which with your passion you shared,’” he recited. Your head tilted as you took in his words, an excitement of realization slowly filling up your face. “‘And good, this danger is danger of love, of complete love for all life, for all lives.’”
“‘And because love battles’, Pablo Neruda,” you named it. Spencer was right when he assumed you read it several times because you had it memorized enough to spot it. “That poem is about fighting for and defending his love despite his past and what others have to say about it—not the danger of having standoffs with murderers.”
“Yes, but I can repurpose it. I do this job despite the danger because I love people. I love helping them, saving them. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. If I don’t catch the murderers, who will?” He explained, trying to show you that this job was just a part of him, however dangerous it was, he could handle it. “I know it can be scary, but trust me when I tell you that I’m good at what I do. There aren't any people out there better at this job than my team. You don’t have to worry.”
You plucked at the ends of your sleeves, thinking on what he told you. The seconds ticked by and he resorted to examining your body language, how your shoulders were even and between them your chest rose and fell at a steady pace. Your face was placid too, until it warped with a playful smile and you stepped closer to him. The breath left his lungs in an exhale. “So. . . you did finish The Poetry of Pablo Neruda?” He took air in again with a chuckle. Teasing him must have meant you felt reassured. “You must have been distracted being so good at your job that your interpretation was off, because that’s not at all what that quote means.”
Spencer took a step towards you, his long legs almost closing the gap of space between your bodies before you scrambled back a step. “Oh, I know what you think of that poem. I know exactly what you think of all Neruda’s poems, since you spelled it out for me.”
Your hands came back to the front of you, fidgeting with your fingers as you avoided the intensity of his eyes, face warming with embarrassment. “You read all my notes?” How could he not? Surely, you must have known he would.
“Of course I did. I thought it was all very insightful,” he said, and because he couldn’t help himself, he continued. “Especially all your little jokes. What did you have to say about ‘The Insect’? ‘He better be adept at licking—’”
“Spencer!” You squealed, certainly disturbing anyone who was in the surrounding rows of bookcases. Your hands rushed to cover your face. “I didn’t—You weren’t—oh my God!”
Spencer laughed at your suffering, taking sadistic pleasure in it only for a few moments before he gently pulled your hands from your face by your arms. “It’s okay. I thought they were all very funny. You’re very funny.”
It was harder for you to shake off the embarrassment. You carefully removed your wrists from his hands to wring them. “I didn’t think you were even actually going to read it.”
Spencer’s brows twitched into a furrow, puzzled as to why you thought he wouldn’t read the book you gave him. “Why not? I like poetry.”
You shrugged. “I–I don’t know, I just definitely didn’t expect for you to memorize it and everything I said.”
“I have an eidetic memory,” he countered, knowing he would remember everything you ever wrote and said to him. “And some of that stuff is pretty hard to forget anyway.”
You whined, mortified. “Yeah, I’m starting to realize what that means.”
There was a pause between you and Spencer, because you were embarrassed and he wasn’t sure why. Having someone read your private thoughts is vulnerable and flustering, but you gave him the book. You must have known he would agonize over your every word, but your reaction said you didn’t. Spencer couldn’t help but feel he was reading too far into things, his obsessive, addictive personality sending him spiraling down a hole of a relationship he dug all on his own. You didn’t think about him as much as he did you; you didn’t read into the things he did and search for more meaning.
“Do you need more books?”
“Huh?”
He was staring into your face thinking hard, but you snapped him back out of it. “You finished reading all your books right?” You repeated.
“No, I only read seven of them,” he thought aloud.
“What? What happened to Mr. 20,000 words per minute?” The shyness fled you slowly as you turned again to teasing him. It was cute, but it also flustered Spencer, because he definitely couldn’t tell you he didn’t finish his other books because he spent all his time scrutinizing every word both you and Pablo Neruda wrote.
“I–I told you I was in Seattle for four days. I didn’t have time to finish them because I was busy.” It was a lame excuse because he definitely did have enough time, he just spent it reading the book you gave him because it comforted him better than any other book could.
You hummed, tapping your fingers along your forearm. “Okay, well, you should look for some more books. I have to get back to work or the library’s going to collapse without me. So, um, text me?”
He got whiplash from your sudden goodbye. “Y–Yeah, of course. I’ll see you next week right?”
“Of course,” you repeated, throwing him a wave as you grabbed the handle of the trolley and started pushing it out of the aisle.
“Wait, don’t forget this.” Spencer stopped you as he picked his basket back up from the floor, plucking The Poetry of Pablo Neruda out of it to hand to you.
You took it with a grateful smile, setting it on the trolley. “Thank you, Spencer, I’ll have to give you more poetry book recommendations since clearly you liked this one so much.”
He watched you disappear around the corner and was immediately hit with everything he wanted to say to you, what he should have said, all the conversations he wanted to have had. It wasn’t enough. You’d taken a decent chunk of time out of your busy day to chat with him but it still didn’t satisfy him. Spencer wondered if there would ever be enough of you, or if he was now forever craving you, needing your words, your laugh, you entirely.
He resigned himself to looking around the library for new books to read. Every time he entered a new aisle, he looked for you, having hope you’d be there but you never were. Still, he took his time finding books, but once he had seven in his basket he made his way down to the front desk.
Of course, Mrs. Wilson was sitting there and she was just as pleased as she was before to see Spencer standing in front of her. She stood up as he began unloading the books onto the countertop.
“Seven books?” She croaked.
“Yes? I only have three out and the check out limit is ten,” he justified, pausing as he rummaged his wallet for his library card.
“I know the checkout limit. You can’t check out more than five books at once,” she hissed, clawing two books off the top of the stack and dropping them onto the cart behind her. Without missing a beat, she turned back and snatched up his library card from the counter and began scanning.
“Okay. . .” he mumbled, unsure how to respond. Obviously that wasn’t library policy, but he wasn’t interested in fighting with your coworker. All he needed was for her to dislike him. Well, dislike him more than the disdain she seemed to have for everyone.
When she finished scanning and checking the books out, she slapped his library card on top of the stack and sat back in her seat, picking up her book again without a word. Spencer took that as his sign to get lost and quickly gathered up his books in his basket and made for the exit. He looked back once more as he opened the double doors and turned back around as they shut behind him.
Spencer wiped down the books and his basket in his car, setting them both up snug in his passenger seat. He sat there for a moment, looking back at the library, then pulled out his phone. Like you said, your name had been added to his contacts, your full name. He bounced his leg as he considered sending you a message, but finally gave in and typed a simple one out.
- Hey, it's Spencer Reid.
Again, his leg bounced viciously as his fingers hovered over the buttons, sporadically typing out letters before deleting them. He even set it down before he picked it back up and hurriedly sent another message.
- Mrs. Wilson only let me check out five books.
He tossed his phone over into his passenger seat with a sigh. Spencer Reid did not text. It was strange, embarrassing, and not at all something he was used to. He felt the urge to call Garcia and even ask if he was doing it right. Was there even a right way to text? There had to be and he had no clue what it was. Constantly Garcia was bringing up internet language Spencer did not understand. What if you knew it and he didn’t? He almost went back into the library to research it on the computer.
But he had to go home. He hadn’t eaten yet and his stomach was starting to rumble and growl. There was a chinese place on the way home, he could stop by there and get takeout. It wasn’t the healthiest plan, but there wasn’t much at the apartment besides pasta. That meant he also had to go grocery shopping tomorrow. He sighed through his nose as he put the car in drive, only to immediately throw it back in park when he heard his phone chime. He lunged over the console to the passenger seat so quickly the seat belt locked up and he choked himself momentarily before he could unfasten it and snap up his phone from the seat. There was a text from you.
- When do you go back to work?
His brows creased, but he responded swiftly nonetheless.
- Wednesday. Why?
- That means you have to come in tomorrow at 11, that's her lunch break. I can check you out.:)
He was even more confused by the punctuation at the end of your sentence. He reread it thrice for any clues to the meaning before he tilted his head and saw a smiley face staring back at him. A laugh burst from him, shaking his chest. He could put off grocery shopping until later in the day tomorrow.
—
Spencer came into the library Tuesday at 11am promptly. You escorted him around the library as he found two more books, then you let him pick an additional two more to check out on your own library account. After picking out the books, sneaking to check him out at the front desk became the best covert op mission Spencer had ever done, and he actually had done quite a few. As you talked, Spencer recounted cases he worked on and taught you the lingo they used in the field. When you slunk behind the front desk, you actually whisper-screamed “Clear!” at him with a face so serious Spencer had to slap a hand over his mouth so he didn’t blow the whole operation by laughing in your face. Your head bobbed constantly for any sight of Mrs. Wilson, even though you told him she ate lunch at the diner down the street. Then you slid him the two extra books like the scandal was DEA investigation worthy. All the while, you and Spencer giggled like children.
You were a lot less worried now when he told you about the cases he worked on, he tended to leave out the really scary parts, but the idea of him chasing after armed murders didn’t terrify you as much anymore. You seemed to trust him and his skills more, likely because of his excellent performance during “Operation Paperback,” which was the code name you lovingly bestowed upon your mission to check Spencer out more books while Mrs. Wilson took what was most definitely not a smoke break. (You told him you were going to launch your own investigation into the cigarette butts you kept finding in the parking lot when he left now that you were a pro at “FBI stuff.”)
Spencer left the library with a giant grin on his face and it stuck with him even as he picked out his next week's worth of meals at the grocery store. He also planned when he would see you again and thought about all the things he wanted to talk to you about. Of course, he wanted to tell you about all the great things he did: his successes as an FBI agent, how he earned his PhDs, the time he hit the ball and ran the winning homerun for Derek’s baseball team. But he also wanted to tell you the darker parts of his life: his mother’s illness, how the job had traumatized him, his struggle with addiction. And he wanted to know so much more about you in kind.
Swiftly, it was no longer just Sundays he was visiting the library. He was dropping in after work and on the odd days he had off due to prolonged cases in other states. It took him less than a week to memorize your schedule. You had off on Fridays and Saturdays, and on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays you had classes. Of course, your classes were late after work on Monday and Wednesday, however they were early in the morning on Friday. The library hours were something he also saved in his mental rolodex. It had open hours all seven days of the week: 10am to 4pm on weekends and 11am to 7pm on weekdays. Spencer was leaving work on time for the first time in years to make it to the library before close.
Over the next couple weeks as he went to the library, he realized you spent a lot of time troubleshooting the computers. So when he came in he would either find a book to read or set himself up at an open computer near the one you were working on. He told you he was “researching” things for cases, but he didn’t really have to because anything he wanted to know he could have asked Garcia with her masterful skills and FBI grade software. He came to chat with you, listen to you complain about having to fix the computers so often because the local teens kept breaking them. Still, you were too timid to reprimand them or threaten to kick them out. In his job everyday there was always confrontation, everyone had to do it, so it was both confusing and sweet to him that you lacked the nerve to address people. He only wished you would stand up for yourself, because when you avoided confronting the problems it only ever gave you more labor.
You became much more comfortable with him though. You shared more thoughts openly, met his eyes more, and even shared things about yourself that seemed very personal. You told him about your parents, your friends, your quaint apartment, and some embarrassing stories of your childhood. As close as you both were becoming over the weeks, you refused to let him read any of the poems you wrote because “it's different when you read it than when strangers read it.” He couldn’t dream of it being bad. He wouldn’t even give criticism or comment on it, but still you wouldn’t let him. You did, however, let him read your interpretations and analyses of poetry and literature you were reading for your classes. He would finish scanning the texts in minutes, which you would whine and complain about taking hours doing as a slow reader, and then read your writings and give you his critiques. At first you were nervous and fidgety about it, would go quiet when he didn’t necessarily agree. Then, slowly, you became more argumentative, fighting him on whose perspective was correct. Spencer loved arguing with you, the way your face lit up when you thought you had him, and the pout of your lip when you conceded the genius maybe knew what he was talking about.
He handled five cases over the weeks he got to know you, during which he never used his phone more. He would be away for days at time and not be able to visit the library, so he resorted to texting you during the day and calling you from his hotel room in the evenings after you got home from classes, or just before you tucked yourself in for bed. Sometimes he talked about the cases, only giving you bits of information and keeping out the truly horrific things. Other times, he talked about his life. It was hard at first, telling you about the darkest parts of him, how he was far more complex than he originally led you to believe, then it became easy. You took it in stride, showing him an empathy he never knew he craved so deeply. You comforted him over the phone, or in the library, and assured him you didn’t see him any differently than before. Told him you were still his friend.
His friend. Of all the things you said to him while he was vulnerable, that one was the only one that wounded him. You were a great friend, truly, but Spencer was closer to the realization everyday he didn’t want to just be your friend. On the nights he wasn’t away on a case, when he entered his empty apartment and prepared himself dinner alone, he missed your voice. He wanted you there always, more than someone should want a friend. He never thought about Derek, or Penelope, or JJ the way he thought about you. His team was his family and he loved them, but the way he felt about you was another thing entirely. You consumed him at times. When he should be thinking about a case or chatting with one of the team, something reminds him of you and suddenly he’s stuck in a loop of thinking about what you were doing, thinking, feeling. He was distracted, and the worse part of it all was that his team was starting to notice.
Spencer tried to be discreet, but sometimes as he sent a text under his desk or hidden alone in a room Derek would catch him and he’d have to come up with a fast excuse. It always sounded defensive and not quite convincing because Spencer was not a very good liar. The rest of the team was catching him lost in thought, which wouldn’t be as damning if it didn’t happen so often. He cared for you so much he couldn’t help but think of you all day. He likely would never stop talking about either if he wasn’t hiding your existence from his team. At first it was because he tried to keep you very separate from his work life, like his job at the FBI didn’t have to exist when he was with you and therefore you did not exist when he was at work. But now you’d infiltrated his life completely and there was no possible way to keep you separate. He hid you now because well. . . he was embarrassed. Clearly he was obsessed with you, he couldn’t deny it anymore, but you didn’t feel the same way.
You were caring, kind, generous, empathetic, yes, but in love with him? Well you gave no indication you were. Often you would call him your friend, mention you were scared of relationships, and when he tried showing you he was interested in being more than your friend—getting closer to you, complimenting you, flirting with you—you got quiet and shied away, so he backed off. He wanted to be with you so desperately he put to use all the tips Derek had given him—the PG-13 ones at least—but none of it worked. Perhaps he wasn’t doing it right, or you just didn’t like him. He was trying hard to just settle with being just your friend.
“Oh my God, I hate this thing!” You hissed, slapping your hands over your face and groaning quietly into them.
“I’m guessing you tried turning it off and on again?” Spencer grinned. He pulled out the seat to the computer next to you, hanging the strap of his messenger bag on the chair behind him. Your eyes glared at him between your fingers.
“Don’t make me hate you too, Spencer. That never works.” Well then the problem went beyond his ability to fix. “I just don’t understand how they can get so many viruses on a computer? Everyday I’m blocking new websites.”
Computer six, which conveniently was the computer with the least visibility from the front desk, was almost always in need of fixing. Mainly because of a group of teens who would come in on the weekends or after school to play around on it. Constantly you were blocking the unsecure, often dangerous or pornographic websites they frequented. How they found them all, you could not fathom. You were fairly good at fixing the computer with all the time you’d spent doing it and all the tutorials you had to research, but were truly stuck. It was almost a week of the computer being down and you had no luck repairing it.
“You tried everything?” He asked, his smile dropping into a frown at your distress.
“Yes. I don’t know what to do anymore. Mrs. Wilson is on my ass about fixing it and she’ll never call the director to send someone to fix it because that costs money. And I’d have a better chance at winning the lottery than getting a new computer and I don’t even play.” You drug your hands down your face, shoulders slumped in defeat.
“I could get it fixed.”
You let out an unstifled laugh, which he would be happy to hear if you weren’t laughing at him. “Spencer, you suggested turning it off and on.”
“No, I mean I could ask someone to fix it. A member of my team, Penelope, is a technical analyst. She’s very good with computers and she could fix it.” He didn’t want to ask Garcia, actually the last thing he wanted to do was get his team involved, but he hated even more to see you so upset and stressed. He was just your friend and that was all Garcia would see.
Your mouth fell open and you waved your hand dismissively. “Oh no, I couldn’t bother her with this. She's probably so busy. I–I can handle it.”
Spencer smiled. You were so sweet, always determined on dealing with things so you didn’t have to put the weight onto others. It only made him want to help more. “She’d be doing me a favor. I’m sure she’ll be happy to help.”
“Are you sure?” Beyond the apprehension, he saw how hopeful you were.
“Yeah, of course. I’ll let you know when she can come fix it,” he said, watching the smile spread across your face. You were so elated, you reached over the space between the chairs to give him a hug, letting out a deep sigh of relief.
“Thank you so much, Spencer,” you mumbled into his shoulder. He awkwardly patted your back, unsure exactly what to do with his gangly arms. He wasn’t too much of a hugger, neither were you, so it was the first time you’d ever hugged him. His cheeks warmed at the thought.
Unfortunately, he had to follow through on his promises. So the next day when he went into work he hung around the door to Garcia’s lair, repeating over and over in his head how he was going to ask. He opened the door with a knock and she swirled around in her chair to look at him, a megawatt smile beaming.
“Hey handsome, what can I do ya for?” She greeted, spinning a fuzzy orange pen between her fingers.
Spencer wrung his hands in the doorway, halfway between coming in and running away. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor?”
“Of course! What did you need me to look up?” She spun back in her chair, hands at the ready.
“It’s not that, it's a personal favor. A–A tech problem. Do you think you could help me with it this Sunday?”
Slowly, Garcia tapped her heels on the floor to turn her spinny chair back towards Spencer, eyebrow quirked. “Okay, technophobe. What’s this tech problem because I didn’t think you owned a computer?”
“It’s a computer at the library I go to. It’s been out of order for a week now and they can’t seem to get it fixed,” he explained, continuing to fidget.
She pursed her lips and tilted her head, gesturing at him with her fuzzy pen. “Is there not more than one computer at the library? Or are libraries really that popular still? I think you should just get a computer, Reid. I promise it’s not that scary and I’ll pick you a good one! The kind even old people know how to use—no offense. We can go—”
“Garcia,” he interrupted her rambling with a wince. Clearly he wasn’t going to get away with asking for her help so vaguely. “The library can’t afford to pay someone to fix it so I told the librarian I’d ask if you could. If you’re too busy, it’s alright.”
She seemed skeptical, mouth bobbing open and closed like she had more to say, but finally closed it with a simple nod. “I can fix it, of course I can fix it. JJ canceled our brunch plans Sunday so I can be there at 11:30.”
Spencer gave her a tight lipped smile and a nod. “Okay, I’ll send you the address. Thank you, Garcia.” He wanted to add that she probably shouldn’t mention it to the rest of the team, but knowing Garcia’s lack of subtlety and habit of being just a tad nosey, he figured that would only make it more suspicious and odd.
So he gave her a farewell and speed walked back to his desk, taking his seat with a heavy sigh of relief. Garcia may not be a profiler, but she knew him well and she had a bloodhound like nose for gossip. If he wasn’t careful, she would sniff out just how much he liked the librarian he mentioned so briefly. Then it would spread like wildfire around the office and Spencer would be safe from no one’s prying and teasing.
It was the first Sunday he was nervous to go to the library. His palms were sweaty as he waited at the computer with you, you none the wiser. He tried to focus on you to calm down because you were always his source of comfort. His eyes trailed over your long skirt and t-shirt combo, making note of the way you kept touching your arms as if you were cold. No doubt you’d slip on the cardigan you kept behind the desk soon, but he assumed you wanted to look nice to meet Penelope, because you did look very nice. Your hair was out of its updo and if he looked hard enough at your face, which he did, he could tell you were wearing lipgloss and some other little bits of makeup.
“You okay?” You asked him softly, eyes looking over his own face.
“I’m fine,” he blurted maybe a little too quickly because you looked unconvinced. Slowly you were learning his tells and he wasn’t sure how long it would be before you found out how fixated he was on you and you didn’t want to be his friend anymore. “I just. . . I hope Penelope can fix it for you.”
You smiled sweetly, looking away at the entrance. “I bet she can, but even if she can’t, it's okay. It was nice of you and her to try.”
He wanted to reassure you that he would always try for you, but Penelope came through the double doors, absolutely glowing like the sun. In mood, but also in outfit. Or maybe it was more like a sunflower? All Spencer knew was that it was very yellow and vibrant. She came rushing over when she saw him and you stand up to greet her.
“Hi, you must be Penelope. Spencer told me so much about you,” You greeted and immediately Spencer realized he messed up.
Garcia’s eyes ran over you, then went back and forth between you and Spencer. He could see the gears turning in her head. “Oh, hello!” She chirped, friendly as always but awkward because she heard nothing about you.
Quickly, Spencer introduced you to Penelope and both you and her shook hands before she put him out of his misery and asked what the problem with the computer was. She took a seat at computer six and you stood next to her, pointing out things on the screen.
“I have some kids that keep coming in and going on all these sketchy websites. I keep blocking them, but they keep finding new ones and it’s loading the computer up with viruses. Then it runs slow and freezes so often it’s unusable,” You shook your head as you explained, exasperated by it all. “Sorry, I know it’s a lot, but do you think you could fix it?”
“Oh, please. Those are some easy fixes! I’ll just remove the viruses and add some more blocking software not even tech savvy kids can get around.” Garcia was already typing at the computer, doing things on the screen Spencer didn’t bother to try and comprehend. He was looking at you as the grin yanked up your lips.
“Really? Thank you so much. I’ve been fighting with this damn thing for weeks. I’m not great with computers.”
“I think you’ve done pretty good so far. You’re much better than Reid, that’s for sure. Sorry fellow genius, but it's true,” she glanced back at him, almost remorseful but still carrying a smile.
You laughed, always eager to tease him. “When he’s on a computer I think he lied to me about having an IQ of 187. He needs my help finding research databases, pulling up old articles, everything but logging in, really.”
“Huh,” Garcia glanced back at him again, only to find his eyes averted and his hands stuffed into his pockets to stop their incessant fidgeting. He was caught and he knew it. He maybe. . . exaggerated how bad he was with computers to you at first, just to get you to come over and talk to him when he first started coming to the library after work, but unfortunately he didn’t know how to end the ruse. Garcia called him a certified technophobe, but even she knew he had those basic skills, especially since she’d seen him do it on his own before.
“How long do you think it will take?” You asked, glancing over the rest of the computers to the desk. “I just have to get back to managing the front desk.”
“Only about a half hour. I’m going to do the other computers as well to save you some time blocking websites. You can go though, I got this.” She gave you a smile, gesturing for you to leave.
“Thank you again, Penelope. I’ll be back before you’re done,” you promised, fluttering away from the table swiftly to help someone standing at the front desk.
“So…” Garcia was looking up at Spencer impishly.
“So?” He asked, though he had a good idea of what was coming.
“Do you like her?” Her eyes were hopeful, lips spread into a grin.
“Garcia. . .” he warned, pleading for her not to go any further. He didn’t want to have to lie, but he couldn’t tell her that he was hopelessly falling in love with you.
But that only sold it for her, her hands reaching off the keys to fan her face. “OMG. You do like her!”
He glanced around to see if you heard her exclamation, but you were busy talking to the man standing at the front desk. “Penelope, she’s my friend,” he tried to be firm in his assertion, but even to his own ears it sounded more like a whine.
“A very cute friend! Who seems like the sweetest person on earth. Oh, and she works in a library. So adorable—y'know—because you’re always reading? Are you sure she’s just a friend?” She launched into a ramble, too clouded by the idea that he may be interested in someone to recognize the hurt on his face.
“I’m sure. She’s… she doesn’t like me like that,” he sounded sad, he didn’t mean to, but he was. He had a very hard time hiding his feelings, and now Penelope heard it and was looking at him like he was a kicked puppy.
“Oh, well, I—really? She seemed so. . .” She was at a loss for words, watching as you walked past guiding the man from the desk over to the staircase, likely showing him where to find a specific genre. Penelope shook her head as you disappeared from view, redirecting her focus back to the screen and letting her hands fly back to the keyboard. “I should mind my business. Right. Bad Garcia.”
Spencer frowned, eyes lingering on where you vanished up the stairs. He pulled back out the chair beside her and slumped in it, avoiding her eyes. “Thank you, Garcia.”
He didn’t have to thank her for long though.
She fixed the computer and you were so incredibly grateful you hugged her. Or rather, you hugged her back after Garcia enveloped you into her arms, so overwhelmed with your praise, but you seemed glad to let it happen. Even after she left, and a few days later the teens returned, they were upset to find the new restrictions on the computer they couldn’t bypass, much to your delight. Spencer was thankful for that, but he was much less grateful when only a week and a half later Garcia slipped up and mentioned you to the team.
He was wrapping up his paperwork fast, reading through documents at lightning speed and filling them out so quickly his handwriting was nearly illegible. But he promised he’d come to the library to see you after work because he was away on a case the past couple days including last Sunday. He was so invested in completing his paperwork he didn’t even notice Derek and Penelope passing him with cups of coffee.
“Whoa kid, got a date you're running late for?” Derek joked, perching at Spencer’s desk to grin down at him with a teasing smile.
“Oooo, I bet it's that cute—” As the words came tumbling from Garcia’s pink lips, Spencer’s face ripped away from his paperwork to look at her, and with a look of horror she quickly cut herself off to sip from her mug.
Derek’s brows creased, looking between Spencer and Garcia with an amused bewilderment. “That cute what?” When Garcia avoided his eyes, drowning in her coffee, and Spencer’s cheeks turned pink, realization covered Derek’s face. “Oh, okay pretty boy, I see you! That must be why you’ve been on your phone so much. What cute girl have you been talking to?”
Spencer cleared his throat, turning back to his papers as he consolidated them from the cluttered mess into a neat pile. “No one.”
Derek laughed, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “No, no, no. Don’t get all shy now, playa, spill.”
When Spencer refused to respond, continuing to shuffle about his papers, Derek narrowed his gaze onto Garcia, who could drink from her cup no longer and began coughing. It gathered the attention of a few other pairs of eyes in the office just in time for her to finish her choking and begin spilling.
“Okay! She’s this absolutely adorable librarian! She’s the sweetest thing and her style is so cute and I wanted to ask her where she got her glasses from, but I was too distracted because Reid totally likes her and thinks that she doesn’t like him, but I was trying to get all profiler on her because I thought ‘there’s no way she couldn’t like boy genius because he’s just as cute and they are so made for each other’ and—like you guys know, I’m no profiler—but I’m pretty sure she likes him!” Finally she took in a breath, practically hyperventilating and fanning her face.
Spencer gawked at her, wide eyed. “Penelope!”
She looked at him sympathetically, but it was Derek’s face that he focused on. His brows were high on his forehead, mouth gaping as he took all of her words in. “Okay, first of all: wow. Second of all: why do you think she doesn’t like you?”
Spencer chewed on his lip. He didn’t really want to explain himself to Derek and Penelope, two people known for their confidence and dating escapades, but he was cornered. Not only that, but he was becoming so desperate he found himself wanting their advice. “I–I don’t know. Whenever I try to show her I’m. . . interested, she gets quiet and awkward.”
“How have you been showing her you’re ‘interested?’”
He shrugged, leg bouncing under the table. “Flirting with her I guess?”
Derek scoffed. “You guess?” When Spencer could do nothing but look away with a heavy sigh, Derek continued. “Look man, she could just be shy. I know it’s scary, but you have to just ask her out on a date. That's the only way you’re really going to know if she likes you.”
Spencer picked at a loose thread on his cardigan, voice quiet. “But what if she says no? I just. . .” He licked his lips, playing over the words in his head and wondering if he wanted to be so vulnerable to Derek and Penelope. “I like her so much. . .” he whispered.
Garcia cooed, tottering around the desk in her heels to wrap her free arm around Spencer. “Who could ever say no to you, handsome? I’m positive, she’ll say yes, I know that girl likes you!”
“Hey,” Derek said, getting Spencer to look up at him as Garcia released him. “You got nothing to worry about, pretty boy. Now you go to that library and ask her out to a nice fancy restaurant—which no pretty girl can refuse—and I’ll worry about this paperwork.”
“Are you sure?” Spencer asked meekly, but Derek and Penelope only reassured him and ushered him out of his seat. He was out of the office less than ten minutes later, getting into his car. He flipped down the sun visor to look at himself in the tiny mirror, frowning at his reflection. His hair was always a mess and he needed to shave.
He flipped the visor back up with a sigh, putting his car in drive and taking himself to the library before he sat in the parking lot all night stressing. He didn’t have to ask you out, but he did have to go because he promised you he’d be there. . . and he missed you dearly.
The library was empty when entered. There were sometimes a few stranglers this late, but on a random Tuesday night the library was clear of everyone but you, bent over wiping down the tables for the night. His eyes roamed over you, breath catching in his chest like it always did when he first laid his gaze on you again.
“Good evening,” he greeted, trying not to startle you with his presence.
You turned quickly, a smile taking over your bored face when you spotted him standing by the front desk. “Spencer! How was your flight this morning?”
“Fine. I finished the book on biological regulations and development, but I mostly just slept because we had a whole day of paperwork to catch up on.”
“And work today?” You asked, throwing a wet wipe in the trash and plucking out another as you moved to clean the next table.
“Like I said, paperwork. Very boring.” He untucked his hands from his pockets, setting his messenger bag down at the front desk and grabbing a wet wipe from the container to help you wipe down tables. He often helped you with your closing work when he arrived so late, especially on nights you had classes after work. “How about you?”
You shrugged, gesturing around the room with your hands. “It’s the library. Same thing everyday here.”
“That’s not true. What about the clown?”
A laugh burst from you as you remembered the story you told him the other day on the phone, you curled up in bed and him sitting on a couch in a hotel room five states away. You stayed up late until he got back from the police station just to tell him about the man who came in dressed in a full clown get-up to print out coloring book pages for a birthday party he was running late to. It made your whole week and you just had to tell him, howling particularly hard about how Mrs. Wilson, after thoroughly wiping down the printer, printed out a notice to put on the front door instating a library dress code of no costumes.
“The clown was probably the most interesting thing to ever happen in this library. That says something about how boring it is.”
“Is the FBI showing up everyday not interesting?” He mocked confused.
You gave him a playful glare over your shoulder. “Okay. I guess you can be the second most interesting thing to ever happen in this library. Right below the clown.”
Spencer chuckled. “I should be offended by that, shouldn’t I?”
“Feel how you want to feel, Spencer. But Bo-Bo is the only one who’s given me coloring book sheets.” You shrugged, playing nonchalance.
“Oh, because I print those out so often at my job? If I did, there wouldn’t be enough crayons at the dollar store for you to color them all.” Maybe he was in a fake competition with a clown for your favor. Either way, when you ducked your head with a breathy giggle, he knew he won it.
When you both finished wiping down the tables, he took out the trash while you set about turning off the lights, shutting down the computers, and other small tasks. He met you at the front desk as you collected your bag and jacket, pulling his messenger bag back over his own head. He held the door open for you as you both left the library and stood by your side as you locked the doors.
“Thank you for helping me close,” you smiled at him as you tucked the keys into your bag.
“Of course.” He wanted to say it should have been Mrs. Wilson helping you, because the old bat usually took off an hour or so before close, but you brushed him off every time he suggested reporting her and he didn’t want to sour your mood. He also liked walking you to your car, especially when it was this late and dark, because the thought of anything happening to you was so devastating he couldn’t stand to think about it.
So he walked with you down the staircase and across the lot to where you parked your car early this morning and he pulled in next to you a little while ago. It was already dark, but the street lamp you parked your car under illuminated you and him as you stood under it, arms wrapped around yourself. You searched for something to say, he could see it in the way your lips twitched and your eyes roamed his face. For a moment, the sound of crickets and the eerie hum of night faded, and Derek’s words were thunder in his ears. He would never know unless he asked you, and he couldn’t live looking at your sweet face knowing he never even tried.
“Would you want to go on a date with me?”
Your eyes nearly as big as planets amplified by your glasses, which glinted off them as you nodded rapidly, lips parting to take in a sharp breath. “Yes!”
Spencer was taken aback. His ears buzzed and a tingling sensation filled his extremities. He was elated, but thrown off by your complete enthusiasm. “Wha–really?”
You shook your head at him, laughing breathily as if he stole the wind from you. “Yes, of course I do, Spencer. I–I’ve wanted. . .” Your eyes looked between his nervously.
“You wanted what?” He insisted, leaning in because he had to know what you’ve been thinking, what you’ve been wanting from him that he missed.
You looked down shyly, picking at your nails despite how your fingers shook. “I wanted to ask you out when I first met you. When you were just some guy in the library, and I thought you were obviously flirting by trying to impress me but. . . then you were telling the truth and I–I was so embarrassed I was wrong and I thought you didn’t like me like that. . . and soon enough you weren’t just some guy, you were Spencer, and I–um, I couldn’t let myself ruin it.”
His hands gently took yours, stopping their anxious picking. His pupils were blown wide as he looked at you, heart so full and beating so fast he heard it thrumming in his ears. “You couldn’t ruin anything. You’re so. . . perfect,” he mumbled, close enough to taste your air. “I haven’t been able to get you off my mind since you gave me that book. I saw you in every poem and reading your thoughts made me feel like I was in your head, feeling what you were feeling. I needed it after every case, I–I needed you. All I wanted was to ask you out but. . .”
He was at a loss for words, but you shook your hand, squeezing his hand in yours. “It’s okay, Spencer. . .” His eyes glanced down to your lips, but just as he considered leaning down to capture them with his, you ducked your head nervously again, softly letting go of his hands. Spencer reeled with disappointment he didn’t kiss you, stuffing his hands back into his pockets. “Um, I did give you that book on purpose. I think the most romantic thing on this Earth is poetry and. . . I hoped it was enough of a sign.”
He recovered quickly, excited just to know you returned his feelings. He sighed into the new open air between the two of you. “I knew it. You bewitched me.”
You giggled, a sweet sound that picked up as you met his eyes again, swatting at him with a hand. “No I didn’t!”
Your laugh dissipated and the two of you were standing in the parking lot, looking at each other under a streetlamp. “Saturday at seven?”
“What?”
“Our date? Is Saturday at seven okay?” He reiterated.
“Oh. Oh, yes. That’s a good time,” you stuttered, snatched from whatever daze you stared at him in. He smiled.
“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll figure out the details?” He offered. You needed time to process it, he thought, because he knew he did. He would get home and sit on his couch, replaying every word from your lips and flutter of your lash in his head. Maybe that was the best part of an eidetic memory.
“Okay.” You nodded. He opened your car door for you and you climbed inside. “Good night, Spencer,” you hummed at him before closing the door.
He watched you leaving the parking lot before he got into his own car because he had to sit there for a minute, calming his pounding heart before he got out on the road. For the first time in a while, he was most excited for Saturday over Sunday.
i fear i need more of they shy!art and shy!reader bc that was insane
i’m imagining that you’re at a coffee shop with art and patrick studying for an exam coming up. patrick isn’t doing anything; he doesn’t care about school and he doesn’t share a class like you and art do. but you all sit together and share your drinks. a girl comes up to flirt with art. she says she’s seen him around, that he’s really cute.
art, not really thinking and unable to make himself say no, scribbles it down on a receipt and hands it to her. he flusters when she compliments him, says she’s seen him play tennis and he’s really good.
you roll your eyes when she walks away. patrick stifles a laugh. covers it with a faux cough and takes a sip of his coffee.
he whispers in your ear.
“he’s so fucking stupid. we’ll have to punish him later, yeah?”
you nod, smirking behind your own drink.
“what? what are you guys talking about?”
but you shrug.
“text your new girlfriend. this conversation is between us.” you say. you’ve never been snarky to art. patrick fist bumps you.
art feels left out. because you and patrick giggle about your plan all day. he says art’s going to hate it so much. you’re not sure what he means until it’s later that night and you’re all in art’s dorm.
and patrick starts making a move on you. you’ve never done anything with patrick—but you’d be a fool not to be interested in him.
he tucks your hair away from your face and kisses your neck. art clears his throat.
“what the fuck?”
you realize this is patrick’s plan. to make art mad, jealous, snap.
patrick is more dominant when he kisses. he pulls you as close as you’re able to be, your chest smashed against his and his tongue pushes into your mouth like a siege. doesn’t allow you much movement. he overtakes you and his lips open over yours in languid movements. it makes you moan against him, your fingers curling in your hair. he kisses your throat. whispers against the soft skin.
“tell him what we’re doing.”
you whimper. “we’re punishing you. shouldntve given that girl your number.”
art moves closer to you. he’s desperate now.
“i—i didn’t wanna say no. i felt rude. i never even texted her. can you guys stop?”
patrick feels in between your legs.
“i dunno. she’s pretty fucking wet for me.”
art likes watching you kiss patrick. he likes how you move against each other. but he doesn’t like being pushed away. he’s jealous to see patrick’s hand cupping your pussy. art pulls patrick’s wrist off you.
“stop. i want her.”
patrick raises his eyebrows.
“someone’s jealous. artie, don’t be feisty we can share, yeah?”
“no.” art pushes his pants and boxers down. “we can’t.”
he pushes inside you quickly; you’re fucking soaked. he pulls your legs up over his shoulders. pushes your shirt up and plays with your tits. he’s drooling as he fucks you harder and harder. fast thrusts that seem punctuated. hard, to make you yelp and grab at his wrists, fumble with the hem of his shirt to pull him closer.
“kiss me, please-“
but art shakes his head.
“sluts don’t get kissed. open your fucking mouth.”
you do, but not voluntarily. art spits in it. some of his saliva lands on your cheek and his thumb gathers it. pushes it into your mouth.
you crane your neck back and look at patrick who gives you a shit-eating grin.
Summary: There are protocols in place for a reason.
Pairing: Peter Parker x female reader
Word count: 10.9k
Rating: 18+, no minors
Warnings/tropes: sex pollen therefore dubious consent, smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, anxiety, coworkers/friends to whatever the hell these two have going on
Peter Parker was a nice guy.
And not a nice guy in the way that men described it when they couldn’t figure out why women weren’t interested in them, but a genuinely nice guy. When his name popped up on the schedule, she looked forward to work just a bit more. He was easy to talk with and smarter than anyone she’d ever met, but never in an obnoxious way. Just kind and goofy and considerate and he actually listened when people talked.
She knew some things about him— his aunt was a nurse, he’d gone to ESU and graduated two years ahead of her, he showed up to work sometimes with faint bruises on his face, and that he had nice eyes. Maybe it wasn’t very professional to think about his eyes, but who was gonna get in her brain and stop her? Thinking wasn’t a crime. Anyway, it was just a little bit of loneliness. She’d been single for six months now— the entire time she’d known Peter, actually. He’d come to the lab a week after she’d ended it with her boyfriend, her selfish shitty mean boyfriend who she should have ditched ages ago but was too scared to.
The day they’d met, Peter had had the decency to not judge her when she’d angrily shouldered the vending machine after it had eaten her dollar, because all she wanted was a stupid bag of chips on her stupid break and the stupid red light just blinked at her with an error message, a middle finger if she’d ever seen one.
But instead of leaving, he’d walked over, given the machine an impressive shove, and the bag dropped to the bottom. He’d fished it out, handed it to her, and she’d accepted it, totally embarrassed that anyone had seen her have a meltdown, especially a new coworker. What a great first impression.
“I’m so sorry,” she’d said, staring at the bag. “I, uh. It’s been a bad week. I won’t do that in the lab, I promise.”
He’d nodded kindly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s okay to have a bad week. Sorry it’s happening to you.”
They’d been friends ever since.
“Hey, does a straw have one hole or two?” he asked her, apropos of nothing while they were running some tests. It was just the two of them tonight, which meant Todd wasn’t there to undermine everything that they said. At first, she’d thought he was sexist, but it turned out he was sexist and a dick, because he had something to say about everyone’s work, not just hers. So it was nice to only be with Peter, because he listened to her and they worked through obstacles together. Because not only was Peter Parker a nice guy, he was also a great problem solver.
It was also their first night on the graveyard shift, and it was hard not to miss her bed when it was just after midnight. Peter, somehow, had boundless energy, no matter what time of day it was. He was an anomaly, and she let him know it at least once a week.
“One long hole,” she replied with a barely hidden yawn, pulling her goggles off and rubbing at her cheekbones and forehead, wishing she didn’t have red lines all over her face.
“But there’s a hole at the top of the straw and then— shit, we’re out of pipettes,” he frowned, peering into the box.
“I’ll go grab some,” she volunteered, grateful for a chance to stretch her legs. The high stools they sat on did her body no favors. She usually left work feeling like she’d been clubbed in the small of her back.
The supply closet was down the hall, and she made quick work of locating what they needed. As she trudged back with the box tucked under her arm, she noticed a plant sitting by the lab entrance. Frowning, she knelt to pick it up, wondering who the hell was leaving flower deliveries at midnight. Or had it been sitting there all along and they’d somehow missed it as they’d scanned in? Well, she was single, so she doubted they were for her. Maybe Peter had something going on. She felt like he would have mentioned it, but it was his business.
The plant had deep green leaves and bright yellow buds, curled in tightly on themselves like they were keeping a secret. They were bright at the tip and deep at the bottom, a self-contained sunset of gold and mustard. She didn’t recognize the species, but then again, botany wasn’t her specialty. There was no card or note, just the plant in its black plastic container. Weird.
As she scanned her badge, the lab doors swooshed open, locking behind her. Peter was still working at the counter, hunched over with laser focus. Meticulous was a word she’d use to describe his work. Never a decimal or measurement out of place, protocol always followed to the letter.
She set the plant on the counter and slid the box across to him. The noise cut through the air, and he reached a hand out without looking up to stop it from falling off the edge. In the past few months, she’d noticed he had freakishly good reflexes. After she’d made an offhanded comment about it once, he’d turned pink and mumbled something about pure dumb luck. Why that had embarrassed him, she wasn’t quite sure. As laid back as he was, there was something occasionally quiet about him that she couldn’t quite figure out. Something just a little guarded. Maybe Peter Parker had a big secret.
“Thanks,” he said, slicing open the side of the box. “What’s that?” He gestured with his pocket knife to the plant she was still holding.
“Oh, um. It was sitting by the doors. Did you hear anyone? Or was it there when we came in and we missed it?”
Peter shook his head. The collar of his lab coat was creased all wrong, and she wanted to straighten it out. “I feel like one of us would have seen yellow flowers. We’re both pretty observant people.”
She shrugged, and set it on the counter. “Who the hell is sending flowers at,” she checked her phone, “twelve fourteen in the morning?”
“Maybe Cupid doesn’t rest?”
She rolled her eyes playfully and folded her arms on the counter in front of her. But as she shifted, she elbowed the plant, sending it crashing to the ground. It exploded out of the cheap container and its roots poked out of the dark soil where the plant lay in disarray.
“Shit,” she muttered, crouching down to clean it up. Peter had already grabbed the dustpan and was next to her, sweeping up the ruined plant. In the fall, the yellow buds had burst open, revealing neon orange stamen. It was an unnatural color, and she half-expected they might glow in the dark.
But the buds had also unleashed some sort of pollen, silver in the air. Shimmering. That was stranger than the stamen. It smelled sickly sweet, like candy made specifically for kids.
“What the hell is that?” Peter asked, trying to wave it out of his eyes, but all it did was send it in her direction. It prickled at her nose and curled inside her mouth, sweetly melting against her tongue like cotton candy. “Was there a note with it? Or one of those little… tabs that tells the species?”
“No note—” she turned her head to cough as it stung her eyes. “I think it’s pollen? I don’t know anything about plants other than they make spring miserable. I have a basil plant at home that keeps dying no matter—”
His hands stilled, gripping the dustpan with white knuckles. “You brought… a plant with no note into the lab?”
Nerves struck her. She hadn’t considered it might be dangerous. They were just yellow flowers, right? The things that grew in gardens and brightened up bodegas. Oh God, she was so fired. This wouldn’t have happened if she’d stayed on day shift. She was overtired and had now possibly compromised herself and Peter. “I thought maybe you had— maybe someone sent them to you?”
“Someone had sent them to me?” he repeated with wide eyes, an edge of panic lacing his words as he ran a hand through his thick hair. “Who do you think is sending me flowers?”
“I don’t know!” she spluttered as blood rushed to her face. “I don’t know who you hang out with outside of work!” Her mouth was paper dry out of nowhere, and she swallowed hard, wiping her suddenly damp palms on her thighs. The lab coat was uncomfortably scratchy against her skin, and she wondered if maybe the laundry had switched detergents. And she was warm, God, why was it hot? It was November, for fucksake. It had to be from screwing up so spectacularly. Just nerves. She shrugged the coat off, even though it went against protocol. She’d already broken one rule, what the hell did another matter at this point? The air against her skin was a shock— she wasn’t just warm, she was burning up. “Did you mess with the thermostat when I left?” she asked. Sweat beaded along the back of her neck, dewdropping her temple. Gross.
Peter shook his head wordlessly, eyes fixed on her. A strange expression crossed his face for a moment, something unreadable. Was he mad? Disappointed? Disappointed was so much worse than mad; the thought of letting him down was awful. He must think she was a total idiot.
She noticed his hands shake for just a split second. Glancing down, she watched her own palms tremble. It felt like she was looking at someone else’s body, and a bolt of fear went through her, knife-sharp in her chest. The air was thick, almost humid, but it wasn’t that. It wasn’t like anything she’d ever felt. But it had to be anxiety from fucking up. “Okay, well, I guess… let’s just get back to work? It’s probably nothing, it’s just… it has to be nothing. Just a stupid plant that got delivered to the wrong part of the building,” she suggested hopefully. Everything was fine, she was just freaking out for fucking up, and the room wasn’t warm, she was just mortified. “I’m sorry about the plant, I wasn’t thinking, I just, I picked it up and I thought, I don’t know, maybe someone sent you flowers and, like, what a cute reversal on gender— gender norms, right, guys never get sent flowers—”
“Hey, whoa,” Peter interrupted her, brow furrowed. Silver coated the apples of his cheeks, and absurdly, she was reminded of The Wizard of Oz. When she swiped at her own face, her fingers came back shiny, and she tried to rub it off on her thighs. “You’re going a mile a minute. Just take a breath, okay? Everyone gets one free fuck up.”
“I feel funny,” she mumbled, blinking rapidly. His face swam for a moment, features swirling like a funhouse mirror, and she leaned against the counter to steady herself.
He reached out to touch her hand, and it took forever. Slow motion like a warped VHS, staticky and jerky and wrong. Blinking didn’t help, it just made her eyes heavier each time. His fingers brushed against her wrist in what was probably meant to be a comforting gesture, but it was somehow the best and worst thing she’d ever felt. Soothing and terrible all at once. It took every bit of control she had not to grab him and pull him close so she could revel in his touch.
“Look at me,” he said gently, completely unaware that he was making her skin buzz. Fire licked at her, and she wondered if she wouldn’t burst apart from the heat. “Your eyes are…” he was still talking, but she couldn’t hear anything over the roar of her own heart.
“What?” she asked stupidly, watching words fall from his lips that she couldn’t understand. Lips that would probably feel so fucking good against hers. Wait, no. What the hell was wrong with her? Was it— it wasn’t. It couldn’t be the flowers. This wasn’t a thing that flowers did. It would be common knowledge if a species like that existed.
“Sit down,” he said patiently, pushing her gently onto the stool. His hand was a brand on her shoulder. “Your eyes are glassy. I’m gonna get the first aid kit, just stay right here.”
She nodded when she really wanted to beg him not to leave, to stay there and touch her hand and her cheek and her neck— oh, she was dizzy. Experimentally, she ran her fingers against her neck and jolted when sparks lit across her skin. All she could think to do was lean down and press her forehead to the cool counter, and she wondered if she’d leave a sweat-stamp behind. The lab felt like a swamp, and she imagined alligators and cottonmouths and mosquitos closing in on her, ready to tear her into pieces. There were too many things touching her but she couldn’t just take her clothes off at work, who the hell did something like that? CEOs, probably.
There was a beeping sound somewhere to her left, and she turned to see Peter with a digital thermometer. Had he always been so tall? He seemed so much taller today.
“I shouldn’t have touched those flowers, I shouldn’t have brought them in,” she said as he scanned her forehead. “I think I’m having a reaction to it, I…”
“Well, your temperature is just over one hundred,” he told her with a frown, pressing the inside of his wrist to her temple. She almost grabbed his arm right then and there. “You don’t sound great. Can you breathe all right?”
She couldn’t. Every breath was brutal, like the air was suddenly full of fiberglass. It stung her esophagus all the way into her chest. All she could manage was to shake her head, and a tremor wracked her body.
“You’re shaking really badly,” he said with a furrowed brow. “I think we need to get you to the hosp—”
She shook her head frantically. The only thing she could think was fucking flowers, how could flowers cause this? It made no sense. And worse, she wasn’t just boiling hot and shuddering uncontrollably, but she was turned on. It was an empty feeling; a hollow starving ache that she needed to fill. It was also beginning to overpower the pain with a new kind of hurt. All she could do was press her thighs together and hope it would pass. “We can’t go anywhere, we don’t know what this is. What if it’s deadly? Remember that movie? 12 Monkeys with— with Bruce Willis?” Was she talking too loudly? She was, right? It was hard to tell, because everything was echoing off the ceiling, pinging through her skull incessantly.
“I think we’re still a few years away from cracking time travel, sweetheart,” he tried to console her, but the pet name made her dizzy with want. He’d never called her that before, just her name. Why had he said that? When she dared to look up at him, she saw that he looked just a bit off. Flushed neck, wide dark eyes, and his breathing was shallow. Oh God, it was happening to him now. Oh, shit, if she was turned on, then he—
“Peter—” she began, not sure how to warn him. What the hell was she supposed to say? Oh, this was a fucking disaster, and she’d caused it because she was irresponsible.
“I feel weird,” he muttered, so quietly she thought she might have imagined it at first. “Really weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Lightheaded,” he replied, but it was more of a question. Lightheaded? “I don’t know, it’s— it’s warm in here, yeah.” He reached for a pipette, and she couldn’t focus on anything other than his fingers. Long fingers, good fucking Lord. Heat crept up her neck and spread to her face, but she couldn’t make herself look away. She also couldn’t make herself care; maybe she wanted him to notice that she was staring at him.
“You have big hands,” she blurted out, completely unashamed. He did have big hands. Hands that would probably feel really good on her hips and throat and thighs. She blinked, trying to clear her thoughts. But something in her was upended entirely, swirling and airy and wanting, curling through her body uncomfortably hard. She didn’t feel in control in the slightest, and it was equal parts unnerving and exhilarating.
“Yeah?” he asked, and when he met her eyes, his gaze was dark. Not the kind eyes that she was accustomed to, but something else. Dangerous. But it didn’t scare her. Instead, her heart kicked up.
“Yeah,” she nodded, trying to figure out why she’d said that to him. It was like someone else was piloting her mouth, someone much bolder than her. Did she think Peter was attractive? Yes. Had her mind drifted to him late at night a few times? Also yes. Was she someone who commented on her friend’s hands during work hours? Never. “Something’s wrong with me,” she tried to explain, licking her lips. The sensation of it took her breath away. Her skin was fucking burning, ready to split under the slightest pressure. “Something’s— something’s really wrong, Peter. I’m not me. I don’t…” she trailed off blankly, looking to him for help. It was impossible to articulate what she was feeling, because she was about to lose her mind.
She stood and took a wobbly step and all she could smell was him. It was overwhelming— something woodsy and masculine with just a hint of the cinnamon gum he always chewed and she wanted to shove her face into the crook of his neck and lick at his pulse. Arousal spiked through her at the thought and she froze in place, staring up at him. Words failed her. He had such a pretty face, and she’d never really looked at his mouth before, and now that’s all she was looking at.
But he took a step back. “I think you should get out,” he muttered, looking back down at his work.
“What?” she asked, taking another step. It wasn’t even her choice, it was like she was being compelled forward, yanked like a marionette by some unseen hand. She needed to be near him, needed something. Needed—
His head was down, but his breathing was completely off-kilter now. She reached for his shoulder, and he dodged her hand.
“I think you should get out,” he repeated sharply. Sweat had darkened his hairline, and a drop slowly slid down the side of his face. It was hypnotic.
“I can’t.”
He looked up sharply, nostrils flared. “Something’s very wrong with us.” His voice was strained, his words deliberate and measured. “I don’t think we should be near each other. I really think you should go—”
“Go where? We can’t open the door, we’ll let it out,” she pointed out, wringing her hands uselessly. Another shudder ripped through her, setting her ablaze. Everything in her body was contradictory: her cloudy brain and her shaking hands, her heavy eyes and her pounding heart. And every time she looked at Peter, something nudged at her, deep in her bones. The collar of his lab coat was begging to be yanked on—
“I don’t know!” he exclaimed, shoving his chair back and shooting to his feet. His pupils were blown out, leaving his eyes practically black, and she wanted him to push her up against the wall and knock the breath from her lungs. “But if you stay here—”
“You’re not being fair,” she accused. Angry tears burned at her eyes and she wiped at them in embarrassment. There were too many emotions competing inside her, twisting into a terrible storm of fear and lust and frustration. “You feel it too, that’s why you want me to leave. But I can’t leave, I can’t take the subway, I can’t be on the subway feeling like— like I’m gonna fucking die.”
Peter’s breath was coming in sharp exhales that skittered invitingly across her brain and she imagined him panting against her neck while his hips slammed into hers. “What are we supposed to do?” he asked. He gripped the edge of the counter, and she wondered if he might snap. A muscle twitched in his jaw and it only made her think of his stubble between her thighs, scraping her soft skin until she was red and raw. Every thought she had was being rerouted to sex. Oh, this was bad, this was so—
“Can you make it stop?” she asked. Begged. His face went white at her question, and his fingers dug into the counter even harder as he stared at their abandoned work. Her lungs were so tight in her chest she wondered if she wasn’t having a panic attack on top of everything else. All she could feel was her heartbeat hammering away in her throat like a wild thing; a caged animal hellbent on escape. “You always fix everything, you always figure it out. When you touched my wrist, it felt so much better. I need— can you just—”
Helplessly, he looked up at her and she hated herself for asking him to be the one to solve the problem she’d caused. “This isn’t us talking right now, it’s that— that plant. We can’t just—”
“I know I shouldn’t ask you this,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. She’d never been so turned on in her life, and her whole body ached with it. And for what? Because she’d touched a mystery plant. It was shameful; she was practically begging him to fuck her. “But I feel— I feel like I’m gonna die, and I know it’s not fair, Peter, you’re my friend. It’s not fair of me and I’m sorry.” Again, she took a step, and another until she was just inches from him.
He caught her before she could close that agonizing space between them, and the pressure of his hands felt so good that she let out a ragged sigh. She wanted to tell him to squeeze harder, until his fingerprints left tattoos on her skin, until it hurt. Maybe more pain would push this horrible feeling out, or at least distract from it.
“I don’t want you to hate me,” he ground out miserably, fingers tight against her biceps, twin stars on her skin. “I can’t have that, I can’t have you hate me.”
“I don’t want you to hate me either.” Had she always sounded so breathy? She shook her head so hard that the room tilted under her feet. Desperation pulled at every part of her, and it was becoming difficult to string a sentence together. “I wouldn’t hate you, Peter, I would never, please—”
She didn’t get to finish. Peter yanked her flush against him and it was too much and not enough all at once. He was hard against her hip and that was enough to send her knees buckling.
“Whoa,” he muttered as he threaded his fingers through her hair, tilting her head so she was forced to look up at him, and the tight pressure of his hand rocketed through her, making every part of her body clench. “I’m fucked up, I’m sorry.”
“I am too.” His nose brushed hers and she grabbed his collar, pulling him close.
“We can’t undo this,” he said hoarsely as she shoved the lab coat down his surprisingly big shoulders. Their PPE was so unflattering and boxy that it was nearly impossible to tell what anyone looked like under it. “I don’t know if I can stop if we start.”
“I don’t know if I can either.”
His eyes searched hers. “You’re sure you want this?”
God, he was somehow still nice, despite the fact that she had exposed them to some kind of aphrodisiac. Even now, he was trying to give her one last out, when he was clearly in just as much agony as she was. In the very back of her mind, she knew this could wreck their friendship, but the only thing she could focus on was how she was close enough to see the smallest bits of honey in his brown eyes and how she wanted him to pin her to the ground, hard enough that she’d feel it for days.
Instead of replying, she kissed him hard, and a second later, his hand was on her ass, holding her against him as he caught her bottom lip in his teeth. The way he held her made her feel small, but somehow so good, because she knew he was going to make her feel better. Peter could fix this.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” she panted between frantic kisses. His tongue was in her mouth and she sighed in relief as he dug his hands into her hips. He tasted wonderful sweet— from the pollen, she supposed, because why else would he taste like sugar? God, she hadn’t been kissed in months, and she’d never been kissed like this— thorough and passionate and like she was the only thing on the planet that mattered. Nothing else, only her. Desire spiked sharp in her blood and she reached up to tug at his hair, and when he groaned into her mouth it coiled through her painfully. It was bordering on uncomfortable, how turned on she was, and she felt like a ticking time bomb. It was threatening to undo her until she was nothing.
“It’s okay, don’t apologize,” he urged as he broke away from her. “Fuck, you’re shaking so hard.”
“Please touch me,” she begged. Embarrassingly, a tear slipped down her cheek and he wiped it away, his thumb burning her skin. For a moment, she thought he might ask if she was sure again, but instead, he leaned down and buried his face against her neck, his stubble scratching at her roughly. When his teeth found her pulse, she let out a whine. She’d never made a noise like that in her life, but any shame she’d had was long gone. “Please, Peter, I—”
“Hate hearing you beg,” he said, shoving his hand between them, plucking at the button on her jeans. “I’ll give you whatever you need, okay? Gonna make it all better, I swear.” His voice was soft but low, fucking blown apart with lust and it was doing nothing to soothe her. It felt like an eternity passed before she heard the creak of her zipper and felt him tug her jeans and underwear down just enough to get his hand between her thighs.
She couldn’t even talk. Every word she’d ever known had fallen out of her head, and she was sure she looked stupid, all slackjawed and blank as she stared up into his dark eyes. When his thumb brushed her clit, she had to grab his shoulders so she didn’t collapse to the ground. “Peter—”
“I know,” he assured her, leaning down to kiss her as he rubbed tight circles against her. It was just enough to take the sting out of her chest. His other hand was gripping the base of her skull, and she needed that, needed him to hold her and tell her what to do until her head cleared. “Need you to kiss me back, okay? Need you to try to give it back to me. Can you do that?”
With a nod, she closed her eyes as he kissed her again, working her mouth open with his, summer-hot and molasses-slow. But it was hard to focus on that because the heel of his hand was pressed to her clit now and he was telling her how wet she was, fucking cooing the words to her in a low voice that she couldn’t handle. Trying to find friction, she bucked her hips against his palm and he slid a finger inside her. Stars flashed across her vision and she looked up at him, into those bright eyes that she liked so much, to find him watching her closely.
“You need more?” he asked, his voice rough against her swollen lips, and she nodded so quickly her nose bumped his. She jumped when he pressed another finger in, curling them against something deep inside her that was making her legs shake already. The heat in her body was at a dull roar but it still hurt, and she ground down against his hand in an attempt to find relief.
God, this was embarrassing; she was squirming uncontrollably and out of her mind with how he was fucking her with his fingers and it still wasn’t enough.
“Let’s get this off, come on.” He tugged at her shirt with his free hand, maneuvering her around like she weighed nothing. And thank God he still seemed to have some of his faculties about him, because her head was full of nothing but air and the singular goal of coming. Maybe if she could get off it would reset her? With shaking hands, she helped him get her black tank over her head, and then unhooked her bra, tossing it unceremoniously to the side. The cold air made her skin itch. He froze for a minute as he took her in, eyes roaming over her like he didn’t believe what he was seeing. “You’re fucking beautiful.”
Somehow, there was room for her to grow even warmer from his words, but there wasn’t any time for her to say anything intelligible because he was leaving sloppy kisses against her collarbone and breasts, sucking bruises against her sensitive skin. He was still fucking her with his long fingers, encouraging her to ride his hand, and she was unsteadily trying to follow his movements. “Feels so good,” she panted as his hand blurred between her thighs. Sharp pleasure tugged at her, deep in her belly, and her calves began to shake as an orgasm finally, blessedly, pulled her under. She shoved her face against his sternum, breathing in that scent that was so perfectly him. There was a rumble in his chest; she blinked up at him and watched how beautifully his mouth moved.
“Huh?” she asked inelegantly.
“Are you okay?”
No. It still felt like there were subwoofers in her chest, booming under her ribs. “It still— still hurts, it’s this pressure—” she babbled as she shook her head. Peter shifted against her, his hard cock nudging her hip, reminding her that she wasn’t the only one who was hurting. “But you— you still need…” she said, reaching for his belt. Maybe a task would distract her from it all. Not that it was a task, she wanted to touch him.
“You don’t— you don’t have to,” he protested weakly, taking her wrist and holding it still. “You don’t need to do that. I can—”
“But you told me to give it back to you.”
That got his attention.
She reached for him again, palming him gently while he guided her hand, his fingers tightening against her as she explored the length of him, which, Jesus Christ, Peter Parker. Swallowing hard, she looked up at him again, and he was staring at her so adoringly that she was reaching up to kiss him before she knew what she was doing.
“I don’t think I’m in control of myself,” he whispered as she kissed her way down to his jaw, nipping at his pulse point, sucking a mark there that made him groan loudly. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”
“Do what you want, you won’t hurt me,” she assured him as she yanked his shirt over his head and how the hell had she missed that he was in devastatingly good shape? Lean and toned and fucking beautifully muscled with a collarbone that she would write a poem about if she wasn’t so fucked up.
“Can’t say things like that to me, I can’t—” he tried to warn her, but she cut him off with another kiss and pulled him down to the floor because she could barely stand. Her legs were still trembling, and her theory of regaining control was very wrong, because now she just wanted more and more until it broke her irreparably.
He helped her kick off the rest of her clothes and then yanked her into his lap, holding her thighs apart so he could grind up against her cunt. She was still sensitive and it skated along the edge of pain, the way the denim rubbed against her. He was so fucking hard under her that she was bordering on stupid with lust, but her hands were shaking too hard now to unbutton his pants. “I can’t get this.”
His hand was in her hair again, holding her tightly as he kissed her, and his other hand slid between them, working the button open. She reached down to help shove them off, frantic to have him inside of her, to drown out the screaming want in her head.
“Wallet’s in my locker,” he realized as he kicked his jeans and shoes off, his voice miserable. “I don’t—”
“Doesn’t matter, I’m on the pill,” she interrupted as she clumsily pulled at his boxers. His cock sprang out, thick and beautiful and achingly hard, and he groaned when she wrapped her hand around him and began to stroke him. Part of her was worried she wouldn’t be able to take him, and the other part couldn’t wait to find out. “Please, I need you.”
Gently, he pushed her back against the cold tile. “Don’t wanna hurt you,” he told her again as he slotted his hips between hers, his cock sliding through her soaked folds, sending a shock through her as he ground against her clit just right. “Shouldn’t be like this, on the floor of the fucking lab, you deserve—”
“I deserve whatever you wanna give me,” she breathed, reaching for his broad shoulders as he loomed over her like a storm. There was a darkness in his eyes; he wasn’t quite himself, but neither was she. They could meet in the middle of whatever this was. “Please.”
He nodded, and she didn’t know how he had any self-control left, because she’d stopped trying to find hers. Maybe it wasn’t affecting him as badly since he was bigger. Maybe he was fighting it harder than she was. Maybe—
“Put your arms around me,” he told her. He had her spread open with his thighs, and the pollen had her arching into him in anticipation. Embarrassingly, she couldn’t stay still, jerking like she was being manipulated by puppet strings, and he gently held her face in his hand, forcing her to look at him. She could feel the blunt head of him right at her entrance, and she nodded. That was all he needed, and he sank into her slowly.
It was so much that she came immediately. It hadn’t even felt good, because she was so wound up that it barely registered. Just a painful whip crack through her body. Her legs were trembling and hot tears rolled down her face like she’d just finished throwing a tantrum. Peter wiped them away gently, shaking with the effort of staying still, trying to give her a chance to adjust to him because he was big, God he was big. “I’m sorry,” she tried to tell him, but he shook his head.
“Did you just come?” he asked, wide-eyed, and she was so humiliated that she turned her face away from him. “Did it help?”
“No,” she confessed. He twitched inside her and she rolled her hips up into his as she cupped his face in her hands, feeling a muscle tic under her palm. She liked how his stubble scratched at her, and how he was looking down at her with worry in his eyes. Even through all of the chaos, he cared about her. “Feels like you’re gonna break me apart.”
He groaned at her words, shuddering between her thighs, fucking swelling harder inside her, stretching her deliciously. “Okay.” He kissed her thumb as it brushed his bottom lip. “We’ll try again, okay?”
“Okay.” The word was barely out of her mouth before he rocked back and thrust into her at such an angle that it sent her eyes rolling back in her head.
The pace he set was brutal. Her nails scraped across his back, and she vaguely registered how muscled he was, but she couldn’t even wonder about that because he was panting divinely against her neck as he fucked her and it was so deep that her vision blurred at the edges. She arched up, trying to plant her heels against the floor, but he grabbed the backs of her knees and held her in place, spread open and helpless under him.
“Need you like this,” he told her with a gasp. “Just like this, can you stay like this for me?”
Part of her spun-out mind wondered if he wouldn’t shatter her, and she didn’t even care because it would be such a nice way to go. Pleasure built and built inside her, hot and golden and swirling this time, and her heart was beating so fast she was sure he could hear it. “Peter, I’m gonna—”
“That's it,” he urged, his big hand pressed to her cheek. “Come on, sweet girl.”
The pet name broke her, and another orgasm crashed through her, rolling through her body like thunder. But she felt every part of this one, clenching around him as she shuddered in his arms, trying to grab his shoulders for leverage. He kept fucking her, and he was saying something that she couldn’t hear over her own sighs. When she fell still and her vision cleared, she could see that his eyes were wild.
“I can feel your heart,” he grunted, dropping his head to gently kiss her breasts, tongue flicking lazily across her nipples. He’d slowed his movements but was still driving into her at a steady pace, his narrow hips rolling into hers like an ocean wave. She was soaked between her legs, fucking dripping with how bad she wanted him. “Doing so well.”
“How are you not— how are you not losing your mind?“ she stuttered.
He brushed her damp hair from her cheek. “I am.” A weak laugh left her and he groaned, dropping his mouth to her throat. “Don’t laugh when I’m inside you, holy shit.”
Miserably, she realized her chest was still painfully tight, that the pollen was continuing to scratch at her from the inside out. “It hurts,” she whispered, gripping his hand, lacing her fingers through his as though they were having some sort of tender discussion.
Peter stopped moving, a frown splitting his handsome face. “Me?”
She shook her head, squirming up against him like it would kickstart his hips. “No, the— the pollen. You feel good, you feel so good, Peter.”
With a slow thrust, he canted forward again and she sighed in relief. “You’re so fucking sweet,” he murmured as he caught her nipple in his teeth, sucking it until she cried out. His voice was quicksand-thick, pulling her helplessly into him. She didn’t want to fight it for a second. “Arch your back, let me have you.”
She obeyed him more than willingly, gasping as his tongue traced along the curve of her breast, humming in pleasure as he continued to fuck her. His control seemed to come and go in waves, his gentleness coming through in his words and movements until it was too much and his hips ground relentlessly into hers, circling until she couldn’t breathe. But even when he was saying filthy things to her, they were honey-laced. Even if she was completely herself, she’d still fall head over heels for his pretty words, calling her beautiful and sweet like he’d done it a million times before.
It was difficult to tell, but she thought maybe her head had cleared just a bit, like the sun poking its way through storm clouds. Tentatively, she traced up along his side, exploring the dip of muscle at his hip, and honestly what the hell was a lab geek like him doing with this sort of body? Peter Parker seemed to be full of surprises, and she wondered what else she’d learn about him.
Silvery smears decorated his collarbone, and she licked it all off, pleased when he moaned her name brokenly. “You taste good,” she said as he fisted her hair in his hand and nipped at the underside of her jaw.
“Yeah?” he panted, and she nodded as he easily flipped her onto her stomach. “You know how good you smell?”
She shook her head, arching in surprise when she felt his mouth at the base of her spine, dropping a line of wet kisses up her back and licking the salt from her shoulder. There was barely any time before he was pushing into her again, thick and blunt and practically splitting her apart but she didn’t care, she just needed him to make her forget what was happening to her. She couldn’t get enough of him, didn’t want anything else but him telling her obscene things as he licked into her mouth like he was the one who needed her.
Peter covered her easily with his body, lacing his fingers through hers as he pinned her hands to the floor, effectively immobilizing her. And she fucking loved it, being shoved flat under him, her cheek pressed to the ground as he moved in slow, deep strokes. “Feel so perfect, sweetheart, can’t stand it,” he muttered as he rose up on his knees, pulling her back with him so she was flush against his chest. It felt like he was literally fucking her brains out, like she was getting dumber every time he sank into her cunt. She could hear herself, making airy little noises as he wrung pleasure from her. Each thrust was harsh, harsher than she’d thought someone as nice as him would be capable of. But she also hadn’t expected all those muscles, muscles that were pressed into her spine and shoulders and hips. The only word she could manage to say was his name over and over, Peter Peter Peter, like she was trying to pray to him, ask for absolution and maybe he could save her from this if she begged sweetly enough.
“You’re close, I can feel you clenching around me,” he growled in her ear, his hips slamming into hers. The lab echoed with the harsh slap of his skin against hers and her broken pleas. “Come on.” He reached between her legs, his other arm holding her in place, so tight she thought he would bruise her ribs but the idea of seeing him left behind on her skin made her whimper.
She came with a particularly hard thrust, going limp against him as stars streaked across the black of her closed eyes. Sweat dripped down her neck and he licked at it with a groan, his teeth catching against her shoulder. He didn’t stop moving, just slowed his pace down.
“Want you,” she whispered, reaching back to tug at his thick hair. As she turned around to kiss him, she wrapped her hand around his dick, greedily swallowing the helpless noise he made.
“Yeah,” he said mindlessly as she kissed her way down his chest, letting her knees buckle as she made her way to his hip, and she was so confused because she’d spent months thinking he was skinny under that lab coat when he looked like an Olympian. “Use your hand, just like that.”
Twisting her wrist slowly, she looked up at him as he staggered back heavily into the counter. She leaned forward, gently flicking her tongue against the swollen head of his cock, and he swore, grabbing her hair. Normally, she didn’t like when someone did that to her, but none of what was happening was normal. Instead, she leaned into his grip and ran her tongue along the length of him, tasting herself. When she moaned against him he pulled her away, his hand shaking as he touched her cheek reverently. Under it all, she knew he was trying to exercise some self-control. She’d never been with someone who had lasted so long, and she wondered if it was him or the pollen.
“Please let me?” she asked, tracing a thin scar on his thigh before kissing it. There was a set of larger ones across his chest and she could not imagine how the hell he’d gotten those. Maybe she didn’t know him as well as she’d thought. “I want to.”
He blinked down at her owlishly, like his brain had shorted out, sparking and malfunctioning in his head as she ran her fingers up his hip. Wordlessly, he guided her back and she opened her mouth eagerly, desire pooling between her thighs. “There you go,” he muttered, as she let him push his cock between her lips, eyes watering at the size of him as he slid across her tongue. “Good girl, you’re such a good girl.”
His face was nothing short of wrecked, and she began to wonder if his stamina was as out of control as hers was. She wasn’t tired at all and he didn’t seem to be either. His grip tightened in her hair as he picked up speed, rolling his hips into her mouth. This was not something she’d ever done before— let herself be used like this— but she liked how he was muttering her name as he fucked her mouth, clutching her like a lifeline. It was messy and frantic and he was being a little too rough but the pollen smoothed it all out, turning everything dreamy. The way he was groaning fuck fuck fuck good girl just like that was shooting through her and she thought she was going to come just from the sounds he was making.
Suddenly, he hit the back of her throat and it was too much, pulling her sharply back to reality. She pulled off of him with a gasp and wiped the back of her mouth, and when she looked up she barely recognized the man standing above her. His disheveled hair hung in his dark eyes and he was shaking like she was now, unnatural movements that shuddered through his chest and shoulders. Grabbing her by the wrist, he pulled her up so quickly she almost lost her balance, his mouth slanting over hers hungrily, almost violently. “Shouldn’t be doing this to you,” he mumbled as he lifted her up, stepping between her thighs, “I’m out of my fucking mind. Should be treating you better, shouldn’t be fucking your mouth.”
“It’s oh— okay,” she moaned as his hand drifted up her stomach to palm her breast. “I liked it.”
“Lie back for me,” he said, lacing his fingers through hers. The counter was cool against her sweaty skin and he was kissing his way down her stomach, nipping at her ribs. “Shouldn’t be eating you out on a fucking counter,” he groaned, whispering her name against her hip as he yanked her knees over his shoulders, laying her bare to him.
“I like when you say my— my name,” she whispered, and he growled it out against the top of her thigh. “Peter, please— oh—”
Again, that helpless feeling returned as he shoved her legs open and licked into her cunt, feverishly hot as he began to pull her apart again. Heat raced through her belly at an alarming rate, and she arched her back when his tongue slanted inside her. When she looked down, she found that he was looking at her with such intensity that it was her undoing. With shaking hands, she reached down to pull at his hair, but her orgasm ripped through her before she could touch him, and she was twisting away from his mouth because it was too much, too intimate, he couldn’t just look at her like that. Tears streamed down her face and she let out a pathetic sob as he helped her sit up, taking her face in his big hands.
“Don’t cry, please don’t cry, sweetheart,” he urged her and she was lost in his pretty eyes for a moment. “Tell me to stop and I’ll try, I swear.”
She shook her head, terrified at the prospect of losing his touch. Of losing him. “I don’t want you to stop, please don’t stop.”
His slick mouth crashed into hers and it was a relief, like water in the desert. Reaching between them, she touched him and his breath stuttered. Emboldened, she wrapped her hand around his cock and he thrust into her hand with a groan, pulling her off the counter to stand on unsteady legs. “Just like that, fuck. Beautiful fucking girl, can’t believe I never told you.”
She couldn’t answer him because his tongue was sliding against hers like she belonged to him and she was just whimpering pathetically into his mouth while she jerked him off. Never in her life had she felt so scatterbrained and overstimulated, and she was trying so hard to help him too but when he was calling her things like beautiful and good girl and sucking bruises against her neck, it made it nearly impossible. His free hand slipped between her legs and she’d lost track of how many times she’d come because it was all blurring together in her foggy little brain. Everything ached but there was still something she was trying to chase, something more that she needed. Something still twisting through her like a vine, seeking and coiling and pulling relentlessly. “Need you inside me,” she pleaded as she twisted her wrist. “I need it, please, you make me feel so good.”
“Fuck,” he muttered, kissing the corner of her mouth as he helped her to the floor and she shifted so he could position himself between her legs. “You need it?”
She nodded and he thrust hard, bottoming out with one stroke. The noise that left her was a gasp, and she closed her eyes at the fullness. She couldn’t move and she didn’t care because the only thing that mattered was how he was looking at her, black-eyed with lust as he started to pound into her again. He hadn’t even come yet, and they’d been fucking for what felt like ages. Maybe the pollen worked differently on men and women.
“You gonna come again?” he asked roughly, dipping his face against her shoulder, licking the sweat from her skin. His tongue traced the cords of muscle in her throat lazily, charting her for his own. “Feels so good when you come on my cock.”
“I like when you make me take it,” she told him, fingers slipping against his strong hips.
“Fuck,” he rasped out, and he pulled her on top of him. Something in the back of her head loved how he was manhandling her, using her, but he wasn’t really, was he? He was chasing her pleasure down as much as his. It certainly wasn’t selfish, how he was fucking her. Somehow, he was still clear enough to keep his focus on her most of the time. “Give it back to me.”
Her legs shook from the stretch of him but she was so desperate to make him feel good that she rose up on her knees and sank down hard, bracing herself against his toned chest. There were tiny freckles across his torso and arms, like someone had carelessly flung them there, and she tried to pick one to focus on while she ground down onto him. It proved impossible, because he groaned low and deep and she looked up to see his head tip back and she could not look away from the long column of his throat. “Ride me just like that, fuck, that’s good.”
Her heart sped up at his words and she leaned forward, sinking down with slow rolls of her hips while her hand drifted toward his neck. His pulse shuddered under her fingers and he locked his arm around her back, forcing her closer, sending a thrill through her body. “Wanna make you feel good, wanna help you,” she said as yanked her into a punishing kiss, his teeth scraping against her lip.
“Keep looking at me with those pretty eyes,” he groaned against her mouth, his hips slamming up into hers, punching the breath from her lungs. “Taking me so well, fucking use me and make yourself come.”
This time, his words were an overload. A strange feeling came over her; a lightheadedness that she didn’t recognize. It was easier to just bury her face against his shoulder while he continued to fuck her stupid and whisper filthy praise into her ear. But then her body began to shake again, starting in her calves and climbing up into her shoulders. Dimly, she knew that it wasn’t the pollen. “Peter, I’m gonna…” she trailed off, not entirely sure what she was trying to tell him.
“Give me one more, sweetheart,” he encouraged, not slowing down. “Come on.”
“It’s not…” she tried to say as dark spots swam in her vision and her limbs went limp. For a few seconds, she couldn’t hear anything, just distant echoes. Peter was cradling her face when she could see again and all she could manage was blinking down at him.
“Hey, hey, look at me.” His brown eyes swam into view, and he gently patted her cheek. “I’m so sorry, holy shit. Are you okay?”
It was hard to have a conversation when he was still buried to the hilt inside her, and all she could do was laugh. Laugh at how absolutely insane it was that he’d fucked her so hard she’d passed out. It wasn’t funny at all, but she couldn’t stop giggling. But above all that, she still ached. Impossibly, she still ached. Self-preservation screamed in the back of her head somewhere to stop but she ignored it. Chasing pleasure was more important, the way Peter was holding her and kissing her and ruining her was so much more important than stopping. She didn’t care, she just needed him.
“I’m fine.” She kissed his thumb, watching his eyes dilate. Slowly, he slid it into her mouth and groaned when she swirled her tongue around him.
“Don’t do that,” he warned, trembling under her with the effort of staying still. But he made no move to stop her, eyes glued to her mouth as she continued. There was a warning nudge of his hips, and she nodded eagerly. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
He exhaled thoughtfully, stroking her face as he contemplated her. Sometimes the looks he gave her were more intimate than what they were doing, and it lit her up inside. “Gonna go slow, okay?”
It was almost too tender, the way he pulled out of her and carefully laid her back. The cool tile was a balm, and she stared up at the speckled ceiling while he gently rubbed her thigh.
“Come back to me,” she asked, reaching for him. But Peter was busy near her knees, pressing lazy open-mouth kisses up to her hips like they had all the time in the world. Time that she has no gauge for; she didn’t know if they’d been in the lab for hours or days. Her brain was so scrambled that all she knew was him and his sun-bright warmth.
“Slow,” he reminded her as she wrapped her legs around his hips.
And it was slow. Achingly slow. He sank into her, letting her have him inch by inch until the air was gone from her lungs again. When she reached up to thread her fingers through his hair, he kissed the inside of her wrist and that little gesture made her heart sing. Gently, he pulled her knees up so he could press into her more deeply, and she sighed, tracing his jaw contentedly, trying to parse all the shades in his eyes.
“You’re beautiful too, you know,” she gasped, weakly rising to try to match his steady thrusts.
“You and your gender norms,” he chuckled, then groaned when she tightened around him, watching his eyes fall shut, dark lashes fluttering. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me come.”
Pride streaked through her and she clenched around him again, pulling a growl from him. “I want you to, oh— like that—”
“Killing me with those pretty noises,” he grunted, finding the deepest parts of her each time with perfect drags of his cock.
“Want you to give it to me,” she whispered when he dropped his face to her shoulder. How he’d held out this long, she had no clue. Maybe he’d done it for her, some kind of insane self-control he was exercising until she was on the other side of whatever was happening. “Want you to come inside me.”
“Yeah?” He sloppily kissed her shoulder, his rhythm faltering at her words.
“Kiss me,” she ordered, not sure where her nerve had come from. “Please kiss me.”
His mouth was on hers instantly and she tugged on his hair before dragging her nails across his shoulders. “Fuck,” he groaned into her mouth, and she did it again, wanting to push him off the edge like he’d done for her countless times.
“Please,” she choked out, and he thrust into her one last time, grinding his hips hard into hers as he came deep inside her, panting into her mouth. It was an unfamiliar feeling because it wasn't something she ever did but for some reason it had been the only thing that made sense. She shuddered around him, small spasms racing through her body as he continued to pump his hips into hers, almost like he’d forgotten to stop fucking her.
The pain inside her was dull, and the claws that clutched her lungs were finally loosening. Relief swallowed her up as she ran her fingers through his sweaty hair. He was still twitching with aftershocks, nosing at her neck weakly, telling her how good she was.
“Are you okay?” she whispered, stroking his back as he pushed himself up on his forearms, caging her close as he studied her with clear brown eyes. There he was; there was Peter.
His face was incredulous. “Are you?” he asked, making no effort to move off of her.
She laughed, and her body had never felt heavier.
“Don’t laugh, don’t—” he muttered, kissing her with a grin to shut her up, but she was fading fast and could barely return it as his lips ghosted down her jaw.
The last thing she felt was his mouth against her temple, and she thought she heard him call her beautiful one more time.
-
Sore. That was all she could think. Sore.
There was a pair of muscular arms wrapped snugly around her, and a stubbled chin was tucked against her shoulder. A long leg was shoved between her own, and the other was slung over her calf.
Peter Parker.
Slowly, she opened her heavy eyes and carefully turned to face him, his hand slipping to her hip. She studied him blearily, sleep still pulling at her. Strangely, there were no marks on him that she could see. She knew she’d raked her nails across his back, bitten at his collarbone and chest, sucked marks onto his neck because that was the only way she could think to thank him. Where the hell had they gone? Meanwhile, she was covered with hickies and she felt like she’d been thrown from a moving car. Somehow, it felt wonderful. Gone was the confusion and the pain of arousal, and now she was left with the aftermath of what they’d done.
Oh, God.
She’d never been more relieved to realize it was a holiday and no one was coming in to work. The lab was a mess— clothes strewn all over, papers knocked askew, pipettes scattered across the floor, and one of her boots was on the counter. Their coats were on top of them as makeshift blankets; Peter must have done that because she didn’t even remember falling asleep.
Nerves began to pluck at her now that she was clear-headed: she and Peter had spent the entire night pulling each other apart over and over because she’d violated lab protocol with flowers. There was an unbelievable ache between her thighs, and her throat felt sore. Whether it was from crying or begging or from when she’d gone down on him, she wasn’t sure.
Pressing a hand to her forehead, she carefully shrugged out of his embrace. She’d begged him to fuck her and end the misery she’d caused, and he’d done it, over and over, sweet and rough and perfect. Sitting up, she pulled her legs to her chest and leaned her forehead against her knee, trying to take a steadying breath. He was going to hate her, no matter what he’d promised. Promises didn’t mean anything when they had both been fighting the urges that had bloomed inside them. They were just words, just excuses to try to find relief from the pollen.
Peter stirred beside her. “Hey,” he mumbled sleepily, his fingers gently tracing up her spine. “How’re you feeling?”
That was a loaded question. Terrified she’d wrecked their relationship. Exhausted. Humiliated.
“Sore,” was what she chose to say. You idiot. To his credit, he quietly continued stroking her back, and it felt so nice, his warm touch comforting in the early hours of the day. “But I’m me again.”
“Me too.”
They sat in silence, and it was absurd. They were naked in the lab and she’d never been more confused in her life. The things she’d said and did— who was that girl? Maybe the pollen had brought out a dormant part of her. “Peter, I’m sorry,” she mumbled, staring decidedly at her knees. “I think I ruined our friendship.”
He sat up with a grunt, and leaned his head against her shoulder. That was unexpected. “You didn’t ruin anything, sweetheart.”
Her heart tripped in her chest, and she turned to look at him. Sunlight streamed through the slats of the blinds, and God, he really was a pretty man to wake up next to.
“I’m sorry I brought that plant inside,” she apologized as he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I didn’t know.”
With a frown, he gently tilted her head to the side, inspecting her neck. “I’m sorry I… did all that,” he replied sheepishly as his gaze swept across her breasts and thighs. “I should have been gentler, I’m so sorry. It felt like something else was in control. I tried so hard.”
“You’re not superhuman,” she reminded him, and he glanced down, lips twitching. “Peter, I felt like I was gonna die last night.”
“I did too.” He brushed a mark on her hip, and a shiver went up her spine at his touch.
“Buy a girl dinner first,” she tried to joke, because she was somehow nervous under his gaze even though he’d fucked her so hard she’d blacked out momentarily. But no, a gentle touch was somehow too much.
“I can do breakfast,” he offered quietly, planting a kiss on her shoulder, where he’d left behind a purple thumbprint of a bruise.
She blinked. “Really?”
“I like you, you know,” he told her matter-of-factly, pulling her to his chest as he lay back down with a groan. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you for a while.”
Oh.
“I like you too,” she admitted. His heart was slow and steady under her ear. Dependable. “We did this all backwards, huh?”
He snorted, tangling his fingers in her hair affectionately. “I usually wait until the fourth date to have plant-induced marathon sex with someone,” he teased gently and she swatted at his shoulder.
“I’m really glad Todd wasn’t on the schedule last night.”
Peter groaned. “Don’t bring him up.”
“He would have told us everything we were doing wrong,” she continued with a grin.
“‘When I don’t satisfy my wife, here’s how I do it’,” Peter intoned in a disturbingly good impression of their coworker’s Texan drawl, and she giggled, tracing a pale scar on his ribs as they fell quiet.
“Can we stay like this for just a few minutes?” she asked shyly, looking up at him.
He looked at her with another one of those reverent gazes. But now that he was clear-headed, it hit her even harder. No plant, just Peter. “Of course.”
She closed her eyes, letting the thump of his heart under her ear relax her. Every anxiety she’d had had completely dissipated, and now, as he toyed with her hair, she felt warm and safe. And even after the complete debauchery they’d been pulled into only hours ago, he wanted to take her out to breakfast.
Because Peter Parker really was a nice guy.
~
Spoiler alert: I put the plant there and the species is deus ex machina.
This is what happens when @mrshipsmcgee says "do it do it do it" so thank you for planting (ha ha haaaaaa I'm so funny) this idea in my head.
Summary: Mattheo gets into another fight with a new guy and when Professor McGonnagal surprisingly do not punishes your boyfriend for it, you discover what she really thinks about your relationships.
Word count: 2.6k
Warnings: established relationships, protective boyfriend Matty, fights, insults and creepy guys, language, mentions of blood, hints of sex at the end.
Author's note: idk, the summary kinda sucks, but I couldn't think of anything better. basically it's just me being McGonnagal's fan and a simp for Mattheo 😘
Mattheo was sitting with his friends on one of the benches outside the castle. He was partly listening to whatever Blaise was saying about the next Quidditch game, more thinking about you and about the fact that he almost didn’t see you during the day.
He was completely lost in his thoughts until he heard your name slip out of the new guy’s, Eddie's, mouth. He and another Ravenclaw student were sitting not far away, and Mattheo’s attention was immediately drawn to their conversation.
“Yeah, that girl Y/N, right? I tried to talk to her during the lecture but she acted like a total bitch.” The guy laughed, elbowing his housemate as if he said something funny. Mattheo’s fist tightened, and he tried to hear more to figure out whether they were talking about you or not.
“Wait, dude.” The other guy chuckled, almost in shock. “You mean that Y/N? Riddle’s girl? You tried to hit on her? Nah, you better drop that shit. It’s like serious between them and all, no one usually bothers her because Riddle goes crazy about it.”
“Don’t care, man. I’ll find a way to get to her. I know she’s gonna be a total freak in bed, I will find a way to fuck her.“
Mattheo just snapped, jumping out of his place in a matter of seconds. Before one of his friends or even Eddie realized what was going on, Mattheo had already dragged him to the floor, punching his face.
“Wanna repeat what the fuck you just said about her?” He hissed at the guy, making another hit into the jaw.
“I said that she looked fuckable.”
It turned into a total mess, with them fighting on the ground and other students staring like it was some kind of show. The crowd got bigger, but Mattheo did not care about it at all; he was too busy with the way his knuckles met that ugly face.
Only a few minutes later, Blaise, Theo, and Draco dragged Mattheo away, while a few Ravenclaw students restrained Eddie.
Mattheo was almost uncontrollable, puffing and trying to escape from the firm hands that were holding him in place.
You heard that your boyfriend got into another fight, but as Luna said, it was something bigger and that he was even more violent today.
You brushed through the crowd, immediately standing before Mattheo’s eyes to catch his attention. You placed both of your hands on his chest and quickly nodded to his friends to let him go. As soon as he became free, he tried to push forward, almost radiating anger. The fact that Eddie was proudly smiling behind your back did not help the situation.
“No. Mattheo, stop it. What’s going on?” You felt the way he was breathing, as if he had run a few miles, and it was mostly anger. His face had a few drops of blood; the brow and lip were cut, and you knew that you would have to clean them up later, but now you only wanted him to calm down and speak to you properly.
“Hey, baby. Remember me?” The voice behind your back made you turn your head around, only now seeing the guy your boyfriend was fighting with. It was a new student from another school who was annoying you during your class and almost got you two in detention. You wanted to slap him so badly for the way he was talking to you, but you knew that the best way to deal with such people was to ignore them. They were always thriving on any type of attention. He looked much worse than Mattheo. Already blossoming bruises under his eye, on the jaw, and blood running out of his nose, and when he gave you that nasty smile, you saw his red teeth too. "C'mon, that’s why you were ignoring me, huh? Voldemort’s son? You could find someone better to fuck.”
“I’m gonna fucking kill him.” You felt how Mattheo moved forward again, but you slightly pushed him back. You lifted one of them to his cheek, caressing it in slow circles.
“No, you’re not. He's not worth it, Matty. Hey, look at me, please.” You put a slight pressure on his face to distract him and make him set his eyes on you. You had seen him during the fights before, but this time it was different. The way Mattheo’s eyes were completely dark, slightly narrowed, and full of rage, his face expression was so cold and nothing like you got used to. For a moment, you understood why sometimes even his friends preferred not to step in.
Eddie pissed you off during the previous lesson, where he decided to sit with you, chat, and flirt. You tried to pay as little attention to him as possible, completely uninterested in the jerk with no manners and a big ego. He got to school just a few days ago but you already hated him with your whole heart.
Though you couldn’t let your boyfriend start the fight again. Eddie was clearly provoking him with that weirdly satisfied grin on his face and rude words, probably so later he could say that the Dark Lord’s son was trying to kill him.
Mattheo's eyes were ruining between your face and Eddie behind your back, as if he were trying to make a decision. Your fingers didn’t stop moving in slow motion on his jaw and you thought that you felt some tension leaving his body.
“I hate the way he was talking about you.” He said it roughly, trying to control his body and emotions. Yes, Mattheo’s eyes were full of anger, but there was something deeper. He was hurt.
“I know, Matty, I know.” You stepped a bit closer to distract your overprotective boyfriend. At that moment, you almost forgot that you were in front of everyone and all the students are going to gossip about your interaction for the next week. “He’s provoking you. He wants to make you the bad guy. Don’t let him do that, please. We should just leave, okay?” You almost whispered, not breaking eye contact.
“Yeah, Matty, listen to your little girlfriend if you don’t want to—”
“Mr. Carmichael!” The loud, stern voice of Professor McGonnagal interrupted whatever he wanted to say and everyone went quiet for a few seconds. “You are not allowed to speak in this tone inside our school. Mr. Carmichael, Mr. Riddle and Ms. Y/L/N, follow me to my office, and everyone else must go back to their classes.”
“But Professor, Y/N didn't do anything wrong!” Mattheo protested, on instinct, placing his hand on your back and stepping closer.
“I said all three of you should go to my office, Mr. Riddle. Now.” Without another word, she left. Mattheo cursed near you, blaming himself for getting you into trouble, but you gave him a reassuring smile and, interlacing your hands, led him to McGonnagal’s office.
As soon as you walked in, Mattheo stood, separating you and Eddie so he wouldn’t be able to talk or even look at you.
“Are any of you willing to tell me what exactly happened there?” McConnagal sat in her chair, observing all of you. You stayed in front of her in silence.
“I punched him because he was saying inappropriate things about Y/N, Professor.” Mattheo briefly looked at you and you slightly squeezed his hand in yours in return. You saw how McGonnagal looked at your hands but you did not pull away, willing to show your boyfriend that you weren’t mad or blaming him.
“Is that so?” She looked at you.
“I wasn’t there when the fight started, but Eddie was bothering me earlier during the lessons. He made a few comments about me, even though I asked him to leave me alone, so I assume that it might’ve been the reason for Mattheo to do it.”
“Liar.”
“Mr. Carmichael, you are not in the position to talk back right now. That is quite impressive that you were able to get into the fight without even being here for weak. You are getting a detention, plus you’ll help Professor Snape after tomorrow's lesson. He’ll be happy to deal with you, I’m sure. Also, 20 points from Ravenclaw.” McGonnagal ignored his dramatic groan, now looking at Mattheo. Judging by the tension in his body, he was ready for the worst. “What about you, Mr. Riddle…” She briefly looked at you, and you didn’t really understand what it meant. “This time, I’m only giving you a warning: in Hogwarts, we do not support any kind of violence. You may be free.”
“That’s unfair! I’m covered in blood because of him. Are you really not going to punish the Dark Lord’s son? He could’ve killed me!”
“One more word and I’m taking away more points. You both are free, but you, Ms. Y/L/N, please stay for a few minutes.”
“But she— Professor, please don’t do this.” Mattheo stepped closer to her desk and you thought that he sounded as if he had suddenly panicked. It was strange.
“Hey, Mattheo, don’t worry about me. I promise, it’s okay.” You pulled him back, curiously looking at his weird behaviour. “Just wait for me outside, please. It won’t be long.” He stared at you for a moment, but then kissed you on the cheek and went out of the room.
“It’s truly magical to see the kind of love you two share, my dear.” McGonnagal softly laughed and you felt the heat on your cheeks. “Come sit here, please.” McGonnagal pointed to the chair in front of her desk.
“What did you want to talk about, professor?”
“Well, I know that this is not my place to interfere, but I wanted to say that you and Mr. Riddle share something really rare and special. And while I do not support his physical way of dealing with problems, I know that he deeply cares about you, darling, and this is how he expresses it.” It was weird to hear such words from someone else. You always respected Professor McGonnagal and the fact that she said that made your heart fill with even more love.
“Was it the reason why you didn’t punish him for the fight?” She nodded.
“Mattheo is a really smart boy with a kind heart and a good chance to have a really successful and wonderful life. The only thing that may ruin it is his family; I'm sure you understand that.” McGonnagal looked at you with a soft smile on her lips. “I see the way you affect him. How he became less distant during the lessons, started smiling more, and that you two are always connected no matter what. Everyone noticed it, even us professors. You may be the only bright thing in his life, my dear; that’s why I want you to ask to be there and not let him slip into the darkness. I just know that such love is so pure and strong and I hope it’ll live as long as the world exists.”
“Um– thank you, professor. I don’t even have enough words to express myself, but I appreciate your support. I’ll do everything in my power to save it.” You suddenly felt extremely emotional after this talk, and the only thing that you wanted to do right now was to be in your boyfriend’s arms.
“Now go. He's probably losing his mind because of you being there for so long.
Mattheo did wait for you near McGonnagal’s office and when you walked out of there with slightly glossy eyes and a soft smile, his facial expression changed into something sad and cold, which you did not quite understand. As usual, after his fights, you went into his dorm, but the walk there was weirdly quiet.
When you walked into his dorm and then to the bathroom, where you usually cleaned his wounds, he just followed you, hopping onto the counter near the sink and waiting while you prepared the first aid kit.
“Are you okay?” You stepped in between his legs, holding his face with your left hand and the wet towel in the other. You wiped the dried blood and then applied salve. “You’re acting kind of weird.”
He stayed silent for a few seconds, as if he were considering his words. “Are you going to break up with me? If so, then just say it right away and don’t torture me. I fucking hate it.” His eyes were locked on your necklace with the letter R, while your hand froze in the air in shock.
“Wh– Matty, what are you talking about?!” He finally looked up, meeting with your eyes, and you understood that he was trying to be casual and careless about it, but in fact he looked hurt.
“Isn’t it why McGonnagal asked you to stay? To say that I’m bad for you or something.”
“This is why you didn’t want to leave me there? I saw the way you looked at me… Oh, baby, no, I’m not going to break up with you.” You gently cupped his cheeks; now the tension had partly left Mattheo’s body and he finally put his hands on your waist. “In fact, McGonnagal told me quite the opposite.” Your fingers gently rubbed a bruise on his jaw while he looked at you in disbelief.
“What do you mean?” Mattheo slightly frowned. His hands unconsciously tightened around you, causing you to step even closer to him.
"Well, she said that you are really smart and that you have a lot of opportunities in the future if you’ll make the right decisions. She told me that you need someone like me to be here for you… and that what we have is really pure and magical.” You almost whispered the last part. The silence in the bathroom became almost too heavy, and the way Mattheo was looking made your stomach tighten with a weird feeling.
“I thought she hated me.”
You shook your head. “There’s no reason for her to hate you, Matty. You are not your family. You can live your life how you want to, without any burden or darkness, and I’ll be here for you. Always.” Mattheo’s hand reached for your face, slowly touching your skin. He looked almost mesmerized by you—those pretty brown eyes soft with so much love and feelings for you.
“Merlin, I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” He drew you closer, your foreheads touching in an intimate gesture. “I love you so fucking much. You’re my everything, Y/N. I know that it might be hard dealing with me, but I’m trying. For you. And I’m sorry for today. I just cannot let anyone disrespect or hurt you, my love.”
“That’s okay. I’m not mad. Just don’t want you to get hurt too. I love you, Matty. No matter what.” You smiled, closing your eyes, and finally properly kissed him. It was slow and delicate and it felt as if that moment was so significant for your relationship. You were always sure of your’s and Mattheo’s love, but right now it has become serious on another lever. And both of you could not be more happy.
Mattheo kissed you passionately, pulling you in close and sliding his tongue across your bottom lip. You moaned into his mouth, burying your hands into the messy curls and scratching the scalp. “I hate to say it, but you actually look kind of hot when you’re fighting…”
“Fuck, baby. Let’s stay here for the rest of the day and skip the classes. I want you so fucking bad.” He groaned, lowering his mouth to your neck.
“Are you trying to seduce me, Mattheo Riddle?” You pushed him away, slightly pulling his hair to enjoy those glossy dark eyes and swollen lips.
“What if I say yes?” Mattheo’s hand slipped under your skirt, teasingly stroking your thigh.
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