feversaint

x reader • angst • comfort • chaos

[feversaint]

masterlist

Dexter

♡ Detective Quinn:

Series:

Right Upstairs

One-Shots:

sick day

jealous Joey

Supernatural

♡ Dean Winchester

nothing yet

♡ Castiel

nothing yet

Marvel

♡ Bullseye/Benjamin Poindexter

A Plea for Sympathy

♡ Frank Castle

nothing yet

Rivals

♡ Declan O’hara

coming soon

Mortal Instruments

♡ Jace Wayland

nothing yet

other fandoms:

nothing yet

[feversaint]

A Plea for Sympathy

Benjamin Poindexter x Reader

Summary: After Dex comes home bleeding from yet another reckless operational stretch, your months of sleepless nights and quiet panic finally boil over into an argument. But when your desperate plea for space triggers his deepest fear of abandonment, Dex’s sheepish desperation rapidly twists into dark, overwhelming manipulation—leaving you completely undone, thoroughly claimed, and trapped in the suffocating warmth of his arms.

Warnings: Dark / Manipulative Dex, Dubious Consent (Dubcon), Emotional Manipulation, Guilt-tripping, Toxic Dynamics, Coercive Control, Arguments, Blood & Injuries, Sleep Deprivation, Extreme Vulnerability, Breakdown / Crying, Guilt Realignment, Condescending Praise & Reassurance, Unprimed / Rough Intercourse, Overstimulation, Forced Organsms, Oral, Over-the-Edge Exhaustion, Aftercare Cleaning, Praise / Creepy Reassurance.

Word Count: ~4k

18+ !!!!!

The storm rolling over Brooklyn wasn’t loud yet, but the air inside the apartment had turned thick, heavy with the metallic tang of approaching thunder and the sharp, chemical stench of cheap rubbing alcohol.

Dex stood by the kitchen island, the overhead pendant light casting long, harsh shadows across his broad back. He was stripped to the waist, his dark grey sweatpants riding low on his hips, revealing the dark, angry purple bruising already blooming across his ribs. In his right hand, he held a heavy pair of tweezers, his calloused fingers perfectly steady despite the blood slowly dripping from a deep, jagged puncture wound just below his left collarbone. A spent, flattened lead slug sat on the quartz countertop beside a bloody cotton ball, resting with the quiet, neat precision of a specimen on a tray.

You sat on the edge of the sofa across the open-concept room, your knees pulled tight into your chest, your laptop lying cold and forgotten beside a scattered pile of material spec sheets and floor plan drafts.

For the past three months, your life as a freelance interior designer had bled completely into his operational orbit. You mostly worked from home—drafting, rendering, selecting walnut veneers and terrazzo samples in the quiet sanctuary you had built—only venturing out two or three times a week for site surveys or client meetings. But the sanctuary didn’t feel like a sanctuary anymore. It felt like a staging ground.

You hadn’t slept properly in three weeks.

Every night, every single shadow that stretched across the bedroom floor turned into a threat. You lay awake in the dark, listening to the rhythmic, hyper-regulated sound of his breathing beside you, or worse, staring at the empty space on the mattress when he slipped out through the fire escape at two in the morning. You knew what he was doing. You knew the dark, violent nature of his work as a private contractor. But lately, the precision was fraying into something darker, something reckless.

He was coming back worse. More bruised. More bloody. Leaving trail marks of copper across your white bathroom tiles, treating his own body like an expendable shell, completely unbothered by the fact that one of these nights, the man who walked out your window wasn’t going to walk back in. The sheer weight of waiting for the inevitable phone call—or the sound of a body dropping onto your fire escape that didn't get back up—was shredding your nervous system to pieces.

Dex picked up a bottle of antiseptic, unbothered by the raw, open flesh on his chest, and tipped it directly over the wound. He didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. His face remained entirely smooth, a terrifying, dead mask of absolute detachment as the liquid hissed against his skin.

Something inside your chest snapped. The quiet, sheepish patience you had maintained for months completely disintegrated, replaced by a sudden, volatile wave of cold, nauseating panic.

"Dex," you whispered, your voice trembling so hard the syllable barely carried across the hardwood.

Dex didn't look up immediately. He set the bottle down, alignment exact against the edge of the quartz, before his cold, dark eyes slowly shifted over to your pale, trembling form.

"Yeah, baby?" he murmured, his gravelly register soft, almost sweet—a sharp, jarring contrast to the bloody scene on the counter.

"I can't do this," you said, the words spilling out of your mouth before your brain could filter them. You stood up abruptly, your feet unsteadily catching on the edge of the plush rug. "I can't—I can't keep doing this."

Dex’s hand stilled over the roll of medical tape. His dark brows pulled together into a shallow, inquiring line. "Can't do what? The stitches? I got the bullet out, you don't have to clean it if it makes you sick—"

"No! Not the stitches!" Your voice cracked, loud and frantic, echoing off the bare walls. "You! This! Look at you, Dex! You almost died tonight!"

"I didn't die," he stated plainly, as if stating an indisputable mathematical law. "Velocity was off. It missed the bone."

"It hit your chest!" tears burst into your eyes, hot and angry, blurring your vision as you gestured frantically to the blood on his skin. "You don't care! You treat your life like it doesn't matter! You walk out of here every night and I sit in this dark apartment, listening to every car horn, every siren, terrified that you're going to come back in a body bag! Or that someone is going to follow you here!"

Dex stared at you. The slight, practiced warmth in his expression began to recede, stripping back into something rigid and hyper-focused. He slowly turned his torso to face you completely. "Nobody follows me."

"You're becoming careless, Dex! You're... you're scary lately! You come in here covered in blood and you just sit there and smile at me like it's normal! It's not normal!" You squeezed your eyes shut, your chest heaving as months of sleep deprivation and silent terror culminated into a single, desperate impulse to survive. You took a step back, your posture shrinking as you put physical distance between yourself and the massive, blood-stained man looming in your kitchen. "I can't sleep. I can't think. I... I think I need some time. I need some space from you."

The room didn't just go quiet; it died.

The ambient hum of the refrigerator, the distant rumble of the subway beneath the street, the patter of the rain against the bay window—all of it faded into absolute irrelevance.

Dex stood frozen by the island. To his deeply fractured, hyper-vigilant cortex, the phrase didn't register as a plea for a temporary boundary. It didn't parse as an exhausted woman needing rest. To Benjamin Poindexter, "space" was a structural collapse. It was the white-hot alarm sounding inside a building that was already burning to the ground.

His fingers slowly unclasped from the medical tape. It fell onto the quartz with a soft, hollow click.

"What?"

The syllable dropped out of him in a flat, dry rasper. The faint, charming light that usually softened his dark irises whenever he looked at you evaporated entirely, leaving behind a dead, terrifying opacity. His pupils dilated until the brown was swallowed whole.

You shrank back another inch, your knuckles turning white as you gripped the back of the sofa. "Dex... please just listen to me—"

"Space," he interrupted, his voice dropping into that quiet, terrifying monotone he used when he was calculating trajectory in the field. "Space means you want me out."

"No, that's not what I'm saying—"

"You want me to leave." He took a single, rigid step forward, his bare feet silent against the hardwood, cutting right past the scattered material samples of stone and dark walnut. The civilian mask—the carefully rehearsed, charming disguise he used to navigate the world—was peeling away in real-time, stripping down to the raw, jagged nerve endings of a deeply broken man. "You want me to take my key back. You don't want me coming through the window. You want me gone."

"Dex, stop, you're jumping to conclusions—"

"What did I do wrong?"

The question didn't come out as a rational inquiry. It came out like a demand, sharp and clipped, his jaw locking so hard a thick muscle twitched violently along his cheekbone. He took two more steps, closing the distance until his massive, blood-smeared shadow completely enveloped your trembling frame.

"Tell me what I did," he rasped, his breathing suddenly shallow, rapid, and uncoordinated. "I cleaned the blood off the floor last time. I used the bleach you like. I don't leave my knives on your drafting desk anymore. Tell me what the defect is so I can fix it."

"Dex, you're not listening to me!" you cried out, your voice rising in a desperate attempt to penetrate the static drowning his brain. "It's not about a mistake! It's about what this is doing to me! I am terrified for you! I am terrified of how careless you're being with your own life! I haven't slept in weeks because I'm scared of what you're becoming!"

"Is there someone else?"

The words were poison on his tongue. The mere thought—the fleeting, sickening concept of another human being standing in his orbit, looking at you, touching the soft skin of your waist, smelling the sweet scent of your hair while you worked—sent a violent, electric surge of pure, unadulterated rage straight into his ribs.

His hands clenched into tight, bloodless fists at his sides. "Is it someone from the design firm? That architect? The guy who called you twice last Thursday when you were setting up that site survey? Tell me who it is."

"Are you insane?!" You stood your ground for a fraction of a second, your chest heaving, your sheepish demeanor briefly fracturing under the sheer absurdity of the accusation. "There is nobody else! I barely leave this apartment! I design, I render, I sleep, and I spend every single hour of my day with you! How could you even ask me that?!"

Dex didn't answer. He couldn't. His brain was spinning out of control, racing through decades of institutional files, therapy notes, rejection letters, abandoned apartments, and cold, dark rooms. His internal script was shredding to pieces. The structural foundation he had built around you—the belief that he was finally necessary, that he was your protector, your provider, your center—was disintegrating.

She's discarding you. You're defective. You were always defective. Dr. Mercer said it. The FBI said it. Murdock said it. Now she sees it.

"Don't do this," he breathed out, and the sudden shift in his tone was sickening. The hard, accusatory edge vanished, replaced by a raw, pathetic desperation that made your throat lock up.

His broad shoulders caved inward. The imposing, lethal operative who could execute a target across a crowded room with a piece of glass looked, in a single second, like a terrified, broken creature standing in the middle of a storm.

"Dex..."

"Please, baby," he choked out, his voice cracking right down the middle. He dropped heavily to his knees right in front of you on the plush rug, his hands frantically reaching out to grasp your wrists. His calloused fingers didn't squeeze—they trembled, holding onto you with a pathetic, desperate lightness, as if he were terrified that applying too much pressure would make you dissolve into thin air. "Please, don't do this to me. Please baby. I'll be better. I swear to God I'll be better."

You froze, staring down at him in absolute shock. You had seen Dex angry, you had seen him cold, and you had seen him covered in blood without breaking a sweat. But you had never seen him broken like this.

A thick, hot tear escaped the corner of his dark eyes, tracking slowly down the pale line of the scar on his cheek, mixing with the drying copper on his skin.

"I can change it," he babbled, his breathing coming in ragged, hyperventilating gasps against your stomach as he bowed his head, burying his face into the soft fabric of your shirt. "Whatever you don't like, tell me. You want me to stop taking contracts? I'll quit. I won't go out at night. I'll stay right here. I'll sit in the kitchen. I'll organize your material samples, I'll clean your brushes, I won't make a sound. You won't even know I'm here, I promise. Just don't send me away."

"Dex, look at me," you whispered, your heart shattering into a thousand agonizing pieces.

He didn't lift his head. Instead, his arms wrapped completely around your waist, pulling your hips violently against his bare, blood-stained chest, clinging to you like a drowning man holding onto a jagged piece of driftwood in an open ocean.

"I can't go back to doing this alone," he sobbed into your belly, the sound wet, ugly, and entirely stripped of pride. "I don't... I don't function. I go back to the noise. The noise in my head, it doesn't stop unless you're here. You're my structure, baby. You're my anchor. If you give me space, I'm gonna fall apart. I can't... I can't do this alone anymore. Please. Let me make it up to you. Let me take care of you. I'll be good to you, I swear I'll be so good to you..."

Watching him break down on his knees, hearing the raw terror in his voice, every shred of your anger crumbled into overwhelming, suffocating guilt. You felt like a monster. The sheer weight of his panic completely drowned out your need for boundaries. You had caused this. You had broken him.

"Okay—okay, Dex, stop, please!" you sobbed, your hands plunging into his dark hair, frantically pulling his face up. Tears streamed down your cheeks in thick waves. "Okay, okay, Dex, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, baby!"

Dex looked up at you through wet, dark lashes, his jaw trembling pitifully, watching you break down with intense, calculated focus beneath his tears.

"You're... you're sorry?" he whispered, his voice small, manipulating your guilt seamlessly without letting go of your waist.

"Yes, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that!" you babbled, weeping openly as you cupped his face, completely snared in his trap. "I don't want you to leave! I'm sorry I hurt you, Dex, please don't cry—"

Dex swallowed hard, his jaw quivering, his dark irises tracking your panicked, remorseful face with an intense, calculated focus. Beneath the terrifying storm of his abandonment wound, the master manipulator in him locked onto the exact moment your defenses buckled. He saw the guilt. He saw the soft, sheepish ruin of your boundaries.

Dex surged upward, his mouth catching yours in a wet, desperate kiss that cut off your apology. A soft hum left his throat as his thumb caught a fresh tear on your cheek, tracing it down to your jaw before bringing his lips back to press hot, tender kisses over your trembling eyelids, wiping the salt away with his mouth as you sobbed against him.

"I can help you," he rasped instantly, his large hands sliding up your thighs with a sudden, possessive grip that left no room for retreat. "I can make it better. Let me make all that fear go away."

Before you could catch your breath, he lifted you effortlessly, tackling you back onto the cushions of the sofa. His tongue invaded your mouth, deep and possessive, while his hands worked with swift, terrifying efficiency.

"Dex—wait, I—you’re hurt" you gasped as his lips tore away to drag a trail of hot, feverish bites down your throat, his stubble scraping against your delicate skin.

"No waiting," he growled against your flesh, his hands moving with terrifying, practiced efficiency. "Need to take care of you right now. See how good I can be?"

In one swift, powerful motion, his hands hooked under the waist of your lounge shorts and ripped them down your legs along with your underwear, flinging the fabric onto the floor. You shivered as the cool air hit your bare skin, but before you could draw a breath, Dex covered you entirely.

He shoved his sweatpants down just enough to free his thick, straining length, hovering over you with unhinged, dark eyes that flickered with a terrifying mix of relief, control, and insatiable hunger.

"See? I can take care of you," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, condescending, hypnotic hum as he aligned his broad, weeping tip with your dry, nervous entrance. "I can make you forget about the blood. I can make you forget about the noise. I fix everything for you, don't I?"

Without giving your body time to adjust, Dex drove himself deep inside you.

A sharp, breathless scream tore from your throat, your back arching violently off the sofa as his impressive girth stretched you open to the absolute limit. He buried himself to the hilt in one heavy, relentless stroke, forcing a long, shuddering moan from your chest.

"Fuck," Dex groaned, his face contorting in pure, dark bliss as your tight, unprimed walls clamped around him like a vise. "Look at that. So tight for me. See how much you need this, baby?"

His hips snapped forward, setting a grueling, punishing pace right there on the sofa. He didn't ease into it; he used his massive weight to pin you down, dragging his thick length almost all the way out before slamming back in, making the frame of the couch creak under the force.

"Dex, ah—it's—it's too fast—" you sobbed, your small hands grasping at his broad, muscular shoulders, your nails digging into the damp skin of his back, avoiding the open wound on his chest.

"I know, baby, I know," he purred deceptively into your ear, his breath hot and ragged as his hips continued their relentless, possessive assault. "I'm just making sure you feel me. See how I make all your thoughts go away? See how good I am to you? Tell me I'm good."

"You're good—ah! You're so good, Dex—" you babbled, completely overwhelmed by the sensory overload, your brain short-circuiting under the sheer velocity of his thrusts and the dark, soothing purr of his voice.

"That's it," he rasped, his hand reaching up to grip your jaw, forcing you to look up into his dark, unblinking eyes while he wrecked your lower half. "You don't need space when you have me. I take care of everything. I keep you safe."

He fucked you until your vision went blurry, completely dismantling your stamina, driving you over the edge of a violent, shattering orgasm that left you sobbing and gasping for air. But as soon as your peak faded, Dex didn't give you a single second to recover. He hooked his arms under your knees, lifting your limp, trembling lower body, and dragged you straight off the sofa onto the soft faux-fur rug on the floor.

"Dex... please, I'm so tired..." you whimpered, your head rolling back against the rug, your body feeling like heavy lead.

"Not done taking care of my girl," he whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, velvet register that sent a shiver straight to your core.

He dropped to his knees between your spread legs, his large hands gripping your thighs with bruising firmness, holding you pinned wide open to his view. Your cunt was flushed, swollen, and glistening with your slick, completely exposed beneath the warm ambient light of your living room lamps.

"Dex, no, it's messy—"

"I don’t care, please I need to” he growled softly, a sickeningly sweet smile touching his lips.

Without another word, Dex buried his face directly into your sensitive, swollen heat.

A high, breathless shriek escaped your lips as his tongue darted out, taking a long, deep, heavy swipe straight up your slit. He didn't hold back—he ate you out with a starved, feral intensity, his hot tongue working over your clit in fast, relentless circles while his hands held your hips locked in place. Every time you tried to squirm away from the unbearable, electric intensity, his grip tightened, his low growls vibrating directly against your flesh.

"Dex! Please—pls baby, I can't—I'm too sensitive—" you babbled, tears streaming down your cheeks as your body trembled uncontrollably.

"I'm helping," he hummed condescendingly against your folds, his voice muffled by your skin as his tongue flicked over your nerve endings with terrifying precision. "Shh... let me make it feel good. See how much I love you? See how well I take care of you?"

He systematically ate you through a second, agonizingly intense orgasm, devouring your weak cries until your thighs completely gave out, twitching uselessly in his grip.

Before you could even process the air returning to your lungs, Dex slid back up your body, lining his cock back up with your wrecked, weeping entrance, and shoved himself right back inside you.

The second round was pure, unadulterated endurance. Dex fucked you with slow, heavy, deep thrusts that hit your spot over and over again, completely draining every single drop of energy remaining in your system. He babbled continuously into your hair, a soft, hypnotic loop of manipulative reassurances: "I take such good care of you... nobody else can fix you like this... you're so safe right here... see how quiet your head gets when I'm inside you?"

By the time he finally let himself go—his broad frame shuddering as he filled you to overflowing with his hot cum—your mind was completely blank. The physical strain, combined with the intense emotional roller-coaster and weeks of built-up exhaustion, had thoroughly broken your consciousness.

Dex gently pulled out of you, a low hum of deep satisfaction leaving his throat as he watched his mess slowly leak onto the plush rug.

With effortless strength, he gathered your limp, exhausted body into his arms, lifting you flush against his chest. Your head dropped heavily onto his shoulder, eyes half-lidded, unfocused, and completely glossy as your consciousness hovered on the razor-edge of sleep.

He carried you into the bedroom and laid you down gently in the center of the mattress. But before sliding beneath the covers, he disappeared for a brief moment, returning with a warm, damp cloth and a fresh basin of water. With meticulous, agonizing tenderness, he set to work cleaning you. The friction of the encounter had left a map across your skin—a mixture of slick fluids, sweat, and the smeared, rusting copper of his own blood transferred from his open chest wound during the movement.

Dex worked with quiet, methodical precision, pressing tender kisses to your knee, your hip, and your jaw with every swipe of the damp cloth. He carefully cleansed your thighs and wiping away every trace of the night from your body until your skin was clean and warm again. Only after setting the warm cloth aside did he climb in beside you,

He pulled you tight against his chest, wrapping his thick, heavy arm around your waist and resting his jaw softly on top of your head. He was fully in his lovey-dovey, protective post-coital state now—gentle, warm, and hyper-attentive.

"You're so good for me, baby," he murmured fondly, his large, calloused hand tenderly stroking your damp hair away from your face, pressing sweet, lingering kisses against your forehead, your cheeks, and your closed eyelids. "Look how quiet everything is now. I fixed it all for you, didn't I?"

You let out a soft, incoherent babble, your throat too dry and your body too utterly spent to form actual words. Your eyelids fluttered weakly, fighting a losing battle against complete physical blackout.

"You're not leaving me," he whispered softly into your ear, his dark eyes shining with a sweet, domestic warmth, his thumb gently tracing the line of your swollen lower lip. "You're staying right here with me."

Your brain was floating in a thick, heavy fog of complete exhaustion and endorphins. You couldn't process the manipulation, couldn't form an argument, couldn't even recall why you had been scared in the first place. All you knew was the heavy, safe, suffocating warmth of his body holding you together.

You managed only a tiny, barely perceptible nod of your head against his chest, a pathetic, soft sound escaping your lips as your eyes finally closed completely, drifting straight into unconsciousness.

Dex’s dark, beautiful smile widened in the dim light of the bedroom. He squeezed you tighter, burying his face into the crook of your neck, completely content.

"Good girl," he purred softly, pressing one last kiss over your pulse point. "I knew you'd understand."

[feversaint]

Right Upstairs

Part Four - 3:17 AM

Detective Joey Quinn x Reader

Summary: Three months after the night that changed everything, a nightmare sends you upstairs at 3:17 a.m. Sometimes the safest place isn't your own apartment—it's the one right above it.

Warnings: PTSD/nightmares, panic attack, discussions of murder and trauma, kissing, making out, implied sexual content, mutual pining, comfort.

Word Count: ~2k

Read Parts 1-3 here

♡

The worst part was never the nightmare itself. It was the three seconds right after.

That brief, cruel window where her brain reset. She’d inhale the stale air of her bedroom, track the familiar, bruised shadows bleeding across the ceiling, and briefly, foolishly believe she was fine.

Then the floor beneath her memory would drop out. The quiet apartment would echo with that sudden, deafening crack, the air turning hot and heavy with smoke and the metallic tang of copper, dragging her straight back to that kitchen floor three months ago.

She sat up so fast her chest tore open, her lungs seizing in a panic.

"No, no..."

She pressed her palms against her eyes until white flashes danced in the dark, trying to force herself back into her own skin. She drank ice water until her teeth chattered. She turned the television on to a low, meaningless drone. She walked the length of her small rug until the soles of her feet were raw.

Nothing worked. The quiet in her apartment felt aggressive, waiting for her.

At 3:17 AM, she gave up.

She didn't waste energy trying to convince herself of how ridiculous it was. She pulled an oversized hoodie over her shoulders, stepped out into the cold corridor, and took the concrete stairs up to the fourth floor.

Outside 4B, her courage evaporated into the dim hallway air. She stood staring at the heavy brass numbers, her hand hovering two inches from the wood. He’s a Homicide detective. He worked a twelve-hour shift today. He doesn't need his hyperventilating neighbor camping out on his doormat.

She took a sharp breath, turning on her heel to leave—

Snap.

The deadbolt threw back, and the heavy door pulled inward.

Joey stood in the threshold, looking like he’d been dragged out of a dead, heavy sleep. Grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, a black t-shirt stretched tight over his broad shoulders, his dark hair sticking straight up on one side. He was squinting against the harsh hallway light, holding a heavy glass of water in one hand.

He didn't look startled. He just looked at her—taking in her bare feet, her pale face, and the violent, subtle tremor in her hands.

The sleepy haze vanished from his dark eyes, replaced by a sharp, quiet focus.

"You're making a lot of noise in the stairwell," Joey rasped, his voice rough from sleep.

"I was quiet," she whispered, her voice cracking instantly. She swallowed hard, the sudden embarrassment burning hot. "I'm sorry. I thought you were asleep. I’ll go—"

Joey didn't argue. He reached out, his hand wrapping firm around the thick sleeve of her hoodie, and hauled her inside. He kicked the door shut with his heel, the heavy lock snapping back into place with a definitive thud.

"Sit down," he muttered, setting his glass on the counter.

"Joey, I shouldn't have—"

"I said sit down." It wasn't mean; it was standard Quinn—blunt, practical, and refusing to let her spiral.

She crossed the dark room and dropped onto the edge of his worn leather couch, her knees shaking. Joey walked into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, uncapped it, and came back over. He dropped down onto the coffee table right in front of her, resting his elbows on his knees, bringing his face level with hers.

"Nightmare?" he asked flatly.

She stared down at the plastic bottle in her hands. "I thought I was over it. It's been almost three months."

"You don't just 'get over' watching a guy take a round in front of you," Joey said, his tone deadpan, entirely stripped of cheap sympathy. "Takes time. Your brain's being an idiot. It happens."

She let out a wet, exhausted breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. "You really know how to make a girl feel better, Quinn."

"I'm a realist," he grunted, his dark eyes watching her carefully. "Drink the water."

She took a small sip. The silence settled between them—heavy, thick, and familiar. For two months, this had been their entire rhythm: quiet jabs, bad coffee, and carefully guarded boundaries. But sitting here in the dark, with his broad frame blocking out the rest of the room, those boundaries felt paper-thin.

Joey tracked the movement of her face, his gaze dropping to her tightly laced fingers around the plastic bottle.

"You know," Joey said low, his voice carrying a rough edge, "you could've just knocked instead of pacing outside my door for two minutes."

She looked up, caught. "I didn't want to wake you."

"I was already up," he lied smoothly.

"You were asleep, Joey. Your hair is sticking straight up."

Joey reached up, running a hand through his dark hair without an ounce of shame. "It's a bold choice. Don't judge."

A genuine smile touched her lips. Joey watched it form, his dark eyes softening, his jaw working silently. The playful banter hung in the air for a second, but then the tone shifted. The air grew dense, heavy, and tight.

He didn't move away. He stayed right there on the table, barely a foot between them.

"Why didn't you just tell me to clear off?" she asked softly, her voice barely carrying across the gap.

Joey raised an eyebrow. "Because you're sitting on my furniture looking like a breeze could knock you over."

"You're off duty, Quinn."

"Yeah," he muttered, holding her stare. The silence stretched until the only sound in the room was the low hum of the fridge. "I am."

His posture changed; the smooth facade faded, leaving behind the quiet, intense guy who actually paid attention.

"Maybe I just like having you around," Joey said low, his raspy voice dropping an octave. "You ever think of that?"

Her heart knocked against her ribs. "You flunked at flirting with me two weeks after I moved into this building, Quinn. And you weren't much better at it after the station, either."

Joey let out a quiet, rough laugh, a wicked glint returning to his eyes. "Hey. Two weeks in, I was just establishing neighborly relations at the mailboxes. You shot me down cold. And after the station? I was being respectful. There's a difference."

"You were terrible both times."

"I was charming," he corrected smoothly, leaning in an inch closer, his dark eyes fixed on hers. "You just had high standards."

"I still do."

"Yeah?" Joey’s eyes narrowed slightly, lingering on her mouth before sliding back up to her eyes. "Then why are you sitting in my living room at three in the morning?"

The challenge hung between them, raw and undeniable. Months of late-night takeout, deliberate run-ins in the hallway, and heavy, unspoken tension snapped like a tight wire.

She didn't answer. She reached out, caught the collar of his faded t-shirt, and pulled him in.

When their mouths met, the restraint Joey had been maintaining for months completely collapsed.

He didn't freeze, and he didn't pull back to double-check. A low, gravelly groan caught in his throat as his hands moved instantly—one broad palm sliding up the side of her neck, his fingers tangling deep into her hair to tilt her head, while his other arm wrapped tight around her waist. He hauled her off the edge of the couch and right up against him, eliminating every inch of space between them.

The kiss was heavy, needy, and completely consuming. It wasn't tentative comfort; it was two months of suppressed frustration breaking out all at once. His mouth pressed hard against hers, demanding and warm, his thumb pressing into the hollow right beneath her jawline.

She clung to his broad shoulders, her fingers digging into the cotton of his shirt as the last traces of her midnight panic vanished under the heat of him. Joey shifted his weight, crowding her back into the cushions of the couch, his heavy frame leaning over her as the kiss deepened, sliding from her lips to the line of her jaw. A soft gasp slipped from her throat.

"Joey..."

"Shut up," he rasped against her skin, his voice rough and completely wrecked.

He came back to her mouth, firmer this time, his tongue tracing her bottom lip until she parted for him. His hand on her waist gripped her tightly through her hoodie, pulling her flush against his chest until she could feel the hard, rapid beat of his heart matching hers.

He didn't make her move back down to her apartment, and he didn't push her back toward the cushions. He pulled her up with him, his broad palm anchored flat against the small of her back, guiding her through the dark hallway into his room.

The heavy comforter was kicked half off the mattress, the sheets smelling faintly of cedarwood and the familiar heat of him. He hauled her onto the mattress, sliding over her before she could catch her breath.

His weight settled over her—heavy, solid, and grounding. His broad hands framed her face, thumbs tracing her cheekbones before his mouth found hers again.

This time, the kiss lost its frantic edge, smoothing out into something thick, slow, and deep. Every press of his mouth was demanding, his stubble scraping against her skin, making her chest heave against his.

She reached up, her fingers tangling into his dark hair, pulling him down harder against her. His broad shoulders blocked out the rest of the room, the solid heat of his chest pressing her deep into the mattress until the last lingering shadows of her nightmare were gone.

Joey dragged his mouth down her jawline, his breathing heavy in the dark, trailing hot kisses along her throat. His hands slid down from her face, fingers hooking under the hem of her hoodie, slowly dragging the heavy cotton up over her ribs.

She lifted her arms, letting him pull the sweater over her head and toss it onto the floor.

Joey looked down at her in the dim light filtering through the blinds, his thumb stroking over her side, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse.

His mouth returned to hers, weight shifting as he slotted a leg between hers. She arched up into him, her fingers digging into the hard muscles of his back, holding him flush against her.

Joey let out a low groan against her lips, his hands sliding down to grip her hips, pulling her tightly against him. For a long, breathless minute, the dark room was consumed by the rustle of sheets and the heavy rhythm of their breathing.

Then Joey stopped.

His forehead dropped onto her shoulder, his chest heaving as he fought to pull air back in. His hands stayed locked around her waist, heavy and rigid with restraint, but he didn't move lower.

For ten seconds, neither of them moved.

"Joey..." she murmured against his neck.

Joey swallowed hard, his jaw clenching before he slowly pushed himself up on his forearms. His face was flushed, his eyes dark, but his posture was set.

"We need to slow down," Joey rasped, his voice shot. He dragged a hand through his hair, looking down at her. "You had a panic attack twenty minutes ago. You're exhausted." He let out a short exhale, looking at her flushed face. "If I don't stop right now, I'm not going to."

He made to shift back, to give her room.

She reached up, her hand catching his wrist, holding him right where he was. She looked straight at him, no jokes, no hesitation.

"Don't move," she said softly.

Joey stared down at her, reading her face, looking for any sign that she was just looking for a distraction. Finding none, the tension in his shoulders finally broke.

"Yeah?" Joey muttered, his voice dropping low as his hand slid back up her hip. "You sure?"

Instead of answering, she slid her fingers up the back of his neck, pulling his head down, and arched her hips up to meet his.

Joey’s jaw tightened, a low growl catching in his chest before he came back down over her, his mouth crashing onto hers with a dark, heavy heat that left no room for anything else until morning.

♡

Thank you so much for reading this little mini series. I know its not the best and its very cringe but I swear I am trying to get better at writing without it sounding like shit (who knew it would be this hard) 🤍

[feversaint]

Right Upstairs

Part Three -The Little In-Betweens

Detective Joey Quinn x Reader

Summary: Weeks after the motel, routines begin to form. Morning coffee, locked doors, late-night pizza, and quiet moments become something neither of you knows how to name.

Warnings: None, this part is pretty mundane. (Kinda cringe tho...)

Word Count: ~ 1.7 k

Read the rest of the Right Upstairs mini series

♡

The "Evidence" Coffee

Two weeks after the station, Joey Quinn stood in the third-floor corridor at eight in the morning, rapping his knuckles twice against the heavy wood of 3B.

When the door pulled open, you didn't flinch. You stood in the frame wearing a faded grey t-shirt with the collar stretched out over one shoulder, hair scraped back into a claw clip, blinking up at him through the harsh, fluorescent glare of the hallway. Your eyes were still heavy, rimmed with a dull, bruised exhaustion.

"Quinn," you mumbled. Your voice was dry, barely a rasp.

Joey was already in his suit jacket and tie, broad shoulders filling the narrow hallway. In his right hand, he held a paper tray with two cardboard cups, steam rising into the cold, air-conditioned air. "Don't look so thrilled. It was on my way out."

You leaned your weight against the doorframe, squinting down at the tray. "You always bring dark roast to people's doors before the sun’s fully up?"

"Only when I need an excuse to make sure my neighbors haven't starved," Joey said, his deep voice deadpan. He pulled a cup from the tray and held it out to you. "Black. No sugar."

You reached out and took it, your fingers brushing against his calloused knuckles—a brief, accidental contact that sent a sudden, quiet friction through the air. You took a slow sip, letting the bitter heat settle into your chest.

"I'm fine, Joey."

"Yeah, you look great," Joey lied effortlessly, his dark eyes lingering on the blue-grey shadows under your lower lashes. He leaned his broad shoulder against the doorframe, his posture relaxing as his voice dropped into a lower, quieter register. "You sleeping at all?"

You stared down into the plastic lid, the automatic reflex to say I'm fine dying in your throat. Joey was a Homicide cop; he read human posture and nervous twitches for a living. Lying to him was just an unnecessary expenditure of energy.

"A few hours here and there," you admitted softly, the confession falling out between you like a secret. "Every time the building pipes pop, my brain tells me someone's at the lock."

Joey watched you silently, his jaw flexing as he shifted his weight. He didn't offer a canned line of comfort, nor did he tell you that time would fix it. He simply reached out, his broad thumb hooking over the rim of your coffee cup to steady it in your slightly trembling hands.

"Check the deadbolt as many times as you need to," Joey said, his eyes locked on yours, intense, grounded, and unyielding. "And if five times doesn't work, you hit the ceiling with a broom handle. I'm right upstairs."

A tiny, genuine tug touched the corner of your mouth. "I'm not hitting the ceiling with a broom, Quinn."

"Your loss," he grunted, backing off toward the stairwell, hands shoving deep into his trouser pockets. "I answer house calls."

Options

It was four in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Joey was off-duty—wearing a dark grey t-shirt that stretched over his chest, worn jeans, and carrying a heavy paper grocery bag up the stairwell.

He rounded the third-floor landing and stopped dead.

You were sitting flat on the runner rug outside your door, your knees pulled tightly up to your chest, arms wrapped around your shins as you stared blankly at your own brass doorknob in absolute, silent defeat.

Joey stopped two steps up, resting the weight of the grocery bag against his hip. "Is this a protest, or did you forget how doors work?"

You closed your eyes, letting your head drop back against the wall with a dull, hollow thud. "I was taking the recycling down. The latch caught."

"Keys?"

"On the kitchen counter."

Joey let out a short breath, his jaw sliding sideways as he suppressed a quiet, wicked laugh. "Unbelievable."

"Don't laugh," you groaned into your knees. "The super's in Naples until Thursday, Joey. I've been sitting on this gross carpet for twenty minutes trying to figure out if I'm brave enough to sleep in the hallway."

Joey set his grocery bag down on the concrete floor without another word. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his worn leather wallet, and flipped it open. Instead of cash, his thick fingers pulled out a thin, rigid strip of shim plastic tucked behind his badge.

He dropped into a heavy squat directly in front of your lock, his broad shoulder nearly brushing your knee. The faint scent of cedarwood, leather, and fresh salt air cut right through the stale hallway smell.

"You keep breaking-and-entering tools in your wallet?" you asked, watching his hands.

"I keep options in my wallet," Joey corrected flatly.

He worked the shim into the door frame with practiced, quiet pressure. His wrists were thick, his broad hands surprisingly precise as he angled the tool against the latch bolt. You were so close you could count the dark stubble along his jawline, see the faint furrow in his brow as he focused on the tactile feedback of the lock.

Click.

The heavy brass bolt yielded, and the door popped open half an inch.

Joey didn't stand up right away. He stayed crouched there, turning his head slowly until his face was barely inches from yours. His dark eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up to your eyes, the quiet hallway suddenly feeling tight, heavy, and suffocatingly warm.

"You're a lifesaver," you whispered, your pulse thudding hard against your ribs.

Joey held your gaze for a long beat, his expression unreadable, before he cleared his throat and stood up in one fluid motion. He slid the plastic back into his wallet.

"Don't make a habit of it," Joey muttered, his voice rasper than usual as he picked up his groceries. "I don't work for free."

"What do I owe you?"

Joey paused at the foot of the stairs, looking back over his shoulder with a sharp, faint glint in his eyes. "I'll collect later."

The Shift

By month two, the artificial boundaries you’d both tried to set were completely eroded.

It was 11:30 PM on a Thursday. You were sitting on Joey’s living room floor, your back pressed against the base of his leather couch, a box from the corner pizzeria resting open on the coffee table beside two sweating bottles of beer. The TV was running some midnight crime re-run on low volume.

You were supposed to be downstairs in your own apartment, but neither of you had mentioned the time all night.

"He's holding the piece wrong," Joey noted from above you, leaning back against the cushions with one broad arm stretched out along the sofa back. "Recoil on a .45 would snap his wrist if he fired it like that."

"Not everyone spent ten years in Miami Metro, Joey," you said, turning your head to look up at him.

Joey lowered his hand, his eyes shifting from the screen down to your face. From his angle, your shoulders were resting almost against his shins. He could see the pale blue light from the TV reflecting in your eyes, the soft, exposed line of your throat.

The room went dead silent. The movie dialogue faded into background hum.

"You're looking less like a ghost," Joey said low. It wasn't his usual slick banter—it was quiet, direct, and slightly rough around the edges.

"I'm sleeping a little better," you admitted softly. "When it's quiet."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You didn't look away. "It helps knowing you're right upstairs."

Joey’s jaw set tightly. He reached down, his broad fingers catching a loose strand of hair that had fallen out of your clip, gently tucking it behind your ear. His knuckles brushed the warm skin of your cheek, lingering for a fraction of a second too long before his hand dropped back to the couch.

The tension between you was thick, magnetic, built over weeks of quiet hallway run-ins and late-night coffee. Joey’s breathing turned shallow, his dark eyes dropping to your lips.

He wanted to reach down and pull you up onto the cushions. You could see it in the heavy, focused stillness of his posture.

Instead, Joey swallowed hard, forcing his gaze back toward the television screen, though his arm remained stretched out right behind your shoulders. "Good. That's... good."

You turned back to the screen, your heart hammering against your chest, both of you hyper-aware of the inches between you.

Guard Duty

At 1:00 AM, you drifted off.

You hadn't planned on it. Your head had simply come to rest against the edge of the leather cushion, the heavy exhaustion from the past few months finally catching up to you all at once.

Joey didn't stir. He stayed completely motionless so he wouldn't wake you, watching the quiet, even rise and fall of your chest. The sharp, hyper-vigilant edge you carried during the day had melted away entirely in your sleep.

Moving with practiced, quiet efficiency, Joey slid off the couch. He walked over to the armchair in the corner, grabbed the heavy knit throw blanket, and stepped back over.

He dropped onto one knee beside you on the rug. Carefully, without making a sound, he draped the blanket over your shoulders, tucking the edges around your arms so the cool draft wouldn't reach you.

As he pulled the fabric up, your hand shifted in your sleep, your fingers lightly catching the hem of his black t-shirt. You let out a quiet breath, leaning slightly into his side.

Joey froze.

He stared down at your hand resting against his hip, his throat working as he let out a slow, silent exhale. He could have untangled your fingers. He could have nudged you awake and walked you down to 3B.

Instead, Joey sat right down on the floor beside you, his back against the couch, his broad shoulder pressed firmly against yours.

He didn't close his eyes. He grabbed the remote, muted the TV entirely, picked up his beer, and settled into the dark—holding watch while you finally got a full night's rest.

♡

[feversaint]

Right Upstairs

Part Two - Paperwork and Precedents

Detective Joey Quinn x Reader

Summary: Joey promises it's "just paperwork," but somewhere between witness statements, bad coffee, and an honest conversation in the station parking lot, the line between detective and neighbor begins to blur.

Warnings: Discussions of murder, trauma/PTSD themes, anxiety, mentions of an emotionally manipulative ex, smoking.

Word Count: ~ 2k

Read the rest of the Right Upstairs mini series

♡

Two days of silence made the apartment building feel different.

It wasn't that the place had magically changed—the elevator still groaned on its way past the third floor, and the air in the lobby still smelled like wet tile and cheap ozone. But after Friday night, the distance between 3B and 4B felt thinner. Every time a door shut upstairs or heavy footsteps moved across the ceiling, you didn't jump. You just looked up, wondering if it was him.

By Sunday morning, the adrenaline had given way to a dull, persistent ache in your shoulders. You were sitting at your small kitchen table in an oversized t-shirt, staring at a half-empty mug of lukewarm coffee, when two sharp, heavy knocks rattled the front door.

Not three deadbolts worth of pounding. Just two solid, knuckle-against-wood thuds.

You stood up, slipping your key out of the dish by the sink, and looked through the peephole.

Joey was standing in the corridor. He wasn't in his full detective suit today; he wore a faded dark polo, dark jeans, and sunglasses hooked into the collar of his shirt. He was leaning casually against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, looking down at his boots.

You unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open a few inches.

Joey looked up, his dark eyes instantly taking you in—the messy bun, the bare feet, the dark smudges still lingering under your eyes. A slow, easy half-smile touched the corner of his mouth.

"Morning," he said, his raspy voice low in the quiet hallway. "You look... slightly less like a ghost today."

"Thanks," you murmured, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe. "I try."

"I'm here on official business," Joey said, lifting one hand to flash his leather badge folder before dropping it back into his pocket. "Which means I'm supposed to tell you that Homicide needs a formal sit-down statement to close out the preliminary report."

Your stomach did a tight, familiar flip. The coffee in your throat suddenly tasted like iron. "...Today?"

Joey saw the immediate shift in your posture—the way your toes curled against the hardwood, the slight hitch in your breath. He softened his posture instantly, taking a half-step back to give you room.

"Hey. Chill out," he said softly, his tone completely dropping the official cop act. "It’s not an interrogation. It’s just paperwork. Batista needs the background stuff in the file so the DA doesn't yell at us. I told 'em I’d come pick you up myself so you didn't have to sit in a lobby full of uniforms."

You swallowed, running a hand over the back of your neck. "I don't really want to go back to that building, Joey."

"You're not going back to the motel," Joey said firmly. "You're coming to Miami Metro. Quiet room, desk, bad coffee. I'll be sitting right across from you the whole time. Twenty minutes, half an hour tops, and then I'm bringing you right back here."

He paused, tilting his head with a faint, charming tilt of his jaw that felt entirely natural to him—the same easy charm you'd heard him use through the thin ceiling when he brought girls up the stairs on Friday nights.

"Plus," Joey added, his lips twitching upward, "I'm driving. Which means you get to ride in a car with air conditioning that actually works."

A tiny, involuntary huff of a laugh escaped your nose. "...Give me five minutes to put shoes on."

"Take ten," Joey said, leaning back against the wall outside your door. "I'm on the clock."

---

The drive downtown was a complete contrast to Friday night.

The sun was beating down heavy on the causeway, bouncing off the dark leather of Joey's unmarked sedan. He had the window cracked an inch, the humid ocean air mixing with the smell of his cologne and the faint, lingering scent of tobacco.

He didn't pry on the way there. He made small, observational remarks about Miami traffic, complained about his shift schedule, and even pointed out a taco truck near the docks that he swore had the best cubanos in the city. It was deliberate, and you knew it—he was building a buffer between you and the room you were heading toward.

By the time he led you into the station, the bullpen was louder than it had been on Friday, filled with the hum of ringing phones, clacking keyboards, and officers moving between desks.

Joey guided you past the main squad room and into a small, glass-walled conference office near the back. It felt less like a police room and more like a cramped break space, complete with a white board covered in half-erased case notes.

"Have a seat," Joey said, pulling out a padded swivel chair for you.

Batista came in a minute later, holding two thick manila folders and a paper cup. He gave you a warm, respectful nod as he sat down at the head of the table.

"Appreciate you coming in," Angel said softly, his voice gravelly but kind. "I know this isn't how you wanted to spend your Sunday."

"It's fine," you said, resting your hands flat on your lap to hide the subtle shake in your fingers.

Joey dropped into the chair right beside you—not across the table like an investigator, but right next to you, resting his broad forearms on the wood, effectively blocking the view of the main bullpen behind him.

"Alright," Angel said, opening his pen. "We just need to clear up the timeline. According to the records, you and the victim—Marcus Vance—broke up about two months ago. Is that right?"

"Yeah," you said quietly, your voice dropping into that subdued, careful register. "Late May."

"Okay," Angel nodded, writing something down. "So help me understand why you were at the Coral Palms Motel with him at two in the morning."

You bit the inside of your cheek, the familiar knot of shame tightening in your chest. You looked down at your hands, feeling the weight of the room shift.

Joey didn't look at his notepad. He just kept his dark eyes fixed on the side of your face, his presence heavy and protective beside you. "Take your time," he murmured low, just for you.

You let out a slow, steadying breath. "He called me. Around midnight."

"From his cell?" Angel asked.

"No, a blocked number," you said, looking up at Batista. "He was... he was crying. Marcus was always like that when things went wrong. He’d vanish for a week, do something stupid, and then call me begging for help because he knew I’d listen."

You took a shallow breath, feeling Joey’s posture shift slightly closer to your side.

"I didn't want to go," you continued, your voice steadying as the truth came out. "I spent twenty minutes on the phone telling him no. But he kept saying he was in trouble, that people were looking for him, and that he just needed fifty bucks to get a bus ticket out of the city. I was so sick of it, Detective. I was so tired of him calling me at two in the morning, expecting me to clean up his mess.."

"So you went to tell him off," Joey said softly, completing the sentence for you.

You looked over at Joey. His expression wasn't judgy or disappointed; it was flat, practical, and surprisingly understanding.

"I wanted to throw the money at his chest, tell him to lose my number forever, and leave," you whispered. "I was in the room for maybe three minutes. I was standing by the door, shouting at him because he was clearly high on something. And then... the door just flew open."

Angel leaned forward slightly. "How many guys?"

"Two," you said, your fingers tightening in your lap. "Maybe three. It happened so fast. They didn't even look at me. They shoved past me, Marcus screamed something, and then the gunshots started. I just... I ducked behind the nightstand. I hit my head on the wall and stayed down until the footsteps ran out down the walkway."

"They didn't come after you?" Angel asked gently.

"No," you shook your head. "They didn't care about me. They were there for Marcus. Once he was down, they just... left."

Angel made a long, deliberate notation on his file, nodding slowly. "Guns, targeted hit, low-level dealer debt. Matches the ballistics tech's initial take. Marcus owed the wrong guys in Overtown."

He closed the folder with a quiet snap and looked up at you with an apologetic smile. "That’s all we need for the official statement. You did good."

The relief hit you all at once, making your shoulders sag.

Joey stood up immediately, sliding his chair back. "Alright. We're done here." He looked down at you, his hand making a subtle gesture toward the door. "Come on. Let's get out of this zoo."

---

Instead of heading straight back to the car, Joey took a detour down the back stairwell, leading you out toward a quiet side lot behind the station where the detective vehicles were parked.

The heat hit you instantly, but the air felt clean compared to the fluorescent-lit offices.

Joey pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, flicking a silver lighter to life with one thumb as he leaned his hip against the hood of his car. He took a long drag, exhaling a thin stream of gray smoke into the humid Miami air before looking over at you.

"You handled that well," he said, his voice carrying that rough, effortless rasp.

You leaned back against the passenger door, crossing your arms over your chest. "I felt like an idiot explaining why I drove across town for an ex at two in the morning."

Joey blew out another breath, shaking his head slightly. "Hey. People do stupid things for people they used to care about. Doesn't make you an idiot. Makes you human."

You looked at him through the soft glare of the sun, watching the way his dark eyes squinted behind his sunglasses.

"You sound like you speak from experience, Detective," you murmured, a faint, tentative teasing edge slipping into your tone for the first time since Friday.

Joey let out a low, gravelly chuckle, the corner of his mouth curving up into that classic, dangerous Quinn grin.

"Me?" he said, tapping the ash off his cigarette. "Nah. I'm a picture of flawless decision-making. Ask anybody in the bullpen."

You let out a genuine, quiet laugh this time—a real one that loosened the lingering tightness in your ribs. "Right. That explains why I hear three different voices coming up the stairs to 4B every weekend."

Joey paused mid-drag, his eyes widening just a fraction behind his dark lenses. He lowered the cigarette, a soft flush of mock embarrassment hitting his neck as he looked at you.

"Ouch," Joey muttered, though his grin widened. "Thin floors, huh?"

"Extremely thin," you said, matching his smile. "You're not as subtle as you think, Joey."

"Alright, fair point," Joey said, throwing his hands up in mild surrender before taking one last pull and crushing the butt under the heavy heel of his shoe. He looked at you for a long second, his gaze dropping from your eyes down to the soft, relaxed line of your mouth before drifting back up.

There was a subtle, unhurried shift in the air between you—the realization that whatever boundary had existed between a detective and a witness had completely dissolved in the Miami sun.

"Tell you what," Joey said, his voice dropping an octave, smooth and unforced as he unlocked the car with a quiet *chirp-chirp*. "To make up for my terrible noise control... let me buy you a proper iced coffee on the way back. Real sugar, no vending machine crap."

You looked at him, feeling the warmth of the pavement beneath your sneakers and the easy, protective weight of his presence beside you.

"...Okay," you said softly, opening the passenger door. "Deal."

♡

Thanks for reading!

[feversaint]

Right Upstairs

Part One - Witness

Detective Joey Quinn x Reader

Summary: After witnessing a murder, you're left with more questions than answers and an unexpected sense of safety in the detective who lives one floor above you.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, murder, blood, trauma, PTSD themes, anxiety.

Word Count: ~ 2k

Read the rest of the Right Upstairs mini series

♡

The air in the motel room was thick with humidity, stale tobacco, and the sharp, chemical sting of bleach over copper.

It was a run-down dive off US-1, two miles past the freeway overpass—the kind of place with flickering yellow walkway lights and carpet that had seen three decades of bad decisions. Uniformed officers crowded the open doorway, their heavy utility belts clinking as they shifted their weight while two guys from the ME’s office maneuvered a black body bag past the door frame. Crime scene techs moved methodically through the dim room, the sharp, artificial snap-crack of camera flashes cutting through the shadows every few seconds, lighting up the wreckage in blinding bursts of white.

Joey Quinn stood by the laminate nightstand, his hands shoved deep into his trousers pockets, his posture slouched into his usual cynical detachment. His eyes drifted from the overturned cheap lamp on the floor to the dark, wet splatter soaked into the mattress where the victim had taken a bullet to the chest.

Guns drawn, one shooter, victim dead on arrival. Messy. Fast. Domestic gone wrong.

"Entry wound looks like a nine," Angel Batista muttered from a few feet away, leaning down to inspect a crushed shell casing near the baseboard. "Low caliber, close range. Didn't even have time to fight back."

"Yeah," Joey answered, his raspy voice flat.

He wasn't looking at the casing. His attention had already drifted past the ME techs, locking onto the far corner of the room near the bathroom door.

You were sitting flat on the cheap vinyl floor, your knees pulled loosely toward your chest. Barefoot. A scratchy wool police blanket was thrown over your shoulders, but your arms were crossed tight over your ribs, your knuckles white where your fingers dug into the denim of your jeans. You weren't crying. You just sat there staring blankly at a watermark on the wall across from you, your jaw set tight, completely zoned out in that hollow, delayed-reaction shock.

Joey’s brows pulled together. He squinted through the dim light, taking in the smudge of dirt on your collarbone and the chaotic tangle of your hair.

"...Hold up," Joey muttered, his jaw flexing.

Batista glanced over, resting his hands on his belt. "What?"

"I know her," Joey said, his voice dropping an octave as he took a half-step forward.

Angel raised an eyebrow, squinting toward the corner. "You do?"

"Yeah," Joey said, rubbing the back of his neck with a tired sigh. "She’s in my building. Third floor, right below me."

Debra Morgan stepped out of the bathroom, flicking open her notepad. Her sharp eyes immediately tracked where Joey was looking, her mouth setting into a hard line as she walked over, pulling a pen from her pocket.

"You know the witness, Quinn?" Deb asked directly.

"She lives in 3B, Deb," Joey said, his hands immediately going back into his pockets, defensive by default. "It’s not like we’re drinking buddies. I see her in the elevator."

Deb searched his face for a second, checking for any sign of his usual bullshit. Finding none, her tone shifted from suspicious to working mode.

"She’s totally checked out," Deb said low. "Uniforms tried asking her for a name and she just stared through 'em. If she recognizes your face, go over there and see if you can get something we can actually put in the report before the ME clears the scene."

"Yeah," Joey said. "Alright."

He walked over slowly, his heavy dress shoes scuffing against the worn carpet so you’d hear him coming. He didn't crowd you or force a scene. He just dropped into a low, heavy squat a few feet away, resting his forearms on his knees and keeping his distance.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice rough from a full shift of smoking and yelling over radio chatter.

You didn't move right away. Then, slowly, your head turned. Your eyes were unfocused, blinking against the harsh flash of a tech’s camera nearby, before finally landing on his face. Recognition didn't hit you instantly; it arrived in a slow, foggy wave through the noise of the room.

"...Quinn?" you muttered, your voice raspy and dry.

A faint, subtle shift softened the hard edge of his mouth, a quiet warmth catching in his dark eyes before settling back into a professional line.

"Joey," he corrected softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear it over the low hum of the radio traffic. "Joey's fine. Yeah. The guy from 4B."

You let out a tiny, ragged breath, your shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch as that tiny bit of familiarity anchored you.

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes quickly scanning the floor around you. "You hurt? They check your feet?"

You looked down at your bare ankles, where tiny pinpricks of dried blood showed where you’d stepped on broken glass from the nightstand lamp. "...I don't think so. It's just dirty."

Joey looked over his shoulder at a paramedic packing up a bag of saline. "She good?"

"Minor abrasions," the medic said without looking up. "Refused transport."

Joey nodded once. He turned back to you, keeping his tone low, steady, and practical.

"Look, we gotta get a statement, but this place is a zoo," Joey said, gesturing vaguely behind him toward the walkway where the ME crew was wheeling the stretcher out. "Station’s ten minutes away. You want to walk out to my car?"

You swallowed hard, your throat tight, and gave a tight, singular nod.

The drive to Miami Metro Homicide was silent, but it wasn't cold.

Joey didn't force small talk, and he didn't turn on the radio. He kept one hand loose on the wheel, his eyes flicking between the dark asphalt of the causeway and the side mirror, giving you space to breathe. But every time the car hit a stoplight, his eyes flicked over to the passenger seat—just a quick, quiet check to make sure you were still grounded.

At the station, the bullpen was dead. A few desk sergeants were typing up shift logs under the buzzing yellow fluorescent lights. Joey didn't take you into an interrogation room with two-way glass; he led you into a small, cluttered break-room office near the back, pulling out a plastic chair for you before stepping out.

When he came back three minutes later, he set a styrofoam cup of warm water and a small paper bag of stale vending-machine corn chips on the desk.

"Machine ate my dollar twice," Joey grunted, pulling out the squeaky swivel chair across from you and dropping into it with a weary sigh.

You stared at the cup, your hands tucked into the sleeves of your sweater, before looking up at him. "...Thanks, Joey."

He paused for half a second at the sound of his name, a faint, genuine half-smile cracking his tired face before he masked it with a shrug. "Don't worry about it," he said, pulling a yellow legal pad toward himself and clicking an official Miami Metro pen.

He rested his elbows on the desk, looking down at his paper.

"We don't gotta do the whole big interrogation thing tonight," Joey said, his raspy voice even and steady. "Just tell me what you heard right before you went into the room. Start whenever."

The statement took thirty minutes. Joey was surprisingly efficient when he dropped the swagger—his questions were short, plain, and entirely focused on concrete details. When your voice trailed off or you lost your train of thought, he didn't press. He just wrote down a quick line, gave you thirty seconds of quiet to collect yourself, and moved to the next point.

When you told him you couldn't remember what color jacket the guy who ran out the back door was wearing, he just made a small mark on the page and looked up, meeting your eyes with a grounding calm. "Doesn't matter. Techs found a shoe print on the gravel anyway. You're doing fine."

By the time he flipped the pad shut, the sharp edge of your adrenaline had completely evaporated, leaving behind a heavy, aching exhaustion.

"That's it," Joey said quietly, slipping the pen into his shirt pocket. "Done."

You leaned back, rubbing your tired eyes with the back of your hand. "...I feel like I barely gave you anything."

"You gave me enough to keep the captain off my back," Joey said, sliding his chair out and standing up with a stretch of his back. His gaze lingered on you for a second, taking in how tired you looked. "Come on. Let's get you back home."

The drive back to your shared building was quiet, but the air between you felt noticeably different now—the sharp, alien horror of the murder scene replaced by an easy, unspoken understanding.

He pulled into the underground garage, killing the engine. Neither of you moved for a second, the car cooling down in the concrete shadows.

Joey didn't pry into why you were out at that motel across town, or what your connection was to the guy the ME had just hauled out in a body bag. Over the last few months, he’d heard enough through the thin floors of his apartment to know your ex was a mess. He’d heard the shouting months ago. He’d seen you in the lobby once, staring at the mailboxes, trying to quietly pull yourself together before heading up.

He unbuckled, got out of the car, and walked with you toward the elevator. The metal doors slid shut, and the two of you stood side-by-side in the quiet hum of the lift. Joey didn't crowd you, but his tall, broad shoulder was right there, a solid presence in the corner of your eye.

When the doors slid open on the third floor, you stepped out onto the carpet. You reached your door, slid your key into the lock, and turned it, but as the door swung open into the dark, quiet apartment, you hesitated on the threshold.

Joey stopped a pace behind you, his hands in his pockets. He didn't try to cross the doorway, but he didn't turn to leave right away either.

"You good?" he asked low, his dark eyes searching your face.

"Yeah," you said softly, looking up at him in the dim hallway light. A small, faint shift passed between you—the realization that the distance between 3B and 4B wasn't quite as wide as it used to be. "Yeah, I am. Thanks, Joey. Really."

Joey reached into his back pocket, pulled out a plain white business card, and scribbled ten digits across the back with his pen. He held it out, his fingers briefly brushing against yours as you took it.

"That's my personal cell," Joey said, his tone dropping into something quieter, more personal than his detective persona. "Not the desk. If you hear anything weird tonight, or if you just... can't sleep and need someone to check the hall... you call that number. I'm right upstairs in 4B. I'll be down here in twenty seconds."

You looked down at the dark ink on the back of the card, feeling the warmth of his fingers still lingering on the cardboard, before looking back up at him. "...Okay. Thanks, Joey."

A real, easy smile touched his mouth this time—soft around the edges, entirely devoid of his usual bravado.

"Go inside," Joey said softly, taking a slow step back toward the stairwell, though his eyes stayed on you a second longer than necessary. "Lock the deadbolt."

"Goodnight."

"Night."

He stood in the dim corridor, keeping watch until you stepped inside and pushed the door shut. He waited silently in the hallway, listening as the heavy metal click of your deadbolt echoed through the door.

Only then did Joey turn, head up the concrete stairs to the fourth floor, and unlock his own door, a lingering distraction following him all the way inside.

♡

Thanks for reading! Reblogs are always appreciated if you enjoyed it

[feversaint]

Right Upstairs

Detective Joey Quinn x Reader

A four-part mini series.

After witnessing a murder, the last person you expect to rely on is the detective who lives one floor above you. But somewhere between paperwork, bad coffee, locked doors, and late nights, the space between 3B and 4B starts to feel a little smaller.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, trauma/PTSD, anxiety, slow burn, eventual kissing, implied sexual content.

✦ Part One

✦ Part Two

✦ Part Three

✦ Part Four

[fairyinthetrees]

do you still think i'm hot with this giant hole in my chest

[feversaint]

Jealous Joey

Detective Quinn x Reader

Summary: Detective Joey Quinn isn't jealous. He's just making sure the bartender knows who you're leaving with.

Warnings: Flirting, jealousy, suggestive smut, possessive behavior, alcohol mention, kinda cringe.

Word Count: ~1.5k

The neon sign above the bar bled a sticky, low-frequency pink across the back booth, washing over the dark vinyl in a humid glow. The place was packed for a Friday night, heavy with bass and the wet heat of a Miami crowd, but tucked away in the corner, the noise just felt like white noise.

You leaned your chin in your palm, watching Joey over by the bar top waiting on a fresh round.

He was leaning against the wood with that signature, lazy slouch of his—weight shifted to one leg, one hand jammed casual into his front pocket, his grey dress shirt unbuttoned enough at the collar to show the dark hair on his chest and the tanned skin of his neck. Sleeves shoved past his forearms, dark hair on his wrists, a little gold ring catching the neon light. He looked good. A little too good, honestly. Joey was a natural flirt, the kind of guy who didn’t even realize he was leaning into someone’s space when he spoke or dropping that slow, lopsided grin.

Tonight, though, the table had turned.

The bartender working their side of the floor was young, dark-haired, and had been eyeing you since you walked in. Right now, Joey was standing right in front of him waiting on two dirty martinis, and the guy was completely ignoring Joey’s existence to look right past his shoulder, straight at you.

You caught the bartender's eye from across the room. He gave you a slow, deliberate smile, tapping his thumb against the rim of a fresh glass before mouthing, Next one’s on me.

You didn’t look away. Instead, you tilted your head, letting a small, quiet smirk touch your lips as you took a slow sip of your ice water.

Joey caught the entire exchange.

From thirty feet away, you watched his back go completely rigid. His broad shoulders squared under the cotton, his jaw tightening into a hard, unblinking squint as he slowly turned to look at the bartender. He didn’t say a word—trying so hard to play it off like the cool, unbothered homicide detective—but the energy around him shifted in a second.

When the bartender finally slid the two glasses over, Joey picked them up, slapped a twenty on the wet wood without waiting for change, and gave the guy a long, flat look before turning on his heel.

He walked back over, setting your drink down with a firm, wet clack against the dark table.

Instead of sitting across from you like he’d been doing all night, Joey slid into the booth right beside you, crowding your space immediately. His broad shoulder brushed against yours, his thigh resting heavy and flush against your leg as he threw his arm casually along the back of the leather seat behind your head.

He smelled like sweat, leather, strong cologne, and pure, irritated heat.

"Guy over there doesn't know how to pour a drink," Joey muttered, staring straight ahead at the bar, his raspy voice dropping low. "Kept getting distracted."

"Oh, really?" You let out a soft hum, leaning back just enough so your shoulder rubbed against his chest. "I thought he was pretty attentive."

Joey turned his head to look at you. The distance between your faces vanished, leaving barely three inches of warm air between your lips. His dark eyes were heavy, intense, and completely locked onto your mouth.

"Attentive?" Joey rasped out, a slow, quiet edge in his voice that sent a sudden spike of heat straight down your spine.

"He offered to buy my next drink," you shrugged, your eyes dancing. You reached out, your fingers lightly tracing the cuff of his dress shirt, feeling the fast, steady thudding of his pulse in his wrist. "It's just polite, Joey. Don't be bitter."

Joey let out a low huff through his nose, a half-amused, half-annoyed sound. He spent all day reading suspects and witnesses, and he saw right through the little smirk you were trying to hide behind your glass.

"You're having a real good time with this, aren't you?" he murmured, leaning in until his breath fanned warm over your cheek.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Right."

Joey’s hand moved down from the back of the booth. His broad, warm palm slid over the hem of your outfit and rested heavily on the bare skin of your inner thigh, his fingers squeezing firmly enough to leave a dull ache in the muscle. It wasn't rough—just heavy, possessive, and completely unshakeable. His thumb stroked a slow, deliberate line back and forth against your soft skin, feeling the way your muscles tensed up under his touch.

"You've been poking at me all night," he muttered, his raspy voice dropping into a quiet, thick murmur. "You like watching me get worked up?"

The sudden shift in his energy made your breath hitch in your throat. The teasing evaporated, replaced by a thick, suffocating heat that made the noisy bar fade into background static.

"Joey," you whispered, your voice losing its edge.

"I brought you out to drink with me, not watch you flirt with the kid behind the bar," Joey said softly, his thumb pressing a firm, heavy circle higher up your thigh, his heat soaking right through your skin. His gaze dropped to your lips, his chest rising and falling against your arm. "And if you keep looking at me like that with that stupid little smirk, I'm not waiting until we get back to my place."

Your heart hammered against your ribs, the quiet, possessive weight of his full attention turning completely intoxicating. You swallowed hard, your hand sliding down to grip his wrist where his palm was anchored to your thigh. "Is that a threat, Detective?"

Joey’s eyes flickered back up to yours, a slow, crooked smile finally tugging at his lips. He leaned in, his mouth brushing against the shell of your ear, his voice a low, gravelly hum that made your legs flush together around his hand.

"It's a promise," he muttered. "We're leaving. Now."

He didn't make a scene. Joey stood up, taking your glass and setting it aside before taking your hand, his fingers firmly locking through yours. He led you out of the booth and guided you through the crowded room, keeping your hand anchored tight in his grip until he pushed through the heavy exit doors out into the sticky Miami night air.

The alley behind the bar was quiet, smelling of humid rain and exhaust, lit only by a single amber streetlamp overhead.

The moment the heavy metal door clicked shut behind you, cutting off the thumping bass, Joey stopped. He turned around, pulling you softly into his space until your front was pressed right against his chest.

His hands slid down to wrap firmly around your waist, drawing you flush against his hips. His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, and completely focused on you.

"You drive me out of my fucking mind," Joey rasped softly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your lips. "You know that, right?"

"Good," you whispered, your hands reaching up to unbutton the next button of his dress shirt, your fingers brushing against the warm, dark hair on his chest.

Joey didn't waste another second. He leaned down and kissed you—deep, smooth, and laced with all the heavy, lingering friction from the bar.

It wasn't rough or frantic; it was a slow, deliberate mouth-to-mouth heat. His tongue slid past your lips with a confident, practiced rhythm, his hands pressing into the small of your back to hold you tight against his body. You let out a quiet sigh against his mouth, your hands threading into the short hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him as close as physically possible.

Joey groaned softly into the kiss, his hips shifting forward, pressing his weight flush against yours until you could feel the unmistakable, heavy hardness straining against the front of his trousers. The friction made a quiet, breathless sound escape your throat, your legs instinctively tightening where you stood.

Joey pulled back just an inch, his heavy breathing fanning across your flushed skin, his dark eyes blown out as he looked down at your wet, swollen lips. His hands slid down from your waist, his palms resting heavily on the curve of your hips, his thumbs pressing into your skin through your clothes.

"So," Joey rasped against your cheek, his voice rough and completely wrecked. "We doing this right here in the alley, or do you wanna make it to the car?"

You looked up at him, your hands resting over his broad chest, feeling the wild, rapid thud of his heart beneath your palm.

"Drive us back to your place," you breathed out.

Joey let out a low, breathless laugh against your neck, pressing one more hard, lingering kiss to your jaw before grabbing your hand, his grip tight, warm, and unshakeable as he pulled you down the alley toward where his car was parked.

♡ thanks for stopping by. reblogs are always appreciated if you enjoyed reading <3

[feversaint]

Sick Day | Detective Quinn x Reader

Detective Quinn x Reader

Summary: Joey Quinn doesn't do sick days. Apparently, he does take care of sick girlfriends though.

Fluff

Word Count: ~ 1.3 k

A/N: first fic posted on feversaint ♡

The blinds were pulled completely shut, turning the living room into a hazy cave of shadows, but the Miami heat still bled right through the glass.

Curled under three separate blankets on the couch, every bone in your body ached. The AC was humming at full blast, but you were still shivering through a fever, your throat feeling like sand.

Then came the knocking—three sharp, heavy taps at the door. The exact pace Joey used when he was off duty and out of patience.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to ignore it, hoping he’d think the apartment was empty. But a second later, a ragged cough tore out of your chest, completely ruining any chance of playing dead.

Silence stretched through the door for a beat.

"Hey," Joey’s rough voice called through the wood. "It's Quinn. You alive in there?"

"...Go away, Joey," you rasped out, sounding like a rusted engine.

Instead of answering, the brass door handle rattled. The deadbolt hadn't even been thrown. The door swung open, and Joey stepped inside balancing a giant cardboard box against his hip.

"Your door was unlocked," he said immediately, setting the package down by the entryway with a heavy thud. He locked the deadbolt behind him with a sharp twist, turning around with his brow furrowed. "Seriously? You’re lying in here passed out with the front door wide open? Anyone could’ve walked in."

"I forgot," you muttered, pulling the blanket higher over your face.

Joey crossed his arms and walked over to the couch, stopping right at the edge of the rug. He looked down at you with a deadpan squint, taking in your messy hair, red nose, and the fleece throw pulled up to your chin.

"Jesus," he said, his raspy drawl dropping into that casual, blunt tone he always used. "You look terrible."

"Thanks," you mumbled into the blanket. "Glad you let yourself in to tell me."

"Someone had to."

Before you could swat his hand away, Joey bent down and pressed the back of his palm firmly against your forehead. The second his skin touched yours, he winced, pulling back slightly.

"Holy shit," he muttered, his jaw tightening as he looked at you. "You're burning up. Have you taken anything?"

"I'm fine. Just cold."

"Yeah, right." He was already turning on his heel toward the kitchen, opening and closing the cabinets with loud, impatient thuds. "Where's the Tylenol?"

"Bathroom," you groaned, burying your face into the pillow. "Go back upstairs, Quinn. I'm just gonna sleep."

"Not happening."

A minute later, Joey walked back into the room. He’d unbuttoned the top of his shirt, tossed his tie onto the counter, and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. He had two red gel caps, a glass of water, and a cold, damp washcloth.

He dropped into a crouch right at your eye level.

"Sit up," he ordered, nudging your shoulder.

"I don't want them. They make me drowsy."

"That's the point," Joey said.

He slid his palm behind your neck, supporting your head as he helped you sit up just enough so you wouldn't choke. He dropped the pills into your hand and held the glass out. "Drink."

You swallowed the medicine, wincing as the cold water hit your throat. The second you leaned back down, Joey folded the damp washcloth and laid it carefully across your forehead. The cold fabric made you sigh, your eyes fluttering shut.

Joey stayed in his crouch for a second longer, watching you. His thumb brushed lightly against the edge of the blanket by your shoulder—a quiet, automatic gesture—before he stood up.

"I'm going to the pharmacy," he said, looking down at you. "The stuff in your cabinet expired last year. Stay on the couch."

For the next two days, Joey practically lived in your apartment.

He traded a shift with Miller at the precinct, claiming he had some personal stuff to deal with. In reality, he spent most of his time pacing around your kitchen in sweatpants, complaining about your grocery situation while making sure you actually stayed hydrated.

"Who buys this canned soup?" Joey muttered on the second afternoon, standing over the stove with a spoon. "It’s literally just salt water."

You were sitting up on the couch, propped up by a couple of pillows. You still felt weak, but the worst of the fever fog had cleared—mostly because every time you woke up, Joey was just there.

"You didn't have to stay, Joey," you said, your voice clearer than before. "I would've been fine."

Joey scoffed, pouring the soup into a bowl. "Right. You didn't even lock your front door. You're a terrible patient."

He walked over, set the bowl on the coffee table, and handed you a spoon before dropping onto the other end of the couch. He stretched his long legs out and grabbed the remote, turning the TV on low.

"Eat," he said, nodding toward the bowl.

The soup was actually decent—he’d clearly added pepper and garlic so you could actually taste it.

The apartment stayed quiet for the next hour, just the low hum of some random game show on TV. Every time your glass was empty, Joey would reach over, grab it, and refill it at the sink without saying a word, keeping his eyes on the screen the whole time.

By the evening of the second day, your fever finally broke.

You woke up from a long nap to find the living room dark, except for the blue glow of the TV.

Joey was asleep in the armchair across from you. His head was tilted back against the cushion, his jaw slack, and an open case file was resting on his lap with a pen loose in his fingers. He looked completely exhausted.

You sat up quietly, watching him in the dark. It was weird seeing him like this—usually he was all loud jokes, sharp suits, and classic Miami Metro attitude. But he’d spent forty-eight hours making sure you weren't sitting alone in the dark with a fever.

Joey blinked, his head snapping up as he woke up. He rubbed a hand over his face, shaking out his shoulders, his eyes landing on the couch immediately.

"Hey," he rasped, his voice deep with sleep.

He tossed the file onto the table, stood up, and walked over. He leaned down, placing the back of his hand against your forehead again.

Your skin was completely cool.

Joey let out a long breath through his nose, his broad shoulders dropping as he pulled his hand back. "Alright. Fever's gone."

"Yeah," you whispered, looking up at him. "I feel a lot better. Thanks, Joey."

Joey rested his hand on the back of the couch, his dark eyes quietly checking you over in the dim light. The usual loud, sharp edge he kept up around the precinct was gone, replaced by something steady and surprisingly soft. He leaned down, pressing a quick, quiet kiss to the side of your forehead—a brief gesture, but one that still held the fresh, electric weight of whatever this new thing between you was turning into.

"Don't worry about it," he muttered, pulling back with a faint, familiar smirk touching the corner of his mouth. "Somebody's gotta make sure you don't pass out on the couch. Clearly, you're terrible at taking care of yourself."

You let out a dry laugh, nudging his knee with your foot under the blanket. "I was doing fine before you broke in."

"Yeah, you looked real majestic when I walked through the door," Joey drawled, catching your ankle through the fleece throw and giving it a light, grounding squeeze. His raspy voice dropped lower, carrying that quiet, off-duty confidence. "Face it. You're stuck with me now."

He let go, reaching down to yank the blanket back up over your shoulders before turning toward the entryway.

"Get some rest," Joey said, his hand on the door handle as he looked back over his shoulder. "I'm going upstairs. Call me if you need something."

♡ first fic on this little corner of the internet. go easy on me.

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Hiii ⋆˚꩜｡

welcome to feversaint.

a little corner for fictional heartbreak, comfort scenes, and characters who need a hug.

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