⭐️

all shall be well. 20 she/her

[stxrgvsm]

⭐︎ fic recs | inbox | ao3 | my thoughts ⭐︎

A B O U T

20. english lit student.

requests: open!

M A S T E R L I S T S

steve harrington !

remus lupin !

arthur morgan !

R E C E N T W O R K S

⭐︎ IN YOUR DREAMS ⭐︎ ABOUT YOU ⭐︎ CRIME OF THE CENTURY ⭐︎ GO AHEAD, BEG

© stxrgvsm

[stxrgvsm]

crime of the century, part five | arthur morgan x reader

summary: you're running from a life you never wanted. arthur's running after you just as fast.

content: angst, canon-typical language

wc: 3.1k

spring is for florals and pinks and young love. 

elsewhere, valentine’s day rears its ugly head on the horizon, threatening distant husbands with the whisper of divorce. lovers stroll through distant cities, hand in hand, abandoning chaperones in hat shops, whispering of wedding colors and possible dates and grandmothers’ rings. april showers bring the promise of may flowers, magnolias and irises and cornflowers, all bursting through the rich soil, greeting the sun with colorful petals and buzzing bees. 

but in saint denis, life is as dismal as ever; the springs aren’t much better than the winters. neither are too cold; both are too wet, bloating the rivers past their natural borders, forcing residents to forge new roads when the old are drowned out by heavy rainfall. but spring is when stanford had set the wedding date, so spring it is.

your days are filled with the concerns of young lovers, despite the complete absence of love between you and stanford. he wants to discuss the color scheme, the invitation suites, the bridal party, the car you will drive away in. but he still won’t show you the guest list. 

“it’s a surprise!” he always says, tongue poking through his teeth in the way it always does when he’s trying to look cute. 

your stomach curdles just thinking about it. 

“what do you think of this green?” he asks, shoving a fabric sample beneath your nose. 

you give it a cursory glance. “it’s fine.” you shrug. 

“do you like that one or this one better?” he interrupts you, handing you another piece of green cloth. they look remarkably similar, and it takes you a moment to differentiate between the two. 

“i prefer this one,” you say, handing him the second piece.

he looks up at you and frowns. he preferred the other one. “now, for the bridal party…” and so on. 

you haven’t seen arthur in weeks, not since the window incident, and you’re starting to think you imagined it. stanford hadn’t said anything, not even to taunt you, and cella wisely has also left the matter alone. the only proof you have that it wasn’t your imagination is the still-broken window. you let out a long-suffering sigh.

stanford drops the cloth suddenly. “what on earth is the matter with you? you won’t focus on the wedding, you’re moping about like a lost cow, and you can’t even answer basic questions. go to your room until you’re ready to listen.”

for once, it’s an order you’re more than happy to obey. you’re already out of your seat and halfway up the stairs when the doorbell rings. looking back, that’s the moment everything changed.

you make it to the top of the stairs and then duck behind the railing so that you’re able to see who walks in without being seen by them. you wait for a full minute before murmurs begin to float up from the foyer. stanford’s butler walks in first. 

“sir,” he says, bowing low to the ground. “you have a visitor. mr. morgan.”

your heart stops. 

sure enough, arthur morgan is close behind, his languid stroll and low timbre announcing his identity even before he says his name. “mr. morgan, sir, we’ve done some business before.”

stanford frowns up at arthur as though he doesn’t recognize him. “uh, yes.” he definitely doesn’t recognize him. “please take a seat and tell me what’s the matter.”

arthur sits where you were, just moments before. “i have something to discuss with your wife.”

stanford’s brow furrows even further. “well, i’m not married.”

arthur flinches, barely even noticeably. but you notice. “i meant your future wife,” he recovers with some effort, but stanford doesn’t seem to care.

“i see. and, uh, what is it you need to discuss?”

arthur shifts in his chair anxiously. he folds and refolds his hands, settling them in his lap. “well, you see, it’s a little private.”

stanford arches his brow now, unimpressed by mr. morgan’s stalling. “look, you’d better get to it—”

“i mean it, sir, it’s probably embarrassing for her. i want to tell you, really, but i’m afraid it would insult her.” he takes his hat off and grips it in his hands, broadcasting his nerves for the whole house. 

“if you don’t tell me what it is, then i’m afraid you won’t be able to see her. she already doesn’t receive guests, and we certainly don’t know you.” stanford returns his attention to the wedding details before him. “i suggest that you leave now.”

“i’m delivering menstrual products!” arthur blurts out. “she stopped by the store earlier today and said she would want them delivered to the house. she didn’t have time to wait.”

lies, you think.

stanford’s gaze snaps up. his face reddens immediately, and he’s sputtering out sounds, not words. “uh, you—she’s—go, uh… go upstairs!”

arthur springs out of the chair, all too eager to get out. he almost trips over himself in his haste to climb the stairs. you scramble down the hall towards your bedroom, barely managing to shut the door behind you before he begins his own trip down the hall. 

still, a long moment stretches before he knocks. you imagine his fist raised, ready to knock, working up the nerve. it’s been weeks since you saw him, months since the last time you really spoke. you perch on the edge of your bed, waiting. 

what if i’ve changed?

you can’t magically unchange now. it’s far too late. surely arthur won’t expect the same woman, right? or worse: what if you haven’t changed? what if arthur took the opportunity to better himself, and you’re still stuck the same immature girl he left months ago?

arthur brings out the worst in you: your fear, your worry, your anger. all your worst traits that you’ve tried so hard to leave in your past come roaring back whenever arthur comes calling.

finally, a knock echoes through your room. him.

heart pounding, you freeze. possible scenarios flash through your mind, each more unlikely than the last. another knock, moments later. forcing your nerves down, you walk to your door and listen. you grip the doorknob, dimly aware of your sweat sticking to it. your other hand smooths down your dress, wiping away any clamminess. you swing the door open. 

“hello, ma’am,” cella says, giving you a brief curtsy. “is everything okay?”

you glance behind her, trying not to show your shock. “um, yes… i thought i heard a visitor ask for me.”

her eyes brighten. “oh yes! he’s in your drawing room down the hall. you can’t receive guests here.” she looks scandalized at the thought. “i’m here to fetch you.”

you nod distractedly. “how do i look?”

she gives you a nod. “lovely as always. the color really compliments your eyes, ma’am, if i may be so bold. please follow me!”

the walk down the hall is a death march; it seems to stretch on into eternity, the hall lengthening even as you near the drawing room. in your mind’s eye, you can see him: perched at the edge of a plush chair, hat neatly angled on his head to cover his gaze, hands settled firmly at his waist, fingers perhaps brushing the guns he keeps holstered there. the rest of the room is empty in your imagination—all that matters is him, arthur morgan. 

cella stops in front of the room. “do you want a chaperone, ma’am?” she asks politely.

“oh, um… no, it’s okay. this shouldn’t take too long.” still, you can’t stop wiping your hands on your skirts. she gives you a strange look, but pushes the door open for you. 

the first thing you notice is the smell. it’s so distinctly arthur, masculine and woodsy. before him, you didn’t know what it meant to have a masculine smell; stanford always smells so delicate, like paper shavings and ink. but arthur has always smelled like the outdoors, like smoke and horses, tobacco and old wood. the smell curls into your senses, almost sending you into a swoon. 

but then you see him, and if he looked good out your window, he looks even better in front of you. he’s standing, not sitting like you’d imagined. you rework the fantasy. now, his form is backlit by the light that streams in from the window, and when you enter, he turns towards you. you can’t see his face, so your mind fills in the blanks. you imagine sorrow. you imagine love, perhaps. you imagine grief. the scene plays behind your eyelids: confessions of love, declarations of intention, arthur sweeping you off your feet and promising to rescue you. 

but then he shifts, facing the light, and there’s no room for mistake: bitter anger lines every feature of his face. 

“you,” he spits. “you’re supposed to be married.”

everything grinds to a halt, the fantasy vanishing like smoke. “...what?”

he shakes his head and turns towards you more fully. “don’t act dumb. it’s not cute.”

“what on earth are you talking about?”

“i’m talking about your husband-to-be.”

you shake your head, trying to dispel the fog that seems determined to cling to your thoughts. nothing of what he’s saying is making any sense. “what about him?” you ask. 

“you’re supposed to be married to him!”

slowly, you recover your senses. arthur morgan, the man who sold you out, is angry at you because you’re not married. it doesn’t make any sense, but it sure does make you mad as a hornet. “and you’re supposed to be far away from here!” you yell. “why the hell are you back?”

“do you think i want to be here right now?” arthur glares at you, and it’s not just anger anymore in his eyes. a deep, abiding hatred—loathing, even—simmers behind his gaze, and you shrink back from it before you realize what you’re doing. “the whole point was for you two to get married so i could fuck off into some big old house somewhere and never see you again.” his brows furrow. “i should have known you’d ruin everything.”

you’re silent for a long moment, trying to piece together what he’s saying. the only thing you can come up with is: “...you left me!”

arthur has the audacity to laugh. “is that what you think happened?”

you can’t believe what you’re hearing. “that is what happened! there’s no other interpretation!”

he strolls casually towards one of the chairs, dropping into it heavily. he sighs and tips his head back. “well, it doesn’t matter, because i’m not here to argue with you, sweetheart.”

“how dare you speak to me that way! you’re in my house!” you yell, stamping your foot. his gaze catches the childish motion. he raises his eyebrows judgementally.

he scoffs. “you haven’t changed a bit. i should have known better.”

never before have you truly felt arthur’s age. but now, as he stares at you and makes secret judgements, you remember that he’s older than you. once, it made you shiver in delight. arthur’s attention felt so delightful, like a glass of bubbly champagne downed before dinner. like the swim in a creek taken after a long day. now, his attention embarrasses you, makes you shrink under the weight of his anger.

months ago, all you wanted was for him to look at you. it wouldn’t really matter what he was doing, because at least he was looking at you. now, his gaze burns you. 

your fears from earlier come rushing back. you haven’t changed. he’s moved on and you’re still stuck waiting for him to come back to you. and then suddenly it clicks.

quietly, you say, “i don’t know what you’re talking about. you’re the same selfish asshole that ruined my life months ago. i can’t believe i have to know you forever.”

if he noticed your silent train of thought, he doesn’t mention it. instead, he rolls his eyes. “look, sweetheart—”

“i’m not your sweetheart,” you warn. “don’t call me that.”

for a moment, something flashes across arthur’s face. if you didn’t know any better, you’d say it’s grief. but then it’s gone, replaced by a mask you can’t break through. his lip curls as he stares at you. “fine,” he sneers. “let’s cut to the chase. i’m here to take you away.”

silence. he looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to say something, to jump into his arms, to lead him outside. your lips part, ready to tell him the truth. you watch his eyebrows jump and he leans forward for your response.

the truth is that you’ve been waiting months to hear this from him. you waited, really you did. all you’ve wanted is a rescue from stanford, from the oppressive silence of his bone-white house. stanford could never make you happy; for a brief moment with arthur, you were. 

but it’s too late. “finally had need of me, huh?” you ask instead.

he sits back, brows furrowed at your non-answer. “not you,” he admits. “your husband’s money.” 

his response hits you like a punch to the gut; it’s the worst thing he could have said. you barely suppress the wounded sound that escapes you. “well, that’s too bad,” you manage, lowering yourself into one of the chairs. you take your time arranging your skirts around you, picking at nonexistent dust on the expensive fabric and smoothing the dress down. “i’m not going with you. and he’s not my husband. even if he was, he wouldn’t give me any money.”

he stands, placing his hat on his head, readying himself to leave you again. but when he crosses the room, he doesn’t go for the door; instead, he kneels in front of you and grabs your hands, tightening his grip when you try to pull away. he whispers your name, but when you look up, it’s not tenderness in his eyes or love or sorrow. it’s something harder, darker. “you don’t have a choice. it’s very important that you leave with me now. not tomorrow, not in a week, right now.”

you stand forcefully, shoving him back, away from you. he stumbles to the ground, landing hard on his ass. summoning all the imperiousness you can muster, you move to the window and stand with your back to him, although you can hear him climbing to his feet. “i will not go with you. i have made my decision. leave now.”

another long moment of silence. then a snort. his derisive tone taunts you when he says: “would it help if i told you i loved you? would that convince you? let’s share a bed. can i touch you? sit in my lap while i talk to my friends,” he mocks. the vitriol in his voice beckons you to turn around and face him. an awful flush rises to your face, all the way to your hairline. “come on, don’t tell me you believed all that crap.” then his tone turns urgent and he speaks your name: “you don’t know what you’re talking about. you have to come with me!” 

he reaches you in two strides, grabbing your hands again. he still towers over you, but you don’t feel safe with him anymore. you rip your hands out of his grasp again.

“no, you don’t know what you’re talking about, arthur morgan.” his eyes widen and then narrow as you keep talking. “you have insulted me beyond what i can bear, and i must ask you to leave my home. i am sorry that i have caused you such obvious emotional distress. i hope the sentiments of disgust you espoused just now will be helpful in soothing your hurt feelings at my rejection. please leave now.”

he gapes at you for a moment, then shuts his mouth. nods, and walks towards the door. “as you wish,” he says quietly. “but don’t come crying to me when everything goes wrong.” he pauses and tips his hat in a farce of respect. “i’ll be seeing you.”

“no, you won’t.” but the door clicks shut behind him without an answer, and you’re alone again. 

_._._

when cella comes to collect you, she finds you knelt on the floor, hugging your knees to your chest. 

“ma’am!” she exclaims. “is everything okay?”

you reach up and pull her down next to you. “cella, if that man ever comes back, tell me immediately. it is essential that i know.” 

she nods frantically. “yes, of course, ma’am. did he hurt you?”

“no.” you turn your head to see out the window. he’s not there, having long since left on horseback, likely from the back of the house so he wouldn’t pass by your window. “but the next time he comes, i need to go with him.”

her eyes widen in fright. “ma’am, i don’t think stanford would be okay with that.”

“you can come, too, cella. it’s not safe to be around stanford anymore.” she helps you stand, and then ushers you to your room, where she undresses you and settles you into bed. 

“i think you need some rest,” she says. “shall i bring anything for you to eat?”

you shake your head back and forth. “please find him.”

“of course, ma’am.”

when she bows out of the room, you’re left with only your thoughts. mostly you think about arthur. what if he’s right? is it essential that you leave now? what if he’s wrong? will stanford come find you? will arthur sell you out again? you don’t trust him, not at all. why would you? he didn’t deserve your trust before. 

the sleep that follows is fitful, and you wake more distressed than before. 

_._._

arthur morgan rides away from your house cursing himself.

fool, he thinks. pushing you away when he needs you closer than ever. a clumsy play. another trip there will only endanger him, but he needs to get you out of there.

to his credit, he did come with honest intentions of rescue. but when you looked at him with those eyes, wide and wounded, everything fell apart. powerless, completely out of control, he heard himself actually insulting you, tearing down every defense he assumes you’ve built to explain him. he can’t believe he’s so stupid; he can’t believe you’re so stubborn. 

despite all evidence to the contrary, you really believe that stanford is safe. you believe that your chances are better with stanford—a man you hate—than with arthur—a man you once loved. 

then it hits him. his choice is clear. it’s not a good one, nor an easy one. it will be an uphill battle the whole way. 

to rescue you, to build a life with you, he has to prove he’s worth loving again.

[stxrgvsm]

hello! i'm looking for a beta reader? i don't even know anyone who does that anymore😭 but i'm just wondering if anyone would be willing to beta read a new fic i'm working on. dm if interested!

[jupitercomet]

Method Acting | Part One

SUMMARY Bradley Bradshaw has always been just out of reach, your best friend's brother who you've pined after from afar since childhood. So when he suddenly starts paying attention to you at the end of your freshman year, it feels like something out of a movie where the boy you've loved forever finally loves you back. Little do you know, the relationship you thought you had is actually just practice for someone else. And you're just Bradley's trial run.

CONTENT college au, fem reader (no use of Y/N), best friend's brother Bradley, use of petnames (sunshine), Bradley dates reader as a bet, angst obviously, fluff, Bradley has a sister who is an OC, some sexually content (mdni), Bradley plays college football, I wrote this part when I was 19 and it shows lol--reader can be a bit childish, underage drinking, Bradley is genuinely kind of an asshole but also an idiot that has the emotional intelligence of a walnut, barely edited

WC 22k

A/N this is another fic from my old account but this time I will finish it 😤 !! it was originally titled "the trial run" but I've changed the name because Lizzy McAlpine's album Older (and Wiser) is important to me. anyway please enjoy and let me know what you think!

NEXT

“Remind me again why I have to go to this?” Natasha eyes Giselle’s collection of waterproof mascaras warily, her apprehension thinly disguised on her face.

Giselle sighs, setting down her mascara wand—Dior, you note—and locks eyes with Natasha through her vanity mirror. “It’s the sorority’s last party until finals. You’re going, Nat.”

You giggle when Natasha plops down on the bed next to you with a loud groan and prod her gently with your toe. “It’ll give you an excuse to wear that swimsuit you bought a few weeks ago,” you offer. “And maybe Mickey will be there.”

“As if he’d be caught dead at a Delta Nu party.”

“Reuben’s going, and Bob is too, I think. He’ll probably be there, Nat,” Giselle pipes up from her vanity stool, applying another layer of mascara. From behind her, you and Natasha lock eyes, a mischievous look mirrored in both of your expressions.

“Ooh, Reuben’s going, huh?” You roll forward on Giselle’s bed so that your face is just behind her shoulder. “Is that why we’re going? So you can suck face with Reuuubeen?” You sing out his name, dodging Giselle’s hand that tries to shove your head away as Natasha joins in your laughter.

“‘Suck face’? What are you? 12?” Giselle huffs, cheeks pinkening as you fall back on the mattress.

You let out an overdramatic, offended gasp. “That’s not nice! How would Reuben feel knowing you bully your friends?”

“Okay, that’s it,” Giselle puts down her makeup with a glare, but there’s a smile she can’t fight off her lips. She jumps on you suddenly, grabbing a decorative pillow as Natasha moves out of the way. Letting out a startled laugh, you try to wriggle out from under her when she hits you with the pillow. “How’s this for bullying?”

“Nat! Nat, help!” You laugh, flailing dramatically and knocking a few of Giselle’s Squishmallows off her bed.

Natasha shakes her head with a snort. Having moved away the moment Giselle pounced, she’s now watching the two of you from the hardwood floor. “I’m good.”

“Wow,” you gape at her, ignoring the plush hitting the side of your head as you lean up to look at her. “I see how it is. You guys hate me.”

Giselle scoffs with a laugh, stopping her pillow attack and getting off you. “And you have a victim complex.”

“I see someone’s paying attention in psych,” you quip, stretching out to pick up all the stuffed animals you knocked over. You pluck a piece of fuzz off of Mr. Pickles, a Build-A-Bear frog you’d gifted Giselle for her eighth birthday, brushing off his overalls before setting him down against her pillows.

You gnaw your lip in thought, keeping your eyes trained on Mr. Pickles, before you suck in a breath. “Will, um, will the football team be there?”

“I think so,” Giselle’s back at her vanity, mouth dropped as she finishes applying the coat of mascara you interrupted. “Why?”

“No reason, just… just wanted to know. Since me and Bob are fifth wheeling.”

“If anything, Bob and Mickey are fifth wheeling. I’d ditch Mickey for you in a heartbeat.” Having moved back to sit next to you, Natasha shoves your shoulder with her own good-naturedly. 

Giselle, however, narrows her eyes slightly in faux suspicion, turning around on her vanity stool to look at you. “But what’s that gotta do with the football team?”

It seems to register for Natasha too, who perks up beside you, and you grab Mr. Pickles to hide your fluster. It only spurs Giselle on though, as she narrows her eyes further. 

“No. Stop it,” you point at her warningly. “I do not have a crush. I was only asking because last time, you guys ditched me and I had to listen to Jake talk about NFTs for two hours.”

There’s a part of you that feels bad about lying to your best friend, but you soothe the guilt by insisting it was a half lie.

You know your friends didn’t purposefully mean to ditch you and, truly, you take no offense to it. They’re just getting caught up in their first college relationships, you can’t say you wouldn’t do the same. But it did mean that you occasionally found yourself alone at the frat and sorority parties Giselle could manage to drag you to.

For a while, you had Bob to keep you company. And usually, for the beginning of the night, he still does. You both catch up on classes and homework, swapping notes about professors—you’re thankful he’s also a journalism major because you’ve been able to register for a few classes together next year. But even he is enticed by the allure of sorority sisters so eventually you wave him off and find yourself sitting somewhat awkwardly in a corner until your friends are ready to go.

And it isn’t like you want to be the tag along—though Giselle and Natasha insist you aren’t. In the beginning, you and Bob had taken the hint of being the last two left single and went on a few dates. They were fun, and you liked hanging out with Bob, just the two of you, but it was clear to you both that you were just friends. You were painfully and childishly in love with someone else and Bob figured that out on your very first date.

Giselle was slightly bummed that it didn’t work out between the two of you, but you assured her you were fine. Though you do get ditched occasionally, for the most part your group of friends all stick together. It’s rare that you honestly feel left out and if you do… There's always Jake and his NFTs.

Finally Giselle relents and you let out a silent breath of relief. “Well, good because, as someone who’s forced to know them, anyone associated with my brother is not worth your time.” Giselle gives her lashes one last check in the mirror before patting for you to sit down on her vanity stool. “Besides, in that suit I picked out for you? I won’t be the only one sucking face, babe.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I’m not sucking face with a stranger, Giselle, have some decorum.”

“But you could though. What about Landon? He’s pretty cute.” Giselle’s fingers glide over her mascara tubes. She had perfected a pool party makeup routine over the years and both you and Natasha indulge her by letting her help you get ready.

Again you wrinkle your nose, looking up as Giselle pumps the mascara a few times—ultimately deciding on a Pacifica one. “Bob had geography with him last semester and, apparently, he spews off some of the stupidest shit. I think I’ll pass.”

“Hmm–Blink–There’s Tanner?” Giselle holds the mascara wand to your eye. From behind you, you hear the door close as Natasha goes to change into her swimsuit. You snort when she shouts a “Good luck!” over her shoulder.

“Giselle,” you laugh, blinking again when she moves the wand to your other eye. “Please stop trying to set me up with every living, breathing man.”

“I’m not!” She protests, and you grab her hand to let her know you’re partially joking.

“I get you don’t want me to feel left out, but I promise I don’t.”

Giselle sighs, looking down guiltily until you nudge her leg with your own. “I just don’t want you to think that I’m going to ditch you now that everyone’s coming back to California with us for the summer.”

“Giselle, please, I’ve long since accepted that I’ve been replaced with Reuben—,” You cut yourself off with a laugh when she whines your name.

“That’s not funny!”

Your eyes crinkle in a grin. “I’m kidding. We’re gonna have a perfect time this summer, and you’re gonna suck all the Reuben face you want, and I’m gonna be fine. Deal?” You stick your pinky out.

“Deal,” Giselle wraps her pinky around yours resolutely before picking up the Pacifica mascara again. “But I’m telling you, you’re gonna look so good tonight that even the football guys won’t know what hit ‘em.”

Bradley’s jaw ticks in annoyance when a downpour of water droplets land on his forearm and chest, the culprit being a freshman who reemerged from his cannonball with a loud holler. Bradley doesn’t understand why Delta Nu even invites freshmen, but then he recalls how they wait on the girls practically hand and foot. He scoffs. Freshman boys are so eager to please.

Still, they’re a nuisance, splashing him with water and encroaching on his time with Makayla. They’re just puppies when he thinks about it, tripping over themselves and practically drooling at the sight of any pretty, older girl in a bikini. Bradley knows he sure as hell wasn’t like that as a freshman. He didn’t need to be, not when he always had girls chasing after him.

Well, except one girl.

Makayla Cunningham had been unattainable to Bradley from the second he stepped foot onto campus his freshman year. And the worst part is that she’s perfect for him. The president of Delta Nu, who comes from a wealthy, recognized family—her dad was a former NFL coach so she’d already know the landscape and how to handle the fame if he ever went pro. Not once had she so much as looked at another member of the football team, hardly ever going on dates with college guys period, and, on top of all of that, she’s the hottest girl on campus. She’s successful, drop-dead gorgeous, and unattainable—it’s like the universe was handing Bradley the perfect girl. Except for the fact that she wants nothing to do with him.

Though he wants Makayla, Bradley certainly isn’t abstinent, and he’s built up a bit of a reputation. A reputation that Makayla isn’t fond of. He’s tried to convince her that she’s different, that she’s perfect for him unlike the other girls he’s slept with, but she refuses to hear it.

But, with his senior year on the horizon, Bradley is determined to have her hear it. He knows Makayla loves his attention, she wouldn’t play this game of cat and mouse if she didn’t, but even she has to admit that they’re running out of time.

It unfortunately seems Makayla’s chosen to play games tonight anyway, as she’s been entertaining freshman since Bradley got here, only shooting him sultry smirks when she can tell he’s losing interest. So now he’s sitting between Jake and Javy, getting splashed by freshman boys doing cannonballs and watching them flirt pathetically with his girl. Stupid fucking freshmen. Bradley can’t believe he’s going to have a whole flock of them staying at his house for the summer.

“I’ve had enough of this bullshit,” Bradley gets up with a growl, interrupting Javy who’s been recounting another party he went to the weekend before. He ignores the protests of his friends, making his way to the keg of beer set up in the backyard.

As if everyone can tell what kind of mood he’s in—or maybe it’s just because he’s Bradley Bradshaw—the crowds part and no one stops him for small talk. It only seems to sour his mood more though. If Makayla wants to spend her night with puny freshman Bradley’s not going to stop her, but he certainly isn’t going to sit there and watch her either. Instead, his night’s panning out the way it usually does and he’s going to wake up with a killer hangover and a random girl in his bed.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous of a couple of freshmen, Bradley.”

Bradley turns around from the keg with a flat expression. Makayla’s standing in front of him, flimsily hiding her smirk behind a red solo cup. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he rips his gaze away from her to look out at the party surrounding them. “‘M not jealous. Just thirsty.”

“Right,” Makayla teases. 

It’s quiet as Bradley takes a sip of his beer, the silence almost uncomfortable as he swallows.

“My answer’s still no, Bradley.”

He hums, his tone slightly bored when he responds. “And why’s that?”

“Because you’re not a boyfriend,” Makayla laughs. “Like, I’d hook up with you—,”

“You know that’s not what I want,” Bradley cuts in.

“Well, I don’t want a boyfriend who’s gonna treat me like a hookup.”

Bradley’s jaw ticks again. “I’m not gonna treat you like a hookup.”

“Bradley, you’ve never had a girlfriend,” Makayla laughs incredulously. “You wouldn’t know how to treat me right.”

“You think that just because I don’t date means I don’t know how to treat a girl?” Bradley scoffs, taking another sip of his beer.

Makayla pauses for a moment, saying nothing for several seconds. Suddenly, she turns to him with a challenge in her voice. “Fine. You think you can be a good boyfriend? Prove it.”

“What?”

“Prove it,” Makayla sounds more resolute and, again, that smirk is on her face. “Seriously, I’ve been thinking about it recently and, if you think you know how to treat me, then prove it to me.”

“And how the fuck would I do that?” Bradley cinches his brows. 

Makayla looks around the party, her eyes mischievous as she turns back to Bradley with a sugar sweet smile. “If you can prove to me that you can keep a girlfriend the entire summer, I’ll go out with you. Think of it as a trial run.”

“You serious?” Bradley can’t help the smirk growing on his face. He hardly considers it a challenge, not when there’s a campus full of girls who do just about anything to be called his girlfriend. “I just gotta keep a girlfriend for a couple months?”

“Hold it, hotshot, I didn’t finish. I pick the girl,” Makayla grins when Bradley’s expression drops. Her eyes go back to trailing over the college students swimming and lounging in her backyard. “I know you, Bradley, and I know there’s plenty of girls that would let you treat them like shit and stay with you regardless. No, she needs to be someone desperate enough to get with you before summer, but not insecure enough to stick around.” Her eyes still suddenly, lighting up as they take in your figure smiling along with your friends but still clearly an odd one out.

Makayla smirks. “Her.”

Bradley squints at you, pursing his lips. You’re pretty at least, and there’s something about you that seems familiar even though he’s never seen you before. He watches as you speak animatedly to a girl whose back is facing him. You’re smiling brightly before you throw your head back with a laugh.

“Just the summer? And you’ll go out with me?” He checks.

“You last the summer,” Makayla nods, “and I’ll go out with you, Bradley. Deal?” She holds her hand out.

Bradley looks away from you, grabbing Makayla’s hand in his own. “Deal.”

“Oh,” you giggle to Natasha, looking down at your empty cup. “I’m gonna get another drink.”

Despite your hesitance, you’re actually having a good time. The late spring air feels nice on your skin and the air has dropped a bit to make it the perfect temperature. Though you’ll never tell her, you think Giselle was right, you needed this party to remind you that summer was just around the corner.

You make your way around a group of sorority girls, smiling politely and nodding to the ones who recognize you. When Giselle first told you she was joining a sorority, you and Natasha hadn’t exactly been thrilled about the idea. You’ve come around to it more now—the girls aren’t nearly as mean as movies make them out to be, but you can’t lie that you’re still slightly scared of them.

Shaking off the thought to continue your quest for a drink, you pick up your pace to reach the cooler of beers and soda that’s been haphazardly set on the grassy lawn. You search through the cubes of ice, smiling delightedly when your hands find a Sprite. You grab a straw from the cup beside the cooler, opening your can and popping it in to take a much needed sip of your lemon lime soda.

Maybe there’s a part of you that’s a bit buzzed from the few sips of Mickey’s drink you tried earlier because, when you stand up from the cooler too quickly, you’re knocked completely off balance. You take a couple steps back to catch yourself—your feet trying to catch up with the rest of your body.

“Hey, now,” a low voice sends shivers down your spine, two large hands holding your hips in place and stilling your feet. Calloused skin seeps warmth around the ties of your bikini bottoms. “Careful, Sunshine.”

You take a nervous sip of your drink as if that will delay the inevitable, turning around slowly as your teeth clench down and flatten your straw. The sight before you almost makes you trip again and—somehow worse—reminds you that hands are still holding you up by your hips. 

In front of you is a wet, shirtless Bradley Bradshaw, ball cap slung backwards on his head to hide the wet strands of curled caramel that are slicked against his scalp. Your eyes trail down to follow the beads of water rolling across the divots and dips of his abdomen, his relaxed muscles glistening in the setting sun. You can’t look away from the water droplets until they physically disappear, absorbing into the waistband of his swim shorts—which hang so low that his defined hips are completely on display, tan skin taut against his muscles and bones. You swallow thickly. 

When you manage to pull your gaze away, Bradley is smirking at you, fingers fiddling with the strings of your bikini, making it very apparent that he’d caught your borderline awe of his body.

“Um… Nice, um, nice bathing suit,” you try to cover and, had it not been more embarrassing for Bradley to see you cringe at your own words, you would have.

Bradley lets out a light snort, shoulders jumping slightly with the air that leaves his nose. “You too.”

His hands are still on your hips, a position far too intimate considering it seems like he doesn’t even recognize you. Your heart sinks a bit at that. For a lot of her friends, growing up with Giselle Bradshaw meant inevitably having a crush on Bradley. You weren’t quite special in that regard, you’re just unlucky enough to have never grown out of it. Even almost a decade later, he still makes your cheeks hot and your knees jelly.

However, you’re still coherent enough to know that, if you let Bradley continue playing with your bikini bottoms, you’ll do something far more embarrassing than just ogle him. Subtly you take a step back, putting some much needed space in between the two of you. Part of you thinks you’re only imagining it, but Bradley almost seems disappointed that you did.

He recovers from it quickly though, taking his hat off to rake a hand through his hair before putting it back on. “Sorry.” You have to physically stop your eyebrows from raising. You don’t think you’ve ever heard Bradley apologize before. “Didn’t mean to almost knock you out.”

“No, it was—It was my fault. I should have watched where I was going...” you trail off quietly, keeping your eyes trained on your drink.

When you say nothing more, Bradley wets his lips. “You got a name, Sunshine?”

“You—?” That gets you to look at him and you hope you don’t come off as hurt as you feel. “You wanna know my name?”

You and Bradley had never been close, you know that and you never tried to pretend that you were. But you’ve been Giselle’s best friend since you were five years old. You spent more summers at her house than you did your own. You never expected Bradley to consider you friends, but you thought he would have at least recognized you.

You don’t know if you should be grateful that Bradley is oblivious to your inner monologue, but he is, a smirk growing on his face as he mistakes your dejectedness for humility. “That so hard to believe?”

You want to say yes. Yes, it is, given that you’ve known him for 14 years of your life. But before you can even begin to piece any words together, you hear a loud shout of your name. Giselle’s feet scamper across the concrete pool deck as she laughs out apologies to the people she’s weaving through to get to you. There’s a bright smile on her face—that quickly dissolves at the sight of her older brother.

“Is he bothering you?” Giselle glares at Bradley accusingly, but the elder Bradshaw doesn’t even seem to notice, his eyes tracing over you in genuine shock as your name falls from his lips in a soft mumble. You watch a flicker of recognition pass over his features.

“Shit.”

Taking a step closer to Giselle, you purse your lips as you realize what’s happened. Bradley’s embarrassed that he tried flirting with you now that he knows it’s you. You clear your throat softly. “Thanks for catching me, Bradley. It was, um, nice to see you again.”

With that you turn around, ignoring Giselle’s pestering questions as you let her lead you back to Natasha and the rest of your friends. Humiliation burns at your shoulders and neck and you’re far too modified to even attempt looking back at Bradley. You try to drown it all out with a long sip of your drink, letting Giselle distract you as you do your best to forget all about her older brother.

Behind you, Bradley watches the back of your white bathing suit for a moment, before he tips his head back and runs a hand over his face. 

Bradley groans. “I am so fucked.”

“Sunshine!”

You almost think you're hallucinating when you see Bradley Bradshaw waiting outside the department building your class was in. But you know you’re hallucinating when it seems like he’s waiting for you. You go on as normal, not looking at him as you continue your usual route to the library. He’s certainly not talking to you and you’re not about to make a fool out of yourself for the second time. 

There’s a sound of footsteps, though there always is right after classes get let out, so you think nothing of it until there’s a blur of navy blue in your peripheral. You furrow your brows, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk and the navy blue slows to a stop with you. Your head has to crane up to look at him and your eyes widen when it finally clicks in your brain that Bradley is standing in front of you in a tight fitting navy blue t-shirt.

“Bradley?”

He grins, running a hand through his hair. His biceps strain against the sleeves of his t-shirt. “Were you just planning on ignoring me?”

“I didn’t—,” You open and close your mouth a couple times, having to take a step closer to Bradley when someone tries to pass you both on the sidewalk. “Is Giselle okay?”

“What?” Now it’s Bradley’s turn to look almost as confused as you.

You genuinely don’t think this could get anymore embarrassing and you look down so you don’t get flustered by Bradley’s honey brown eyes—because that’s the last thing you need right now.

“Sorry, I just assumed… that’s why you’d be talking to me.”

Bradley almost seems to wince at that, but you’re sure you’re imagining it. Really you just want to get out of here and you’re trying to come up with a feasible excuse when Bradley looks somewhere over your head. You’re about to say something when his hands are suddenly on your hips and he’s yanking you into him with a force that has you tripping. You let out a yelp as you collide with his chest, your hands pressing against the firm muscles of his chest.

The answer to this sudden movement comes in the form of a group of three girls walking right where you had been moments ago. Bradley looks down at you, the corner of his lip lifting in a lopsided smile.

“Sorry.” There he was apologizing again. “I got a thing for almost tripping you, huh?” He lifts one of his hands to scratch the back of his neck after a moment when you don’t respond. “So, where you headed?”

“The, um, the library.”

“Me too,” Bradley lights up slightly.

You have to physically close your mouth before you blurt out your surprise at that statement. Because Bradley doesn’t study. Most of the time Bradley doesn’t even go to his classes, Giselle is always complaining about how he just shows up for the exams and somehow always passes.

“Okay…” you trail off. You really don’t want to go to the library with him. Not when you’re still close enough to him that his cologne is dizzying and one of his hands is still on your hip and he’s looking at you with those big, brown eyes…

Yeah, you have to go.

“Oh,” you pretend to wince. “I left something I need in my dorm. I should probably go back to get it.”

Bradley deflates slightly, looking at you with an unreadable expression. He wets his lips. “Before you go, can I ask you something?”

Your grip tightens on your backpack straps and you can only manage a small nod.

“Will you go on a date with me?” 

You blink. And then again. And again. “What?”

“C’mon, Sunshine,” Bradley smiles like he hasn’t just destroyed all that you believe to be true about the world in three seconds. “I’ll take you to mini golf, we'll get some food after.”

“Mini golf?”

Bradley’s smile falters. “Or—Or something else, I guess. What do you want to do?”

“No, I mean—,” You try to build up some courage from the fact that Bradley appears to be losing some of his. “You want to go on a date with me?”

“That so hard to believe?” Bradley repeats his words from the weekend and, again, you find yourself wanting to tell him that yes, it is.

Your entire life, Bradley has never once paid you any attention and now he’s suddenly flirting with you at pool parties and asking you on dates. Maybe Giselle really was right about that bikini.

“Okay,” you say finally.

Bradley pauses. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod, letting out a breath to steady yourself. “I’ll go on a date with you, Bradley.”

“No.”

“Hello to you too, Giselle,” Bradley doesn’t look up from his controller, keeping his eyes trained on his God of War Ragnarök character when his little sister storms into his room. It’s almost migraine-inducing how easy it is for her to get into the Football House. Most of the new guys on the team just let her right through the front door.

“No, Bradley,” Giselle stomps over to shove his shoulder. “You’re not going on a date with my best friend.”

Bradley’s head snaps to his sister, video game suddenly forgotten. “She told you?”

“Of course she told me! You really thought she’d keep something like that from me?!” Giselle puts her hands on her hips.

Bradley blinks. “Well… yeah.”

Bradley was banking on it actually. The second he realized he had history with you, he begged Makayla to pick a different girl. Dating his little sister’s best friend presented its own list of problems that had nothing to do with how good of a boyfriend Bradley is—namely his sister herself. But Makayla had only laughed in his face, telling him that she already knew that you were Giselle’s best friend—and then preceded to berate him a bit for not being able to recognize a girl he’s known for most of his life, which Bradley isn’t too proud to admit was probably fair—insisting that, if Bradley really wants to date her, he’d have to make it work.

So he started thinking of how he could use the whole thing to his advantage. Obviously his sister would hate the idea—as she is currently making very apparent—so you’d have to resort to sneaking around. As a result, you’d start feeling guilty about the whole thing and that would get you to start thinking about if your relationship with Bradley means as much to you as your relationship with Giselle. And Bradley would make sure that it does, being the perfect boyfriend to ensure that you unintentionally view your relationship with him with the same weight as your relationship with his sister.

But then you told Giselle.

“Fuck you, asshole!” Giselle shoves his shoulder again. “Obviously she was gonna tell me. She’d never do something like that to me and the fact that you don’t know that proves that you don’t deserve to go on a date with her.”

Giselle ends her words with a finality that chips at Bradley’s frustration. What is with everyone thinking he’s some asshole boyfriend? And, frankly, he finds it insulting that Giselle’s just decided he’s not good enough for you. From what he can tell, there’s nothing glaringly special about you—Bradley deserves you just fine.

“Well, I don’t know if she told you, but she said yes. You gonna dictate who she goes on dates with now?” Bradley scoffs.

Giselle traces her teeth with her tongue, crossing her arms as she narrows her eyes at him. “What do you want from her, Bradley? This entire year–our entire lives–you never paid any attention to her. Why do you suddenly want her now?”

“That’s a shitty way to talk about your best friend, Giselle,” Bradley turns his neck lazily to smirk at her, grabbing his controller again. “You don’t think I could just be attracted to her?”

Giselle’s fists clench and it looks like she’s about to blow a fuse before she bites her lip and takes a breath, letting her eyes flutter closed for a second. Bradley knows he’s enjoying this far more than he should, but Giselle’s been putting a wrench in his plans with Makayla since she first joined Delta Nu—her big mouth is half the reason Makalya knows what she does about his sleeping history—so it’s a bit vindicating to mess with her.

“I told her I wasn’t going to stop her from going on a date with you,” Giselle says finally—calmly.

Bradley’s eyebrows raise. That is not what he was expecting and his fingers stumble on his PS5 controller as he turns back to his sister in slight disbelief. 

“But I know you,” she continues. “And I know what you look like when you’re interested in a girl, Bradley. The second I see you’re genuinely interested in her, I’ll step aside. But—,” Giselle jabs her manicured finger into Bradley’ chest. “I. Haven’t. Seen. That. Yet.” She accentuates each word with another jab.

Again Bradley scoffs, catching her finger between his own. “What are you? A fucking polygraph? You don’t know shit, Giselle.”

“I know there’s no way in frozen-over hell I’d let you date my best friend otherwise,” Giselle challenges. “And, as we’ve established, she’ll pick me over you.”

Bradley closes his eyes to stop from rolling them—that’s the last thing he needs his sister to see—and pinches the bridge of his nose. “So… what? I just have to look interested?” He has a hard time believing that Giselle isn’t just using this as an excuse to forbid you from dating him without looking like a bitch in the process.

“Look. For reasons I don’t understand, she doesn’t projectile vomit at the thought of you so—,” Giselle lets out a breath of defeat, ignoring Bradley’s glare. “If you really like her, I… I guess I could get over it.”

This conversation is not at all going the way Bradley thought it would. Briefly Bradley thinks that maybe he was wrong and there is something special about you, if it’s enough for Giselle to be willing to step aside. He knows there’s not a single one of his friends who he’d do that for, if the roles were reversed.

Before he can say anything in response, Giselle’s features harden. “But, if you hurt her, I swear to God, Bradley, I will bash your knees in with your own fucking golf clubs.”

“There she is,” Bradley mutters, getting up. He feels conflicted. On the one hand, he’s getting his sister’s permission to pursue you—which he never thought would happen—but, on the other, he has to somehow convince Giselle he’s genuinely interested in you. And he has no idea how to do that.

“I’m serious, Bradley—,”

“I know you are,” Bradley waves Giselle off, moving to turn off his TV. God of War Ragnarök isn’t a priority right now. “And how exactly are you planning on deciding if I like her or not?”

Giselle bites her bottom lip, rolling it between her teeth like she’s about to say something she may regret. “I’ll bring her to the football game Friday.”

You let out a breath when your professor dismisses you, sliding your laptop into your bag before heading towards the line of students trailing out of the room. With everyone counting down the days to summer, every class seems more draining than the last and—though you know you shouldn’t—you’re planning on taking a nap as soon as you get back to your dorm.

Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you scrub at your eyes, trying to muster up some energy as you push through the building’s main doors. You don’t know why you’re so drained, maybe you just haven’t been sleeping enough. You should convince Giselle to have another sleepover with you soon, her bed at the sorority is way more comfortable than yours.

You’re so caught up in your exhaustion that you don’t notice the large body propped against the front of the science department until it pushes off the wall and makes its way over to you. “Why’re you always ignoring me, Sunshine?” Bradley’s voice is teasing as you whirl around to face him.

To his credit, it does wake you up a bit—fight or flight has the tendency to do that to a person—and you look up at him with features drenched in confusion. Before you can stop yourself, you ask, “How did you know I have class here?”

Bradley almost seems to pinken at that and now you think you must really be tired because, if there’s anything Bradley Bradshaw does less than apologize, it’s blush. “I, um, Kyle told me he’s in your political science class.” He scratches at the back of his neck.

“Right…” You trail off, looking around awkwardly as though that will somehow convince Bradley to stop showing up so randomly. You don’t know what to do with all his sudden attention and—while there’s a small part of you doing cartwheels and happy dances every time Bradley talks to you—he’s not the Bradley you’re used to and you’d like to go back to not embarrassing yourself on a daily basis.

Bradley clears his throat. “Do you have another class after this?”

“No, I was heading back to my dorm.” You fiddle with the straps of your bag.

“Cool,” Bradley slides his hands in his sweatpants pockets, nodding his head. “I’ll walk you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—,”

“Are you coming to the football game Friday?” Bradley cuts you off and you decide that, at least with Bradley, you won’t have to worry about falling asleep on your way back to your dorm, so you resign yourself to the fact that he’ll be escorting you.

You bite your lip. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Bradley looks down at you with a teasing smile.

“I…” The words come out weak when you realize how pathetic they sound, “have homework.”

Weirdly, Bradley’s smile only grows and he shakes his head at you slowly. “Well, I hope you come. How else am I supposed to get my sister to agree to let me take you on a date?”

You nearly trip over a crack in the sidewalk and Bradley’s hand shoots out to steady you. “You—You still want to go on a date with me?”

Honestly—though you said yes—part of you expected the whole thing to be a joke. And when Giselle explained to you the condition she’d given him, you couldn’t help but think that, even if he was serious, Bradley would decide he was no longer interested. You’re not worth all that trouble, especially not to a guy like Bradley Bradshaw.

“Don’t tell me you changed your mind already, Sunshine,” Bradley throws a hand to his heart.

“No, I—,” You look down to hide your fluster. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

Your dorm building comes into view and Bradley fiddles lazily with the hat sitting backwards on his head. “Good, ‘cause neither have I.”

A comfortable silence falls over you and your exhaustion begins creeping back in. You’re sure you probably seem tired, but Bradley doesn’t mention it, simply slowing his pace to match yours wordlessly.

“You have polisci on Mondays and Wednesdays, right?” He asks suddenly when you reach the door of your dorm building. You give him a small nod. “I can walk with you after if you want?”

While every part of you is screaming to just run away from Bradley and never look at him again, you can’t help but glow under his attention. Because, sure, you make a complete fool out of yourself every time you have a conversation with him, but he’s still trying to talk to you. You’re sure Bradley could have easily grown bored of you by now, but he hasn’t. And you do like being around him.

Your cheeks heat and you glance down at your shoes to compose yourself. “I, um, I’d like that.”

“Good,” Bradley smiles, reaching forward suddenly to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “I’ll bring you a Red Bull next time, sleepyhead.”

You feel a tad silly in the jean shorts Giselle picked out for you when you’re sitting on the cold metal of the bleachers. But with the amount of students filling the stands, you think you might have actually been hot in anything else. Unsurprisingly, Giselle had convinced you to come to the football game with her and Bob—Natasha and Mickey have plans which, of course, you teased them about relentlessly.

You were actually having a good time though. Bob was there to explain anything you didn’t understand about football. With Reuben playing, Giselle was very invested, which was honestly more entertaining than the game itself. Though you did your best to understand what Bob was explaining to you, you ended up just staring at Bradley most of the time.

“Come on,” Giselle stands up as soon as the whistle is blown. She picks up a bouquet of flowers she had sitting on the bleachers next to her. “I wanna get on the field before they go back to the locker room.”

You balk when your eyes land on the bouquet in Giselle’s hands, speed-walking after her as she exits the stands. “Wait, should I have gotten Bradley something?”

Giselle pauses, turning around to look between you and the flowers. You’re sure you look like a nervous wreck and that must be the reason she’s taking pity on you because she holds the bouquet out to you.

“Here. Take one, that’s all he deserves,” Giselle jokes.

You smile gratefully, looking over the flowers quickly. You’re not sure if Bradley even likes flowers, maybe he’d think the whole thing was stupid, but you didn’t want to see him completely empty-handed.

You panic slightly over which flower to pick. A rose feels like too much, but the clusters of small larkspur feels like not enough. Aware you’re holding up Giselle and the line of people looking to exit the stands behind you, you gently pull a peony from the bouquet, snapping the stem to make it shorter. You slide it into your back pocket as you, Giselle, and Bob continue to the field. 

Reuben’s already waiting for you when you get down there and you congratulate him on the win, before giving him and Giselle their privacy. Bob knows a few of the other football players and offered to introduce you while he went and said hi, but you already have one football player making you forget how to breathe, you don’t need to meet more. So you find yourself alone, waiting for your friends, and normally you’d move somewhere more private, but this time you purposefully stay visible on the field.

“Hey.”

You’re not as surprised when you turn around to see Bradley jogging over to you. He’s still panting from the game, curls of hair plastered by sweat to his forehead and grass stains smudged across his uniform. Again, it hits you how effortlessly handsome he is. He reminds you of the boys in those teen magazines you and Giselle used to gush over when you were younger. But Bradley’s much more handsome than those boyish celebrities they marketed to girls, you think—like an Abercrombie & Fitch model or something.

“You came.” Bradley slows to a stop in front of you and you try to shake off the thoughts of pubescent One Direction and shirtless guys in skinny jeans.

You look down bashfully. “You, um, played really well.”

“Yeah?” Bradley lights up, taking a step closer to you. His large frame blocks out the jealous cheerleaders that are watching the two of you. You can’t exactly blame them, you also don’t know why Bradley’s flirting with a freshman when they’re right behind him. “Well, I had a girl to impress in the stands.”

“You didn’t know I was coming,” you point out.

Bradley grins with a light shrug. “I was hoping.”

You give him a single nod, moving your hands to your back pockets in attempts to hide your nerves. Before you can shove your fingers into the denim of your shorts, something soft hits the palm of your hand.

“I, um, I didn’t know if I should bring flowers or something, so,” you hold up the pitiful peony you’d snagged from Giselle’s bouquet for Rueben and almost instantly regret it when you take in Bradley’s face.

Bradley takes the peony from you with two fingers, looking at the dusty pink petals as he spins the stem slowly between his thumb and index finger. You don’t know what he’s thinking—he’s probably asking himself what the fuck he’s supposed to do with a flower at the end of a football game—his expression unreadable as he holds the peony up to his eye line.

“You know, it’s stupid actually.” One of your hands shoots out to take the flower from him. He’s probably going to toss it away once your back is turned. You don’t know what you were thinking in the first place. “I can just—,”

Bradley pulls the peony back, holding it far above where you can reach to stop you from taking it from his grasp. “You sure you know how gifts work, Sunshine?” His entire face is teasing, a smirk playing on his lips, and your cheeks heat with embarrassment.

“You don’t have to pretend—,”

“Is this—What the fuck is it called? Is it your favorite flower?” Bradley doesn’t seem at all concerned with your fluster nor your mortification over the peony, tucking its stem into the waistband of his football pants so that the bloom peeks out right in front of his left hip. It stands out noticeably against the navy blue and slate gray of your school colors.

You bite down harshly on your bottom lip, swallowing down your embarrassment. It’s not as hard as you thought it would be, not with all the confusion taking its place. “It’s a peony… And it’s not my favorite, no.”

“What’s your favorite flower then?”

“Um,” you shrug slowly. “I don’t have one.”

Bradley lets out a snort of disbelief. The peony ruffles lightly at his side. “You don’t have one? Doesn't every chick have a favorite flower?”

“I—I just like flowers, like, in general, I guess... Why does it even matter?” You furrow your brows.

Bradley dips his neck down to look at you, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip before he grins. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t know your favorite flower?”

The earth stills on its axis. Traffic comes to a screeching halt. Dogs stop barking. Lions pause mid-wildebeest attack. Every person in every house in every neighborhood stops speaking, lips only parted in shock. The whole world freezes because how else could it react to such shell shocking news? 

“Boy—Boyfriend?!” Your eyes widen to saucers as you look at Bradley incredulously. All other thoughts have flown out of your head, including who exactly you’re currently talking to. “I’m sorry, when was that established?”

“You didn’t know? I mean, come on, you brought me flowers, Sunshine. Sounds pretty ‘girlfriend’ to me,” Bradley has the audacity to shrug, a nonchalant expression on his face as he looks down at you.

“I brought you a flower! As in one, singular, flower. What is this? The 1600s? Have some standards, Bradley!” You look at him incredulously, chest heaving from the amount of air you’d pushed from your lungs in your dismay.

Bradley bites the inside of his cheek to hide his smile, though his amusement is entirely visible in the hickory brown of his irises. You may have loved Bradley since you were 10, but even love has its limits. And, right now, you’ve had enough of this entire, unexplained, complete 180 he’s doing with outrageous things like asking you on dates and declaring he’s your boyfriend.

You cross your arms with a glare. “What?”

“Nothin’,” Bradley holds his hands up in mock surrender. “It’s just—This is the first time you’ve made a joke around me.” 

You hate this. 

You’ll never recover from it, actually. You need to schedule a meeting with your advisor and transfer schools immediately. No, you should just drop out all together. And then you’ll flee the country and change your name, dye your hair or something until you’re unrecognizable. You hate this. You hate this. You hate this.

“I didn’t—I’m sorry, I—!” Every sentence dies on your tongue. Because what is there to say? You just told Bradley Bradshaw that he should have some standards.

This time, Bradley can’t hide his grin, his lips stretching across his cheeks as he watches you fumble entirely with your words. “You’re cute when you’re flustered, Sunshine.”

“I’m not—,” You give up on trying to argue, letting out a defeated sigh. “Just—Why are you suddenly so interested in me, Bradley?” You finally spit out the question that’s been plaguing you since Bradley stopped you on your way to the library.

For a moment, Bradley doesn’t respond. He almost looks nervous, which is a strange change of pace given how nervous he makes you on a regular basis. His thoughts are entirely apparent on his face—which would be helpful if you could actually read any of them. Instead, he runs through about five emotions you can’t pinpoint before he finally lands on some form of defeat.

“Your smile,” Bradley says finally.

“What?”

“Your smile,” he repeats, jaw clenching like spitting the words out is physically painful. “You’re always smiling and laughing when you’re with Giselle. I’ve never made you smile.” 

“You… you want to make me smile?” You don’t even know what to say, simply staring at Bradley in utter disbelief. If he hadn’t rocked your world for what feels like the millionth time, maybe you would have paid more attention to the fact that this is the longest you’ve been able to look Bradley in the eye.

Bradley almost sounds like he’s huffing and he looks to the left, prodding his tongue to his cheek. “Yeah, so…”

“I’m not your girlfriend, Bradley.” You tell him and even the words feel unbelievable on your tongue.

“What?” Bradley’s brows furrow and he snaps his head back to you. “Why not?”

Your eyes travel down the peony in his waistband and you suddenly realize that Bradley must have been very purposeful with his arm movements during your conversation because it doesn’t look the least bit crushed.

“You haven’t asked me to be.”

Though Bradley would take it to his grave, he actually prefers the more chill kickbacks the Football House throws over their ragers. Maybe it’s because he’s now the starting quarterback, and watching his teammates doing stupid shit for the sake of it is only fun when you’re not in charge of them. It also helps that kickbacks don’t leave the house totally trashed—only mildly trashed. But the biggest reason is that Makayla is far more likely to come to a Football House kickback than a Football House rager.

With everyone still in good spirits from the football team’s win and Javy’s jungle juice making its rounds, Bradley is in an oddly good mood. Not even the fact that his sister crashed with all her friends is pissing him off and, with another sip of Javy’s jungle juice, he makes his way to Makayla.

She turns around like she’s expecting him, which, Bradley notes, is something you don’t do. You always seem somewhat surprised to see him. That’s something that had the potential to put a damper on his mood. 

You. 

You rejecting him isn’t something he had been anticipating nor is how much it’s currently vexing him.

You’re here too, with his sister. He caught sight of you closer to the beginning of the party, sipping from a red solo cup of Sprite as you sat with your friends. And, as of now, you have yet to even look at him.

“What are you doing?” Makayla questions him, pulling Bradley from his thoughts.

He turns to her with a furrowed brow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Makalya gestures towards you with her cup. “Is this how you’d treat me at one of these parties? Talking to another girl?”

“I’m literally talking to you right now,” Bradley responds flatly.

Makayla tilts her head at him condescendingly. “I’m not your girlfriend though, Bradley.”

“Yeah?” He grumbles. “Neither is she.”

That good mood he was in just minutes earlier doesn’t seem to be lasting long when Makayla starts laughing at him. “She’s not? That’s a shame. I was actually kinda looking forward to this.”

“It’s been a week,” Bradley tries to reason. It’s ridiculous how everyone’s acting like he should be in love with you. It’s not his fault you hardly seem able to carry a conversation with him.

“Yeah,” Makayla agrees. “And instead of working for it, you’re over here talking to me. I’m not easy, Bradshaw.” She sings.

Bradley bites back the fact that he’s well aware of that, pursing his lips as he glances back towards you and your friends. His brows furrow when he notices how uncoordinated you seem, stumbling and teetering on wobbly legs. You weren’t like that when you first got here.

He shakes it off, getting up. “Fine.”

Instead of heading towards you, Bradley turns to the kitchen. If he was spending the rest of the night with you and his sister, he’s going to need another drink. 

Bradley shoulders past the people lingering in the kitchen, moving to grab a beer from the fridge. Opening it against the edge of the countertop, he takes a long sip. Honestly, he doesn’t understand Makayla. How is spending the night flirting with you going to prove anything to her? It can’t be more productive than just spending the night with her instead.

He takes another sip of his beer, slowing when a worried looking Giselle steps into the kitchen and rushes over to him.

“I need your help,” she skips the pleasantries, gnawing on her bottom lip. “It’s—,”

“We should go swimming—Mickey, let go!” 

Bradley looks over his sister at the sudden exclamation to see Mickey Garcia trying to wrangle you back down to the couch while you protest with flailing, sloppy limbs.

“She got confused and accidentally drank all of Mickey’s cup instead of hers. She’s never drunk that much before,” Giselle explains.

Bradley sets his half finished beer on the countertop, sparing you another glance while his sister continues.

“She’s refusing to let any of us take her back to her dorm, Bradley.” Giselle follows her brother’s gaze back to you. Her brows furrow in the kind of vexed confusion she used to do whenever Bradley hogged the TV too long when they were younger. “And I have no idea why.”

Bradley lets his eyes dart to Makayla. This is what she wants from him, right? Good boyfriends take their girlfriend home when she’s had too much to drink. And the fact that he’s ditching his own party to take care of you would definitely get him brownie points.

“I’ll take her home.”

Giselle looks back at him in an odd mixture of relief and disbelief. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Bradley prompts them both to start exiting the kitchen. “I know where her dorm is. It’s not a big deal.”

Giselle looks like she wants to say something, but she stops herself, letting out a breath. “Thank you.”

The two make their way over to your concerned friends who seem to still be trying to convince you that right now is not the time to be swimming. Bradley nods his head towards Giselle, signaling for her to go up to them without him while he grabs something. He moves to grab the hoodie he’d left by the front door earlier today. He has a fleeting thought that maybe he should bring you a hoodie too, but you’re already wearing a long sleeve and he knows that, if he gives one to you, he’ll probably never see it again. Throwing the hoodie over his head, Bradley makes his way back to you.

Giselle is calmly explaining to you and your friends that Bradley’s going to take you home and, to the surprise of everyone—including Bradley—you seem to find absolutely no issue with it. Bradley can tell that the rest of your friends are far less trusting of his intentions than Giselle is. Bob is quite literally glaring daggers at him. But they all know that Giselle never would have asked him if she didn’t know for a fact that you’d be fine.

Bradley wants to be offended that they think so little of him, but the fact that it appears you don’t somehow overshadows it. He watches as you talk animatedly with Mickey, a wide smile on your face, as the brunet helps you off the couch and Bradley’s jaw clenches at the sight.

Then Natasha is standing in front of him, cutting him off from the view of you, and handing him your phone while she eyes him suspiciously. “Our dorm’s on the second floor,” is all she says. “It’s the one with a whiteboard calendar on it.”

Bradley nods, pocketing your phone in his sweats. He can feel Makayla’s eyes on him as Mickey finally passes you off.

“Stop it,” Bradley hisses, hand wrapping around your middle to stop you from racing up the stairwell.

He’s managed to wrangle you back to your dorm building—and Makayla isn’t even here to see him anymore—so your sudden spurts of drunken recklessness are wearing on his patience. You pout a little against his hoodie, before slowly relaxing all your weight on his chest.

“No,” Bradley starts, trying to hold you up when you begin sinking. “No, no, no. I am not carrying you.” If you hear him, you aren’t acting like it, continuing your descent to the ground. Bradley lets out a heavy sigh, lifting you by your armpits before the hem of your skirt can touch the dirty ground of the stairwell. “And I’m carrying you. Okay.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, ankles crossing, and you hum in content as you rest your temple on his shoulder. Bradley suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. He tries to reason with himself that this is exactly what Makayla is talking about—him needing to practice boyfriend things like this. And he knows for a fact that she gets drunk way more than you do. Securing his hands under the bottoms of your thighs, Bradley starts walking up the stairs.

To his relief, you’ve stopped moving at least. You’re staying still in his arms instead of trying to lean too far over the railing or bolt up the stairs. It’s also the first time you’ve been this close to him. Hints of your tea tree shampoo fill his inhales, the top of your head just under his chin. Bradley takes a deep breath.

“You’re gonna feel like shit tomorrow.” There’s something about the silence he doesn’t like, so Bradley says the first thing that comes to mind as he carries you to your floor.

He feels you shrug against him as he finally leaves the stairwell. 

“Oh, it’s hittin’ now, huh, Sunshine?” Bradley’s racking his brain to remember which room Natasha told him your dorm was, but even that can’t stop him from lightly teasing you. “Yeah, not so fun chugging a cup of Javy’s jungle juice, is it?”

His words cause you to squirm against him suddenly, fighting his hold as he walks through the hallway, and Bradley has to tighten his grip on you so you don’t fall from his arms. “Hey, would you—Stop. What is wrong with you?”

“‘S fun,” you slur angrily and, finally, Bradley finds the door with the whiteboard calendar Natasha was talking about.

Bradley transfers you to one arm as he fiddles with the door to your dorm. “Fine. Sure. It’s fun.” 

He steps inside your dorm, putting you down on what he assumes is your bed—if the polaroids of you and Giselle stuck to the wall are anything to go by. 

The room is smaller than Bradley expected. He’s been living in the Football House since freshman year so he never really got to experience dorm life. As he turns on a lamp and plugs your phone into the charger plugged in the same outlet, Bradley notes how very you your side of the room seems—not that he would know, but it just kind of makes sense.

Your bed is littered with a handful of stuffed animals, all propped up against your lavender pillows and bed set. A stack of your textbooks sits on your desk, surrounded by small trinkets and cutely shaped erasers. Like Giselle, you have a short chain of fairy lights hanging above your bed, their soft, yellow hue shining down on you as you sit on the mattress. Almost every inch of your wall is covered in pictures, polaroids, photobooth strips, and movie tickets. Like the eggshell white is some kind of scrapbook for your favorite memories.

Bradley steps forward to the closet, awkwardly rifling through your clothes and giving a wide berth to any basket that looks remotely like it houses your underwear. All he needed to do was grab you some pajamas—and just your pajamas—take off your makeup, and get you to sleep. Boyfriend shit. 

“Alright,” he tosses a large t-shirt and pair of shorts on your bed. “Change.” Bradley looks at you for a second before pursing his lips. “...Please.”

Then he’s turning his back to you, pulling his phone out to google what the fuck makeup remover even looks like as he moved to search through your toiletries. You seem to have brought less to college than Giselle did—Bradley doesn’t even know how she fit all her shit in a bag, or the use she had for half of it—but it still takes him some time to hunt down the pink cap of your makeup remover bottle and a washcloth.

He doesn’t fully process that he first turned around because you were changing until he’s already facing you again. Fortunately, you’ve finished, your skirt and top a pile on the floor. A boyfriend would probably pick those up too, Bradley thinks, so he makes a note to toss them in your laundry hamper.

“Here,” Bradley holds out the wet washcloth when he reaches you. You just blink up at him a couple times, an innocent expression on your face. He sighs deeply. “Fine. But you can’t whine if I do it too hard.”

Bradley grabs your chin as an anchor, lifting your head up as he starts wiping the cloth over your skin. Contrary to his words, Bradley does do his best to be gentle, tracing over your features with a lighter pressure than his large hands are used to. You practically melt into his palm as he does so, sitting patiently for him while he cleans your face. Despite his frustrations with you over the night, Bradley’s mind drifts to wondering if a drunk Makalya would be as cute as you’ve been.

“There,” Bradley’s voice has lost all its bite, his thumb discreetly brushing your jaw. It’s only for a second though and then he’s pulling away, turning around to put the wash cloth back with your other amenities.

“I knew it was Mickey’s cup.”

Your words cut through the silent dorm room and Bradley freezes. “I drank it on purpose.”

He knows that you’re drunk enough that you probably won’t remember anything that happened tonight, he could leave you now and you’d have no idea. But there’s something about you that just looks so small in your twin bed, curled up against the headboard as you pick at your duvet. He reasons to himself that, if he doesn’t get you to sleep, you’ll probably blab to Natasha when she gets back, so that’s why he can’t leave. Bradley swallows.

“Why’d you do that, Sunshine?” He asks quietly.

You look up at him suddenly with wide eyes and hold your pinky out, scrambling to sit straighter. “You have to promise you won’t tell Giselle. Or Natasha. Or Mickey. Or—,”

“How ‘bout,” Bradley cuts you off, wrapping his pinky around your own. He doesn’t entirely know why he’s entertaining this, but he lets himself sit next to you on your mattress anyway. “I just promise to not tell anyone?”

You nod slowly, before you go back to playing with your duvet. It’s quiet for several seconds.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m no fun.”

Bradley keeps his own eyes trained on your plaid and purple blanket. There’s a sudden air of vulnerability and he knows he should stop you because this seems like something you definitely wouldn’t want him to know in the morning. But he just can’t.

“Like—Like there’s something I’m not doing right and all my friends have to put up with it,” you continue, fingers tightening on the woven fabric of your blanket. “And maybe if I didn’t suck at meeting people, or talking to people, or whatever I’m doing wrong when it comes to guys then… then maybe Reuben and Giselle wouldn’t have to include me in everything. And Natasha wouldn’t have to keep ditching Mickey for me. And Bob wouldn’t have to be my pity friend at every party—,”

You pause, reaching up to wipe your face and it’s then that Bradley realizes you’ve started crying. You let out a shaky breath.

“I am just so sick of listening to Jake talk about crypto.”

Bradley can’t stop the laugh that leaves his lips suddenly. Because you sound so distraught and he knows that you mean it, but it was genuinely the last thing he was expecting you to say. He knows that Makayla—or anyone for that matter—would call him a piece of shit for that though and he really wasn’t meaning to laugh at you. You just caught him off guard. Bradley clears his throat quickly to amend.

“You ever think that maybe they just like hanging out with you?” He offers.

You sniffle, your body slumping against Bradley’s side in exhaustion. “But I’m no fun at parties.”

Bradley hums, settling back on your headboard. “Well, that can’t be true,” he starts. “Tonight you were plenty of fun.”

“I’m serious, Bradley! I’m always so nervous and awkward around people—You literally didn’t know I could make a joke,” you look up at him flatly, a grumpy expression on your face.

Bradley grins, but it falters when your own expression falls again. 

“I just don’t want all my friends to start resenting me because I suck at being in college. What if I’m never gonna stop being a perpetual third wheel?”

“Well,” Bradley licks his lips, choosing his words carefully. “You could always find me, Sunshine.” He points between the two of you as if to count. “No third wheeling here.”

Your cheek falls to his chest. “Really?” You ask weakly.

“I mean, you’ll have to deal with Jake. But I already tell him to shut the fuck up about crypto, so I think you’ll be good.”

It surprises Bradley when a watery giggle spills from your lips, your body shaking against his. Bradley’s heard you giggle before—many times, he reminds himself, since you’ve been in the background of his life since he was eight—but he had never been on the receiving end of your giggles. He was always merely a bystander.

And he doesn’t know why it bothered him so much that you never laughed or smiled at him—especially over these past few days. Well, he knows why it bothered him, it was because he was being nothing but nice to you and has more than earned at least a small smile. What he doesn’t know is why he cares so much that you didn’t. Bradley doesn’t entirely know what to think now that he’s finally made you laugh.

You’re low enough on the bed to rest your head on his chest and you lazily throw an arm over his stomach as you get comfortable, legs tangling with his. Something stirs in Bradley at the thought, but he doesn’t linger on it. Instead, he tries to convince himself that if he just stays still and lets you lay on him, you’ll fall asleep faster and then he can go. And that’s also the reason he has for letting you play with his fingers when you reach for them.

“Hey, Bradley?” You ask after several minutes. He hums quietly. “Ask me to be your girlfriend.”

“No, baby,” Bradley shakes his head, the endearment slipping out without thought.

You sit up suddenly, eyes wide and glossy as you look at him in betrayal. “Why?” 

Bradley doesn’t exactly make a habit out of comforting girls, especially not drunk ones, or ones who are already crying. And currently you are checking all of those boxes. But growing up with a younger sister did teach him something. Bradley is capable of comforting people when he wants to—it’s just, most of the time, he doesn’t. 

Acting on straight instinct, Bradley gently coaxes you back to his chest, petting your head soothingly before you wake yourself up further and he has to settle you down all over again. 

“When you’re sober,” he promises.

Bradley refuses to acknowledge how long it took him to actually peel himself away from you after you fell asleep. 

You wake up with a pounding headache, pulling your pillow over your head with a muffled groan. Your brain feels like it’s being stampeded by elephants as dull throbs of pain take over your entire skull. You scrunch your eyes as if that will somehow push the pain out of you—it doesn’t of course, but you still had to try. Your mouth tastes disgusting and your tongue feels grainy on the roof of your mouth. You need water.

Another groan is pulled from your lips when Natasha opens the blinds. “Rise and shine,” she sings and you flip her off with a grumble, sucking in a breath before you begin the arduous task of sitting up.

“This is why I don’t drink.” Again, your eyes scrunch as your body protests the movement by sending another wave of pain through your head. You open and close your mouth a few times, the aftertaste of a night of alcohol only tastes worse now that you’re more coherent.

Natasha laughs sympathetically, continuing to move around your dorm room as she gets ready. “Yeah, you were somethin’, all right. Do you remember any of last night?”

You sniff. Biting your lip, you run through all the blurry bits of the kickback you can remember easily, piecing them together like some college party shaped puzzle. You freeze suddenly, slapping your hands over your face. 

“Oh my god,” you squeak, and not even the intensity of your hangover can cut through the utter mortification that has dumped over your head like ice water. “I made Bradley Bradshaw carry me home.”

Natasha snorts. 

“It’s not funny!” You whine. “I—!” Your voice dies in your throat as more of your antics over the night come back to you. Somehow, it keeps getting worse—making Bradley take off your makeup, crying to him about how much of a loser you are, cuddling him while you did so. You have to stop yourself from screaming into your pillow. You asked him to ask you to be his girlfriend.

“You what?” Natasha prompts you, though somewhat offhandedly as she stuffs her laptop into her bag.

You swallow. There’s no way you can tell Natasha what happened—not unless you also want to tell her that you were feeling so insecure about your place in your friend group that you downed an entire cup of mixed, unidentifiable, alcoholic beverages. No, that’s just a secret for you. And now Bradley apparently. 

“I… I’m never gonna be able to face him again,” you say instead. Which is also an entirely true statement. For the rest of your life, you have to avoid Bradley Bradshaw now. Giselle would understand that your only logical next step is to move into a cabin in the woods and go completely off the grid and never interact with another human being again. “I fell asleep on him!”

Natasha scoffs, “You’re so dramatic. If anyone should be embarrassed, it’s Bradley. I mean, you should have seen how quickly he agreed to leave his own party to take you home.” She pauses when she opens the door of your dorm, freezing just before the threshold. With a sigh, she steps aside, a hand sweeping out as if to present the hall to you. “I rest my case.”

You scramble out of bed to see what she’s talking about, curiosity overpowering your hangover for the time being. On the carpeted floor of your hallway, right outside your door, is a 20 ounce bottle of water and a single daffodil. Picking up both objects, you read the sticky note stuck to the front of the bottle.

I was going to get you a Red Bull, but I figured this would be better for your head. — Bradley

Partly to quench your intense thirst and partly to avoid Natasha’s teasing look, you screw off the cap of the water and take several large gulps. Some of the water spills from the corners of your lips and you wipe it with the back of your hand. It’s then that you’re reminded of the daffodil stem between your fingers.

“Yeah, I’m gonna say that Bradley’s not too upset about last night,” Natasha snorts.

You take another gulp of water, staring down at the daffodil. “Do you think that if I emailed my professors and told them I can never leave this dorm ever again, they’d let me do everything online?”

Natasha laughs again, throwing the other strap of her bag over her shoulder and pulling her keys from her pocket now that you’d cleared the items that were blocking her path in the first place. She, Mickey, Giselle, and Reuben were all planning on visiting a new cafe that had opened up near campus. They’d invited you too, but Bob wasn’t able to make it and you know a double date when you see one, so you declined. Given everything that happened last night, it stings a little more than it did when they first brought it up, but you try to push the feelings away. Maybe you’d stop by the campus cafe or something.

Your head throbs at just the thought.

“Well, you let me know if we’re becoming mole women, okay?” Natasha jokes, stepping out into the hallway with a smile. She looks back at you for a second, a smirk soon replacing the smile on her lips as she glances at the eye-catching, orange sticky note on your water bottle. “But, for now, enjoy your water.”

The door closes as she laughs at her own sing-song words and you groan at her teasing. Taking another gulp of water, you placed the daffodil on an empty corner of your desk. For a moment all you can do is stare at it, its bright yellow petals not quite mocking you but certainly confusing you. You flop face first onto your bed with a groan. 

And then instantly regret it.

“Ow, ow, ow!” You hiss, eyes squinting shut as your hangover over takes you again. It takes an embarrassingly long amount of time for you to be able to uncurl yourself from the fetal position, but finally, once it no longer feels like your cranium is currently losing a fight to an MMA fighter, you’re able to peel yourself from your bed for the second time this morning.

The water Bradley got for you is already half finished and you take another grateful gulp. It does enough to dull the pain of your head and you wet your lips with your tongue as you screw the cap back on, glancing again at the daffodil on your desk.

Bradley.

If your 10 year old self could see you now, she’d probably hit you. Why are you blowing this?! She’d scream as she threw a shoe at you—and then another shoe, and then probably a very large book—and you’d have to gently explain to her that guys like Bradley Bradshaw don’t usually go for girls like you. And then she’d probably point accusingly at the daffodil on your desk—with a resolute stomp of her foot, knowing her—because guys like Bradley Bradshaw don’t really get girls flowers either, so clearly you don’t know guys like Bradley Bradshaw as well as you thought.

With nothing better to do, you decide you need to get out of your dorm—combat your hangover with some fresh air as you try to figure out what all of Bradley’s sudden new behaviors mean. You were positive he’d lose interest in you after last night, you can’t imagine dealing with you at your drunkest made you more attractive to him. And yet, not even a full 12 hours later, he’s thinking of you and leaving gifts to help you feel better because he seemingly noticed last night that the current Brita filter you have in your dorm is in desperate need of changing.

You throw one of Giselle’s old shirts over your head. Where does someone even get a daffodil anyway? Not on campus that’s for sure. Did that mean that Bradley had driven off campus to get you a flower? You have to shake off the thought before you end up squealing into your pillow like a middle schooler. Your head has learned its lesson that that’s not a fun time with a hangover.

Grabbing your phone and keys—and the bottle of water Bradley had gotten for you—you make your way out of your dorm and down the stairs. You don’t know why you’re even surprised to see Bradley outside your building. Only this time, he seems genuinely surprised to see you too.

For a moment, you feel like that one Spider-Man meme where they’re just pointing at each other. Except your Spider-Man is a scared, little, coward baby who’s five seconds from bolting back into her dorm building and Bradley’s Spider-Man has already recovered from the surprise of seeing you and is making his way over to where you’re standing.

Bradley looks pretty relaxed for a Sunday, dressed in a fairly light looking, green hoodie. From the depths of your memory, you can almost place it as the hoodie he wore last night. It looks soft, like it’s been through the wash a fair few times, and you can remember Bradley’s hoodie being soft against your cheek.

The hem of his chino pants stops a few inches above his white converse and you’re reminded again just how tall Bradley is. And big. Bradley is very big. Your eyes drift down to the athletic tape wrapped around his index finger and you can almost feel the ghost of it against the back of your thigh from when he had carried you with one hand. 

“Hey,” Bradley pulls you from your thoughts—which mainly consist of you screaming like a feral cat because you probably drooled on this man. Bradley laughs. “You didn’t drool on me, Sunshine.”

You made jokes about moving away and changing your name, but now you mean it. You mean it more than you’ve meant anything in your life. You cannot believe you’re legally considered an adult—you can’t believe people trust you with the responsibility of voting! Because you just accidentally told Bradley Bradshaw—to his face—that you probably drooled on him. 

Maybe it’s the hangover, but you can feel your 10 year old self throwing a dictionary at you.

“I don’t know why I said that,” you blurt finally, keeping your eyes trained on the two bands of athletic tape on Bradley’s finger so as to not have to look him in the eye. “But, um, thank you for the water. And flower. And getting me home last night.”

Bradley shrugs like it isn’t a big deal. “Figured you probably didn’t wanna go skinny dipping in front of a bunch of strangers.” You must look absolutely horrified because Bradley laughs again. “I’m kidding… sort of.” He grins cheekily and you decide that you don’t even want to know.

Besides, something far more pressing comes up in your mind and you finally look up at Bradley hesitantly. “You didn’t—You didn’t tell Giselle about… about what I told you, did you?”

Part of you assumes that Bradley didn’t, he and Giselle aren’t exactly the closest siblings. But he also isn’t that close with you and here he is asking you on dates and bringing you flowers, so your current perception of what’s true in the world of Bradley Bradshaw is a little up in the air.

“You might not remember, but you made me pinky promise,” Bradley teases, before he catches sight of how anxious you are. “I didn’t tell her.”

His words fill you with relief. 

Giselle’s your best friend and you love her beyond belief, so you know that if she catches even a hint of hesitance from you, she’ll burn the whole world down to make you feel comfortable again. Which is the last thing you want. You don’t want Giselle to ever feel like she has to choose between you and Reuben—because she doesn’t. You like Reuben, and Mickey and Bob too. You just sometimes can’t help but feel like no one seems to like you.

But that’s not Giselle’s fault and you think you’d hate yourself if you ever made Giselle feel bad for being happy.

“Thanks,” you tell Bradley, and you mean it. 

Bradley only nods, shoving his hands into his pockets. At this point the two of you have started walking—where, you’re not sure as you hadn’t even realized you left your dorm building. It’s quiet as you both enjoy the nice, late spring weather. The air smells like flowers and you like watching the birds swoop down to the green patches around campus.

“You don’t gotta worry about me telling my sister, Sunshine, but you have to promise me something,” Bradley speaks up suddenly, stopping on the sidewalk to look at you. “Don’t do that shit again.”

You turn to him questioningly.

Bradley sighs. “I mean, don’t go around drinking random drinks, okay? It’s not safe. And Giselle told me that’s the most she’s seen you drink too. You didn’t know your tolerance and you didn’t know what you were even drinking—I don’t need to tell you why that’s stupid.”

You look down like a scolded child. Because Bradley is right, it was stupid and, had you thought about it for a second longer, you probably wouldn’t have done it at all. But you felt so boring and you thought maybe you should loosen up like everyone secretly wishes you would. So you drank Mickey’s cup and you worried your friends because of it.

“You wanna try drinking something, you ask me,” Bradley continues, his index finger coming under your chin to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. “And I’ll take care of it. But I don’t want you taking drinks from anybody else, okay?”

You swallow thickly, nodding against the pad of Bradley’s finger. “Okay.”

Bradley’s eyes dart between your own for a moment before he nods again, dropping his finger from your chin. There’s something unreadable in his expression, and it’s not scary but it is difficult to understand—like this is a side of Bradley you’ve never seen before. But that doesn’t make any sense because, these last few days, he’s been nothing but nice to you.

Whatever the look was washes off Bradley’s features quickly and he’s back to his usual soft smirk as he runs a hand through his hair. “So, where am I taking you, Sunshine?”

You blink, looking around unsurely because you didn’t really have a plan of where you were going when you left your dorm. All you knew was that you needed to get some fresh air and get your mind off all things Bradley… 

Only one of those things is currently happening.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Giselle and Nat are at some cafe, so…” You trail off. 

You’re sure Bradley’s probably mildly aware that you don’t have many friends, but you don’t really feel like telling him that you can pretty much count them on one hand. 

Instead of saying anything about it, Bradley just grins. “All I’m hearin’ is that means you’re mine for the day.”

Mine.

There’s an eruption of butterflies in your stomach at the word that you discreetly try to trample. Now is not the time to do something stupid—you’re still recovering from the last stupid thing you did. You chew on the inside of your lip to stop the heat rising to your cheeks, but it hardly helps.

“Is… Is that what it means?” All you can manage to do is echo Bradley dumbly.

“I’m telling you, Sunshine, I’m a seasoned pro when it comes to mornings after,” Bradley smirks proudly and the two of you start walking again. “I’m about to make your hangover my bitch.”

You can’t stop the surprised giggle that spills from your lips. “What?”

When it’s been a moment and Bradley still has yet to respond, you turn to look at him. Weirdly, he’s already looking at you—that unreadable expression back on his face. You scrunch your nose a bit, brows furrowing.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Bradley nods finally, wetting his lips. “Yeah. I’m good.”

You nod, not wanting to push the topic when it’s clearly not a big deal. Besides, you don’t want to tell Bradley that you’ve been inadvertently studying his facial expressions for the last decade. That’s a level of embarrassing you’ve not reached yet. Instead, you let Bradley continue leading you wherever you guys are going—looking around, you realize that he’s taking you to your campus’s main hall.

“What have you eaten today, Sunshine?” Bradley questions, holding the door open for you as you enter the ground floor of the large building.

You look up at him sheepishly, biting your lip. “Um… Water?”

Bradley gives you a look—and finally it’s one you can read - he looks entirely unimpressed with you and your lackluster self care habits. Between two of his large calloused fingers, he gives a strand of your hair a gentle tug.

“You wanna try that again? Water’s not on the food pyramid.”

“Yes it is,” you argue, snatching your hair from Bradley’s fingers and he gives you another look. “Yes it is! It’s off to the side. Like, there’s the plate and then a cup of water.”

As you’re saying all this, Bradley is ushering you up the stairs, looking at you in amusement as you try to defend yourself. “Oh, so it’s next to the food pyramid. As in, not on the food pyramid?”

Your mouth snaps shut, your defiance now dwindling, and you look down. “No,” you mutter.

“Right,” Bradley grins as you both take the last step to the second floor. The cafe is just to your left and, without having to speak about it, you and Bradley both stand next to each other in line. “Well, no caffeine for you, but I’ll get you a banana.” He looks down to the almost empty bottle of water in your hand as he pulls his wallet from his back pocket. “And another water.”

You don’t even bother hiding the fuzzy feeling that bubbles up in your stomach. And maybe you should have higher standards, you know what he’s doing isn’t exactly noteworthy. Breaking News: Local College Guy Makes Sure Girl Eats and Drinks. But you never in your wildest dreams thought that Bradley Bradshaw would care about your potassium intake. So you decide that it’s okay to be just a little excited.

You don’t say anything until Bradley is leading you out of Main Hall, your bottle of water and banana in hand as he finds an umbrella-ed table for you both to sit at. He’s gotten himself a blue raspberry Body Armor and all three of the items he bought are completely dwarfed in his left hand.

You swallow. “You didn’t have to pay for all that… Thank you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Sunshine,” Bradley winks, opening your banana for you before handing it to you.

You take a bite from the yellow fruit, chewing slowly as Bradley sits down across from you, drinking his Body Armor. Unable to pull your eyes away from his bobbing Adam’s apple, you take another bite.

“How’s your hangover?” Bradley asks suddenly.

“Okay,” you admit once you’ve swallowed your bite of banana. “The water helped.”

Bradley nods and opens his mouth to say more when your phone ringer cuts him off. Looking down, you see Giselle’s contact photo. It’s a picture from your sophomore year of high school. Giselle was trying to recreate the Mamma Mia beach scene and got entirely wiped out by a wave. You managed to snap a somewhat unflattering photo of her drenched in water and pulling a face as she was trying to dry off.

You’re pretty sure that she should still be with Natasha, Mickey, and Reuben, and you can’t help but think the worst when you see that she’s calling. You look up at Bradley guiltily.

“I’m sorry,” you bite your lip. “I should probably take this.”

It only takes one look between you and your ringing phone for Bradley to nod. He gets up, securing the cap onto his drink and his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“Yeah, I should probably go anyway.” You know it’s ridiculous, but you can’t help but worry that it’s your awkward inability to communicate that’s making Bradley want to leave. Before you can process the thought more, Bradley’s looking at you sternly. “But you better finish that banana, Sunshine.”

You give him a hasty nod and, before you can stop yourself, you’re holding your pinky out. Bradley wraps his around yours before you can pull it back. “Thank you—Thank you for lunch.”

You give Bradley another wave, watching him walk away as you finally answer your phone.

“Reuben asked me to be his girlfriend!”

“Oh my god! Really?”

You feel awful about yourself for thinking it, but you can’t help but wish you ignored your phone and stayed with Bradley instead.

With finals wrapping up, Bradley’s getting antsy. It’s been a few days since his impromptu hangout with you. Honestly he had no ill intentions when he ran into you—he wasn’t even meaning to—but he had nothing better to do and Bradley knows an opportunity when he sees one. He didn’t entirely expect to like talking to you as much as he did, but he reasons that he’s excited because it means you’re getting closer to him. And the closer you get to him the more you’ll want to date him.

But he hasn’t seen you since and, if he can’t even get you to agree to be his girlfriend before the school year’s over, it's hardly a good sign for the length of your relationship. Logically, Bradley thinks this shouldn’t be this hard. It’s your first year of college. You’re still trying to chase that freshman cliche of “the college experience” that hasn’t lost its allure yet. And you don’t exactly have many friends, you should be jumping all over the chance to get with Bradley Bradshaw. And yet here he is buying you flowers, and taking you home, and getting excited about spending a single day with you. Bradley could almost applaud Makayla’s ability to fuck with him, but he knows that it was probably on accident.

Bradley’s already in a sour mood when students start filtering into the Football House and they all already know to give him a wide berth. Jake laughs it off somewhat awkwardly and then everyone is distracted by him, rolling their eyes at his over-fascination in the stock market. Bradley just gets up with a huff, making his way into an emptier room of the house.

He doesn’t even feel in the mood to drink, nor look for Makayla—for the first time in almost three years, he’s not even sure she’s here. Instead, Bradley’s grumbling because he can see the backyard through the window and catches sight of you throwing your head back with laughter by the fire pit. Bradley’s never made you laugh at that, even when he has made you laugh it’s a giggle at most, and he knows for a fact that Bob Floyd can’t be that funny. He just doesn't get it.

“Can I talk to you?”

Bradley turns around to see his sister looking at him curiously, a red solo cup in her hand as she stands in the threshold of the room. He suppresses an eye roll, reminding himself that he needs to stay on his sister’s good side if he wants any of this to work. Instead he nods silently, prompting her to continue.

Giselle takes in a breath. “I’m stepping aside.”

Bradley’s brows furrow as he racks his brain for what his sister is talking about. Giselle looks slightly pained as she stands in front of him, the grimace on her face clearly evident even though she’s trying to hide it. Bradley squints his eyes slightly.

“What?”

“I’m—,” Giselle lets out a huff at the fact she has to elaborate. “If you really want to, I am giving you permission to go out with my best friend.”

Bradley blinks.

“I mean, I thought for sure you’d fuck up, but—You haven’t even tried anything with another girl for the past two and a half weeks. Really, I don’t know what’s wrong with you.” Giselle runs a hand of disbelief through her hair.

Bradley can’t believe this either. It’s like everything in the universe is somehow perfectly aligning in order to make sure he dates Makayla. While he first saw it as a negative, you being Giselle’s best friend means that he’s guaranteed to have you with him for the whole summer. It’s a lot easier to keep a girlfriend when she’s two doors over. And while he thought Giselle herself would be an obstacle, somehow he’s gained her approval without even trying.

Her words hit him for a second time and Bradley pauses. Had he really not talked to any other girls since pursuing you? Even with Makayla, Bradley had no issue playing the field—it’s the main reason he’s doing this in the first place—he hardly went a single party before flirting with someone else. Bradley reasons that he’s been so focused on planning his “perfect boyfriend” routine that he hasn’t even had time to think of other girls. And the impromptu celibacy ended up working in his favor in the end, with Giselle finally giving her blessing because of it. 

With his confidence renewed, Bradley readies himself with another interaction with you. He had to do something sweet first. A “be a boyfriend before he is a boyfriend” kind of thing. Something that makes you think he’s thoughtful. Girls like that.

Bradley turns back to look at you and sees you get up from where you’re chatting with Bob at the fire pit. This is his chance. Something halts his feet though as he catches sight of his sister again and he hesitates before asking, “When did you know?”

“What?” Giselle doesn’t seem to follow.

“You said I have this look. When I like a girl,” Bradley explains. For some reason he needs to know the answer to this. “When did I do it?”

Giselle looks up at him for a moment, before turning around with a teasing smile. “Bye, Bradley.”

“The drinks are in the kitchen.”

You look up from where you’re fishing through the ice cooler to see Landon Jahney staring down at you, a beer bottle in his hand that he’s guzzling lazily as he looks at you. You smile somewhat nervously.

“I know, I was just looking for a Sprite,” you clear your throat so your voice comes out stronger.

It’s not often that you’re made to feel bad about the fact that you don’t really drink. Most of the time, people just shrug it off and move on with their lives, not all that invested in how much alcohol you consume. You’re grateful for that too. You know your friends like drinking—Mickey and Reuben especially—but they’ve never made you feel bad for the fact that you prefer a carbonated soda over a Whiteclaw.

Assuming Landon will be the same, you turn back to the cooler. You’d have to let the football team know that their Sprite supply is severely lacking. As you continue pushing through the melting ice, you realize that Landon has yet to leave.

He holds his beer out. “You can have some of mine.”

“Oh, no thank you, I don’t drink—,”

“You don’t drink?” Landon almost scoffs in disbelief. “You’re friends with Mickey Garica and you don’t drink?”

You try not to flinch at his accusing tone, eyes flitting around to find any one of your friends. Landon’s certainly not drunk, but he is a bit buzzed, and maybe that’s why he’s failing to read the clear signals you’re giving off. Because you don’t want to drink a beer, especially not his, you want to drink a Sprite. And you promised Bradley you wouldn’t do something stupid like that again—which is a promise you intend to keep. The remembrance of Bradley helps you calm down a bit. Regardless of how inebriated Landon is, you’re positive he would back off at the threat of angering your university’s star quarterback Bradley Bradshaw.

Landon holds his beer out again and some of it sloshes onto the skirt of your dress. “Just have a sip—,”

You let out a startled yelp when an arm wraps around your middle and lifts you from where you're squatting in front of the cooler. Your back presses into a tautened chest and you look up to see the underside of Bradley’s clenched jaw. He’s glaring at Landon with a hardly subdued fury, holding you firmly to him as a wordless warning.

Without looking away from Landon, Bradley puts a can of Sprite in your hand. “There a problem?”

“Nah, man,” Landon pulls his beer back and you watch as his throat bobs nervously. “I was just trying to help her find something to drink, that’s all.”

Bradley nods stiffly and Landon looks like he’s trying to figure out the fastest way out of the backyard—and perhaps your college campus all together. Your eyes feel like ping pong balls darting between the two.

Bradley nods his head to the Sprite in your hand. “I got it covered.” There’s a finality in his words that has Landon nodding hastily, relieved that the conversation is ending without Bradley’s fist against his face.

“No, yeah, I—Totally,” Landon fumbles over his words as he agrees with the older boy.

It’s quiet for just a second longer, before Landon makes his smartest decision of the night and decides to walk away. His feet pivot in the grass in attempts to slow himself down so he doesn’t just entirely tuck tail and run. He only makes it a few steps before Bradley calls out to him again.

“Hey, Jahney?” It isn’t until Landon faces him completely that Bradley continues, his grip around your middle tightening. “You offer my girl alcohol again, we’re gonna have some problems, got it?”

You think Landon’s head might fall off with how fast he’s nodding. “G-got it.”

It isn’t until Landon’s out of sight that Bradley’s grip on you relaxes and you glance up at him hesitantly. His eyes are still hard, trained on the back of Landon’s head and you’ve never really understood the saying “if looks could kill” until now. You look down at the cold can of Sprite in your hand.

“Thank you.”

Bradley nods wordlessly, gently ushering you to a more private part of the backyard. You don’t know why, but, even though Bradley was the person to tell you not to drink, you feel the need to defend yourself. You’re not an idiot, while you’ve personally never really seen Bradley drunk before, it’d be stupid to assume that he didn’t drink at all. Clearly he does and, given the circles he runs in, so do most of the girls he likes too.

“It’s—It’s not—I can drink, I just don’t really like it,” you try to explain as he leads you to the porch swing in a quiet corner of the backyard. “Also I’m 19. Like, I’m not even supposed to drink, if you think about it—Not that I think I’m better than anyone! I don’t think that I’m better than anybody for not drinking, I promise. I mean, you know what happens when I get drunk. I just—,”

The large, calloused hand that cups your cheek causes the words to die in your throat and you finally look up to see Bradley watching you bemusedly. “Sunshine.” You can hear the smile he’s biting back. “I don’t care.”

You deflate a little, embarrassment heating your cheeks. “Right.”

“No–fuck–I mean—,” Bradley drops his hand from your cheek with a wince. “Why should I care if you drink or not? It doesn’t matter. Like, it doesn’t change anything.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah ‘oh’. Now drink your Sprite,” Bradley juts his chin at the can in your hand.

You open the tab with a satisfying click, taking a small sip of your favorite lemon lime soda. Both you and Bradley are standing in front of the porch swing, out of sight from most of the party guests but still able to get a pretty good view of them. You notice that Landon seems to have moved inside.

Another sip of Sprite slides down your throat and you shoot a glance back at Bradley. He’s fiddling with the backwards hat on his head, arms stretched so his shirt rides up enough to reveal a sliver of tanned skin. You have to force yourself to take another sip of your soda to pull your eyes away.

“How’s—?” You clear your throat. “How’s football?”

Bradley looks mildly amused. “You really wanna know?”

Truthfully, you don’t. You barely know anything about the sport, so you’re sure you wouldn't even understand what he’s saying. But it was the first thing you could think of and it’s not like standing in silence would have been any better.

“Well, I just… I know, like, NFL scouts have been watching you this year. And that’s a big deal, right?”

What ever teasing Bradley had in store for you seems to die on his tongue and he almost looks surprised. He cocks his head slightly, looking at you almost intensely, before shaking it.

“I guess, yeah,” Bradley says finally.

It falls to silence again—the very thing you were hoping to avoid. You nod awkwardly. “Well, congratulations.

“I think most people usually wait until after someone gets drafted to congratulate them.” That finally gets Bradley to laugh. And maybe you’ve made a fool of yourself, once again, but at least you aren’t being suffocated by awkward tension anymore. “But thank you… I appreciate it.”

That lopsided smile you’ve only seen a couple times makes an appearance on Bradley’s face. Of all his expressions, you think that smile is your favorite. It’s not quite as sharp or charming as his smirks—like he’s trying to convince you that he’s those things. But his smile is softer and unintentional. Bradley’s smile doesn’t try to convince you of anything, it just is.

“Are you excited for the end of the year?” Bradley’s question pulls you from your thoughts and you hope you haven’t been staring at his mouth this entire time.

You take another sip of your soda. “I am. I think Giselle’s got the whole summer planned.”

“Damn.” Bradley lets out a light whistle as he sags overdramatically. “How am I supposed to take you on dates and life changing romantic experiences if my sister is hogging you the whole summer?”

You hide your laughter with your hand. “Was that what you were planning on doing this summer? Not, like, golf with Jake and Javy?”

Bradley wrinkles his nose as an answer and you can’t help but giggle again.

“Alright, maybe when Giselle’s busy getting lost in Reuben’s eyes, I’ll sneak off and find you,” you joke, eyes darting over to your best friend to confirm that she’s doing just that. When you turn back, Bradley’s just looking at you, and it hits you suddenly that he’s been staying here with you and your Sprite for a fair amount of time by this point.

“You can—You can go back to the party if you want,” you offer. You doubt Bradley planned on babysitting you—again—and you don’t want him to think that he has to. You didn’t even know there was a porch swing at the Football House, so, really, you’re set.

Bradley glances at you. “I’m right where I wanna be, Sunshine.”

“Oh,” you purse your lips slowly, averting your eyes to scan the various college students littering the backyard. Giselle and Reuben are curled up on a lawn sofa, all too lost in each other, and for once, there isn’t that slight, underlying sting you usually feel when you smile at the sight. Mickey and Natasha are laughing at each other while they play cornhole. Bob is chatting with some girl you vaguely recognize from one of your classes, a genuine smile on his face. And you’re standing next to Bradley Bradshaw, drinking a Sprite that he got for you unprompted. “I think… I think I am too.”

You can’t look at Bradley when you say it, so you’re unsure what his reaction is, but suddenly his arm is brushing against yours as he leans on the patio railing next to you. You turn to watch his profile as he wets his lips slowly. “You know, I promised you something else that night.”

The night in question—the night Bradley took you back to your dorm—comes to the forefront of your mind and you furrow your brows. He promised you something else? For the life of you, you can’t figure out what. You remember him promising not to tell Giselle about your confession. You can remember him trying to comfort you…

It hits you suddenly and you know Bradley can tell because, when you whip your head to face him, he’s already looking at you. There’s something almost restrained in his features, his pupils dilated as he stares down at you, his swallows practically audible. 

Slowly, one of his hands comes up to your cheek, his head dropping as his other hand finds purchase on your hip. You’ve only been kissed by two boys in your life—and both had been mediocre experiences. Your first kiss was just embarrassing, you didn’t know what to do and you’d just met the boy at your first high school party. At the time, you just wanted to get it over with. You didn’t want to be the only freshman that hadn’t kissed anyone yet. 

And it certainly didn’t help that Bradley had just gotten his driver’s license and suddenly more girls wanted to kiss him than ever before. So you kissed your dreams of Bradley Bradshaw being your first kiss goodbye—quite literally—and settled for Michael Prescot instead. It had been wet, and weird, and embarrassing, and you never saw Michael again.

Your second kiss was somehow worse. You kissed Elliot Carver in his car after a date because you didn’t know what else to do and then he tried to pull you over the center console and onto his lap because apparently that’s what happens after kissing. When you stopped him from doing so, he made up some flimsy excuse that he had to leave and you were stuck waiting in a parking lot listening to Olivia Rodrigo until Giselle picked you up.   

But neither Michael nor Elliot cupped your face as gently as Bradley is, only the weight of his hand feels familiar on your hip. Your head tilts up as Bradley gets closer, eyes fluttering closed, and then his lips are on yours. And part of you freaks out—because you really aren’t a great kisser—but Bradley almost seems to swallow the hesitation, moving his lips slowly against yours as he coaxes you out of your nerves.

You hardly even register your Sprite can dropping to the wooden porch and rolling onto the grass, the clear liquid spilling out onto the green blades, as your hands wrap tentatively around Bradley’s neck. Your nose nudges against his cheek, breathing in the sandalwood scent of his cologne, as your fingers find the base of his hairline under his ball cap. A sudden hunger takes over Bradley at the action and he pulls you closer to him by your hip, his tongue darting out to explore your mouth further when you gasp in surprise. 

Michael and Elliot had always made you feel like you were a bad kisser. You hardly moved at either time and, during the time you were kissing them, you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d be done soon. But in kissing Bradley, you realize that it’s not that you’re a bad kisser, you just didn’t like Michael or Elliot. Kissing them was awkward and uncomfortable because being with them was awkward and uncomfortable. But you like Bradley. You like kissing Bradley.

Which is why you can’t help but chase his lips slightly when he pulls away, lifting onto your tiptoes though that hardly helps you reach him. Bradley chuckles quietly, wiping some of his saliva from your bottom lip and your eyes flutter open.

“You still gonna make me ask, baby?” His voice comes out raspy and you have to suppress the shivers it elicits from you.

You give Bradley a small nod, unable to do anything but look up at him through your lashes.

He grins, his thumb still tracing your lip as his own lip rolls through his teeth slowly.

“Will you be my girlfriend, Sunshine?”

“Boyfriend?” Natasha almost tests the word out on her tongue, saying it slowly as if somewhere in the syllables she’ll find something to clear up her hesitance. “Bradley Bradshaw’s your boyfriend?”

You’re lying on your bed across from her, fiddling with one of your pillows as you look down bashfully. “I guess so… But, I don’t know, he’s sweet, Nat. And thoughtful. Plus, when we kissed, he—,”

“Alright, ew,” Giselle pipes up from next to you on the mattress. “Please do not go into detail about sucking face with my brother.”

“I knew that’d catch on!” You grin at her verbiage. 

Natasha rolls her eyes teasingly, waving her hand to get your attention again. “Back to the subject, you’re just okay with this, Elle?” Natasha looks at the other girl with something that borders on disbelief.

To your left, Giselle shrugs. “Weirdly, yeah. I thought I’d hate it, but… I don’t know. We did always want to be sisters.”

You choke on your spit, eyes widening as your head whips around to look at her incredulously. “What is with you Bradshaws and just declaring relationship statues?!” 

When Giselle only laughs, you hit her lightly with your pillow.

“A girl can’t dream?” Giselle defends herself, propping up on one side to look at you better. “If I have to have my best friend dating my brother, I might as well get something out of it.”

You turn to Natasha, who’s biting back a smile at the two of you, and shake your head. “Am I being peer pressured into marriage right now?” 

“Unimportant—,” Natasha waves you off again before turning to Giselle. “Giselle, cover your ears.” Your best friend does just that, pressing her palms against the sides of her head as Natasha brings her attention back to you. “Okay,” her voice drops to an excited whisper. “How was it?”

You feel your insides turn to jelly at just the thought of kissing Bradley, a goofy grin threatening to spread across your face. For reasons currently sitting next to you with her hands over her ears, you hadn’t really had the chance to talk much about your kiss with Bradley, but you’ve been thinking about it nonstop. 

Somehow, though you’ve fantasized about it for years, kissing Bradley was better than you ever could have imagined. You never expected him to be so gentle, yet domineering, taking control of every movement while still holding you tenderly. Kissing Bradley was soft. There was nothing rushed or dizzying, it didn’t take the air out of your lungs like all the movies say it should. And, while you thought that would be a bad thing, it wasn’t. Kissing Bradley was comforting—if anything, he was putting air into your lungs—his hands on your body felt familiar and safe. You didn’t think you could even feel all that from just one kiss. And then you’re spun into another lovesick spiral when you remember that now you get to kiss Bradley whenever you want to.

But you can’t imagine that’s something Giselle wants to hear. If you’re honest, though you’ve always felt comfortable talking to her about boys, you don’t really want to tell her about Bradley either. You can totally understand how weird it would be for the both of you and it’s made you a little hesitant to say anything about Bradley to any of your friends. And the longer time went on, the longer you realized you didn’t necessarily hate that. It’s kind of nice to know that only you know what it feels like to kiss Bradley Bradshaw.

You bite your lip to hide your smile. “He’s a really good kisser.”

It’s also nice to talk about though.

“Yes, bitch!” Natasha high-fives you and you can’t help but giggle, hiding your face in your pillow as your cheeks heat.

“Hey, wait a sec,” Giselle drops her hands when she sees you and Natasha laughing. “That’s not fair! What did you say?”

“That your brother’s a good kisser.”

“Nat!” Giselle throws a pillow at the brunette, making a face of complete disgust.

Natasha catches the pillow easily, a shit-eating grin on her face. “You asked!”

“That is—,” Giselle mimes retching before turning to you. “Look, I’m really happy that you’re happy with that shithead, but if I didn’t know you as well as I do, I would think that you agreed to date him as a form of self-punishment.” 

“He’s nice, Elle,” you defend your boyfriend. 

Boyfriend. Bradley Bradshaw’s your boyfriend. And he kissed you. And he’s going to keep kissing you. Because he’s your boyfriend. And…

“Ow!” Your hand flies up to your nose in shock, the pillow that was just chucked at your face bouncing onto the floor. “What was that for?!”

Giselle narrows her eyes and points at you accusingly. “You were thinking about my brother, you sick freak. You had that gross look on your face.”

Natasha burst out laughing, falling back onto her bed as you gape at Giselle dramatically.

“You mean the look you have whenever Reuben so much as breathes? That look?” You counter, sticking your tongue out at your best friend.

It only takes a second for Giselle to pounce on you, pillow in hand as you both bounce on your mattress in a fit of giggles. After a couple pillows to the face—some of which from Natasha who had also joined in your pillow fight—your fingers curl around one of your own and you retaliate. You’re sure your dorm will look a mess by the time you all finish, Bradley, Reuben, and boyfriends all but forgotten as you laugh with your best friends.

Finally Giselle puts her pillow down, panting with a wide grin as she collapses on your bed. “Okay, okay. Let's call it a tie and watch Clueless now.”

“Deal.” You and Natasha put your pillows down with a nod.

The three of you do your best to cram onto your bed as you open your laptop. Giselle rests her head on your shoulder while you prop the computer onto your thighs, queuing up Clueless while Natasha settles on your right. And everything is just like every movie night the three of you have had before. You can’t help but smile softly as a young Alicia Silverstone appears on your screen.

Part of you worried that things would change once you started dating Bradley, that dynamics would shift and things wouldn’t be the same with Giselle or Natasha. But with Natasha laughing quietly to your right and Giselle about to fall asleep on you on your left, you realize they haven’t changed. You have your best friends and a boyfriend.

On your chest, your phone buzzes and you tilt it up to glance at it curiously.

Bradley: Goodnight sunshine 😘

Bradley’s beginning to think that this boyfriend thing is way easier than most guys make it out to be. All he has to do is let you know that he’s thinking about you, text you good morning and good night with some cringey emojis, and flirt with you whenever he can. In fact, he can’t help but feel like he’s the clingy boyfriend because you don’t entirely reciprocate any of it. You respond simply to his text messages and he only ever gets a small smile from his flirting. You seem happiest when he tells you that he’s thinking about you, but then he sees you with Bob or Mickey and suddenly they’re blowing him entirely out of the water.

Bradley does not consider himself to be a jealous person, but when two literal freshmen are getting you to laugh until your stomach hurts and he can barely get you to smile, it’s a blow his ego can’t stand. So, even though it's something he never does, Bradley invites you over to the Football House for a chill date night. Maybe you’re just not a text message girl.

And that might honestly be a good thing. Bradley’s learned through Makayla’s constant pestering that he’s not much of a text message guy either and, though the insincere emojis are easy, they’re starting to become a bit of a chore. As of now, Makayla’s actively belittling his attempts—with far too many emojis—by stating that he should have taken you to dinner or something more impressive, but you always seem a little overwhelmed if you’re in a public place without Giselle so, much like constant texting, Bradley doesn’t think you’ll even want that.

Instead, he raids the house kitchen for snacks, finds a movie he thinks you’ll like on Netflix, and calls it a day. And he’s so sure that this will work, that this will finally be enough to get you to treat him like you treat Bob and Mickey because Bradley is capable of being a good boyfriend. But then it’s 7:00 pm and you have yet to show up. And then 7:30. And then 8:00. And Bradley’s checking his phone again, grumbling over the fact that he just got stood up in his own bedroom. Just when he’s about to call it for the night, the door to his room flies open and you stumble in out of breath.

“I’m so sorry,” your eyes are lit up in panic, backpack slung haphazardly over your shoulder. “I completely lost track of time, I swear I didn’t mean to be late.”

“Well, you—Were you crying?” Bradley squints when the dim lights of his room reflect against your wet cheeks and waterlogged lashes.

You swallow, wiping at your eyes hastily as you shake your head. “No, I think it’s allergies. I—,”

“C’mere.”

You listen to Bradley’s words instantly, padding into his room softly until you're right in front of him. From this distance it’s obvious to Bradley that you have been crying, your cheeks and nose puffy and your eyes red, and it appears his mention of it has brought the tears back, as your eyes have become glassier with every step. Bradley gives your hair a gentle tug.

“You wanna try that again?” He asks softly.

Your shoulders rise and fall in a pitiful shrug. “I take my political science final in two days and I’m pretty sure I’m gonna fail it.” You go to wipe at your cheek again, but Bradley does it for you, wiping the tear away with the pad of his thumb. “I’m really trying too, I just… I looked at the study guide and I didn’t understand anything.”

Bradley nods slowly. He wants to be mad, you embarrassed him—granted not publicly, but still. He set up this whole thing for you and you were an hour late. But he can’t be mad, not when he knows that you’ve been crying over a textbook that whole time.

Carefully, Bradley takes your backpack off your shoulder and holds it in one of his hands. You’re looking up at him with doe eyes, head cocked in confusion, and he wipes another tear from your cheek. “You wanna change, Sunshine?”

You’re in jeans and t-shirt that don’t look entirely comfortable and his closet full of clothes is right there. He can’t imagine you’ll be very comfortable sitting on his bed in denim. You glance at his closet.

“What do you mean?” You’re only more confused when Bradley lifts your bag up to open it.

“Well, problem number one is that you’re studying in jeans.” Bradley sets your bag on his bed, murmuring offhandedly as he flips through your textbook. “Where’s your study guide?”

You sniffle, pointing at the folder peeking out of your bag.

With the hand not holding your open textbook, Bradley reaches for it, scanning the stapled pieces of paper. “The bathroom's the next door over.” 

“What…” Your eyes dart from his closest to him to the textbook and study guide in his hands.

“You can stay in your clothes if you want.” After looking through them briefly, Bradley sets your textbook and study guide on his bed and brings his attention back to you. “I just figured you’d be more comfortable studying in something else.”

You swallow, looking up at him as you roll your bottom lip through your teeth. “You’re helping me study?”

“Perks of having a boyfriend who’s already taken this class,” Bradley grins.

It takes a moment for you to look anything but confused and internally Bradley feels a tinge of panic because maybe this isn’t what boyfriends do. And if it’s not then he has no idea what he should be doing instead. Right when he’s about to say something that he’d figure out when he opened his mouth, you lunge forward suddenly and hug him tightly.

“Thank you,” you say against his cotton t-shirt. 

Your voice is shaky and Bradley can tell that you’re starting to get overwhelmed like you do, so he wraps his arms around you slowly. “You don’t gotta thank me, Sunshine.”

“Can I… Can I change?” You look up at him and something stirs in Bradley’s stomach. “I think you’re right that my jeans aren’t that comfortable.”

Bradley shakes off whatever he’s feeling, releasing you gently to grab an old shirt from his closet. He holds it up for you as if to ask if it’s okay and you nod with a small smile, taking it from him before slowly leaving the room. Bradley waits for the door to close behind you before moving to sit on his bed, lost in thought.

He feels weird, like something fuzzy in the pit of his stomach. It’s a feeling he’s only mildly familiar with, it happens when he makes you laugh too. It could be accomplishment. This feeling means he’s getting somewhere with you. And getting somewhere with you means he’s getting somewhere with Makayla. And that’s why he feels this way.

Bradley flips the page of your study guide.

But what he’s feeling about you isn’t important, not when he’s finally been given boyfriend status. Because you came to him, not Bob or Mickey or Giselle. You got overwhelmed with school and you chose to come to Bradley. In fairness, the two of you already had plans, but Bradley Bradshaw counts his wins.

The door of his room opens again and you shuffle in, your clothes balled up in your hand as your bare feet step onto his floors unsurely.

“You can—Uh,” Bradley stutters a bit when he looks up, that weird feeling coming back and he has to blink a few times to clear his head. “You can put those anywhere.”

The t-shirt of his you have on reaches your mid-thigh and something sparks in Bradley’s mind at the sight. The whole thing looks like a dress on you and Bradley knows there’s a good chance he’ll never get this shirt back, but just the thought that you’d be the one wearing it fills Bradley with thoughts he knows he should not be having about you. 

You make your way over to the bed after setting your clothes down on an empty chair, gnawing at your lip as Bradley fights with his endocrine system to try and stay composed. “Thank you for studying with me. You really don’t have to.”

“If anything I should be thanking you.” When you look confused, Bradley leans back with a smirk. “For the view.”

“Oh… thanks…” You look down, fiddling with the hem of Bradley’s t-shirt you’re wearing. 

When you don’t say anything more, Bradley internally sighs. Why doesn’t that work with you? Bradley doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do. He flirts with you and it only seems to make you uncomfortable. Maybe he’s too corny. Hell, he feels corny when he says shit like that. 

Bradley just nods it off, clearing his throat as he looks down at your papers.

It’s quiet for a beat, out of his peripheral Bradley can see you glancing at him every few seconds. You scoot closer to him. His shirt rolls up a bit at the movement and reveals more of your bare thighs.

“I, um, like the view too.”

Bradley’s head snaps up but you’re looking down sheepishly, unable to meet his eye as he grins suddenly. Moving the papers and book between the two of you, Bradley shifts to shorten even more of the distance between you.

“Yeah?” He teases. “I don’t know if I believe you when you’re not even looking at me.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands as you shake your head slightly. “Stop.”

“What?” Bradley laughs, gently wrestling your hands from your face despite your light protests.

When he finally gets your hands captured in his own, you’re much closer to him, a small pout on your face as you try to hide your embarrassment. 

“You’re mean,” you say simply, pout deepening.

“Oh, I’m mean?” Bradley pulls you by your wrists until you're straddling his lap. Your eyes widen in surprise and Bradley’s grin only grows as he presses a kiss to one of your knuckles. “Lemme say sorry, baby.”

Your faces are close enough that he only needs to drop his head just a little more before his nose is nudging yours and his lips are moving against your own. Bradley releases your wrists in favor of letting his hands trail up and down your sides and your fingers quickly get lost in his curls. Bradley doesn’t know if you’re aware of just how crazy you drive him when you tug on his hair, but his hands squeeze your hips in response as he pulls you even closer to him.

His shirt on you has ridden up to your hips, fully exposing your bare thighs to him and Bradley lets his hands travel down to explore the new territory. You sigh against his lips, fingernails scratching at his scalp, and a groan reverberates from his throat. Bradley was pleasantly surprised to learn that he enjoyed kissing you the first time he did in the backyard of the Football House. Enough so that he wanted to do it again. 

In a way, it makes him feel like he knows things about you that someone like Bob or Mickey doesn’t. He knows that you wear the sweetest smelling vanilla chapstick. He knows that if he holds you just right, that you’ll completely melt into him. He knows that sometimes when he pulls away too quickly, you’ll subconsciously chase his lips for more.

Bradley’s mouth travels down to your exposed neck, breathing in your lavender chamomile body wash as he testingly takes a spot of soft skin between his teeth. When you sigh again, tilting your head to expose more of your neck to him, Bradley sucks the spot gently, soothing the area with his tongue once he feels your fingers tighten between his curls. 

Trailing kisses up to the underside of your jaw, Bradley lets his eyes flutter open to see your own closed blissfully. Your lips are swollen, shining against the dim lights of his room, and Bradley decides he likes it better when this is the reason you look disheveled and not because you’ve been crying. He trails his lips down to your pulse point, kissing it softly a few times before sinking his teeth into the skin.

Bradley likes to think that he’s a pretty composed guy. He’s well versed in making out with girls, knows when to go slow and when to heat things up. He knows how to make it enjoyable. And Bradley is certainly capable of staying in control of himself. But then he sucks against your pulse point and he hears you whimper softly.

There is nothing Bradley wouldn’t do to hear you make that sound again.

Without warning, Bradley flips you onto his bed, swallowing your noise of surprise as he hovers over you. He kisses you deeper, one of his hands trailing down to trace circles on your hip. Just when his fingers begin to brush the hem of your shirt, you pull away, gently putting your hand against his chest to stop him.

You swallow thickly. “Wait…”

“Right, studying. Sorry—,” Bradley pants. Letting his hand fall away from your hip as he sits back to give you more room.

“No, it’s not—I just—,” You sit up yourself, fiddling with your fingers, and Bradley can’t take his eyes off the lip you have trapped between your teeth. “I’ve never… done this before.”

Bradley’s eyes widen just slightly. “Oh.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to or anything. I just—I want it to be special, I guess…” You trail off, looking up at Bradley through your lashes.

“Sunshine, it’s okay,” Bradley does his best to smile reassuringly. “We don’t have to do that shit if you don’t want to.”

You nod offhandedly, like you only partly believe him, glancing down at your fingers again. “We could—We could keep kissing though,” you suggest shyly.

Bradley chuckles, leaning forward as you scoot back down on his mattress. There’s a lopsided smile on his face as he hovers over you again.

“Mmm, I’m pretty sure someone needs to study.” Bradley presses a kiss to your nose and you scrunch it in response.

Your nose stays scrunched, an unhappy expression taking over your face as you look up at him. Bradley’s unfazed, only pinching your nose lightly before sitting back up to find where your textbook and study guide have ended up after your earlier evening activities. When he finds them, you’re still laying on your back and Bradley looks at you knowingly.

With an exaggerated huff, you sit up, shuffling over to the end of the bed where Bradley’s already opening your textbook. Bradley pulls you in for a praising kiss when you're close enough, only pulling away when you start giggling against his lips.

“What?” 

You smile. “Your mustache tickles.”

Bradley scoffs lightheartedly. “Yeah, alright.” He grabs your study guide from the bed, flipping through a few of the stapled pages. “Now what questions are you not understanding?”

You leave hours later with a completed study guide and a bright smile on your face. And Bradley finally feels like he’s done something right all on his own, because he knows you enjoyed this way more than you would have enjoyed any restaurant. And when you leave still wearing Bradley’s t-shirt, there’s a chance he secretly hopes he never gets it back.

please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!

[stxrgvsm]

i luv me some bradley bradshaw angst

[marcidstars]

SCHADENFREUDE ♱ spencer reid x unsub!reader

SUMMARY: interrupting spencer's sleep by asking for sex takes a turn when he gives you exactly what you want in the worst (best) ways possible.

GENRE: smut (MDNI) | WORD COUNT: 6.2k

TAGS: reader is an unsub | bratty!reader, dom!spencer, rough sex, dubcon elements (coercion, repeated use of "no" and "stop" etc), sadomasochism, major breeding kink, major condescension, oral (m receiving), throat fucking, cum swallowing, face slapping, orgasm denial, begging, protected p in v unfortunately, doggy style, spanking, hair pulling, crying, verbal degradation, but also aftercare (if you squint), not proofread

NOTES: hi guys i have no explanation for this; it's pure filth. i don't even like this, but i hope you will <3

⤷ UNSUB!READER MASTERLIST ᝰ.ᐟ

SCHADENFREUDE: the experience of pleasure, joy, or self-satisfaction that comes from learning of the troubles, failures, pain, suffering, or humiliation of another.

Spencer's bed might just be your favourite place in the whole world; his sheets are soft, linen, always freshly washed, and you're positive he must have stuffed his mattress with clouds it's so comfortable. You could lay there for hours, days, weeks, without moving a muscle, and you'd be completely, utterly at peace. 

He's there, too: trying to sleep as you pester him well into the night, muttering repeatedly about how he will kick you out if you don't cease your constant chatter, looking like an angel sent from Heaven under the moonlight. A Renaissance painting you get to admire for hours on end.

That's just a bonus; you're really only here for the bed.

Or that's what you tell him, not that he believes you in the slightest. He knows you're here with some ulterior motive, you always are, but he's desperately hoping that just this once you might be gracious enough to let him sleep.

But grace isn't something you've shown in the past, so why would you start now? Sure, Spencer might have work tomorrow (today, technically), but you're bored—and that takes precedent here; everyone knows what happens when a serial killer is left to their own devices for too long.

Of course, you don't pose much of a threat to anyone, not anymore; you're retired, non-practicing. You wouldn't hurt a fly if it landed in your cereal. As far as serial killers go, you're harmless. An innocent deer whose coat just happens to be covered in blood that'll never quite wash off. 

You aren't going to kill anyone, even if boredom is killing you, but would Spencer really be willing to take that risk?

The answer thus far has been no. Your capacity to cause harm, in his eyes, far outweighs your promise to stop killing, no matter how many times you tell him you've "changed". He lets you weaponise his distrust only because he has to, because he can't run the risk of trusting you, your word, no matter how badly he may want to.

This is how you managed to take him ballroom dancing, and how you're planning on convincing him to take time off work for a bloody "couple's trip" to New York, and all the other things you've done together. Things that he never would have agreed to if it weren't for the looming threat of you going off the rails. It's a pretty foolproof method, if you do say so yourself.

So when you tug at the collar of his shirt to press a kiss to his shoulder, murmuring into his skin how bored you are, he begrudgingly gives you his full attention.

"There are more books in this apartment than there are—"

"In most bookstores," you say, finishing his sentence for him with a sly smile. "I know."

He gives you a light nudge with his elbow. "Then go find something to read."

He makes a half-hearted attempt at turning away, but you grab his arm and pull him back to you. "Not that kind of bored."

Sighing, he meets your gaze with this cool, thoroughly unamused look. "I can't help you with that."

"Yes, you can," you argue, smiling your sweetest smile.

But your charm is lost on him, and all he gives you is a one-word response.

"Can't."

Your smile vanishes, replaced by a pout—an adorable one, in your opinion—that should be enough to move mountains, but Spencer remains unfazed.

"It's 1AM," he mutters.

"Meaning the night is still young."

"Meaning I need to sleep," he counters, scooting away from you. "Some of us have jobs."

You follow him, persistent. "You can sleep later."

"I would much rather sleep now."

He reaches out to push him away, but you catch his wrist and tilt your head to the side with the softest, most disgusting puppy-dog eyed expression you can muster. "So you don't want to fuck me?"

"I don't— that's not—" He jerks his hand back, sputtering as heat creeps into his cheeks. "…I don't want to have sex with you right now. Not if it means sacrificing my sleep."

"Wow." You drag the word out, placing your hand on your chest in a mock show of offence. "I'm hurt."

"Uh huh."

Having had enough of your dramatics, Spencer turns onto his side and, this time, you don't try to stop him. You just wait, patiently, for him to speak up again, because you know he will; he can't resist arguing with you, even when he knows it'll only make things worse for him.

You're sure he can feel your eyes on him, anyway, burning holes into the back of his head. He can't sleep (or relax at all, apparently) when you're watching him and, consequently, he'll usually banish you to the living room when he wants to get some rest. But he hasn't done that yet, which you interpret as a good sign.

After a few moments, he can't help but speak up.

"You can always use your hands, if you’re desperate."

"Right here?" you ask.

"In the bathroom, preferably."

"And what about you?" You inch closer to him and lean down to murmur into his ear, "You wouldn't benefit from blowing off some steam before work?"

A shudder runs through him as your breath hits his skin, but he swats your face away all the same. "I'd benefit from sleeping," he mutters.

"Mhm." You hum in response, refusing to give up as you trace your fingers along the stretched-out collar of his pyjama shirt. You pull on it, gently, and press your lips to that spot between his neck and shoulder that you know is sensitive. "You're so tense, though."

"Maybe because there's a serial killer in my bed trying to—" His breath catches as your teeth graze his skin. "…seduce me."

"This isn't seduction," you murmur, pressing your face to the crook of his neck.

"It's starting to feel like it," he says stiffly.

You lift your head to peer over at him. His flushed cheeks. His closed eyes. "Is it working?"

"No."

There's a weakness behind the resolve he speaks with, barely noticeable, like he might not mean what he's saying but is also dangerously close to kicking you out (of the bed, if you're lucky; of the apartment, if you're not). Whether he means it or not, you're pushing the limit—that much is obvious.

So, with a defeated sigh, you pull back, already mentally scanning his bookshelves for an interesting read.

But you're barely three feet from him when he grabs your arm, holding it firm. He turns over to face you, and he gives your arm a gentle tug. An invitation. 

You let him pull you in, settling down beside him as he drapes his arm over your waist. He's cuddling you, but he's leaving just enough room to allow himself plausible deniability; "we aren't cuddling", he'll say, "we're just lying together—look, we're barely even touching".

You meet his gaze in the dark. The moonlight seeping in through the blinds casts his face in shadow, but it illuminates your own. You want him to pull you closer, but he doesn't.

He doesn't do anything; he just watches you, studying you or, if you want to be delusional, admiring you with this fond, sleepy look that you can just about make out through the shadows. Heavy eyelids, relaxed brows, the picture of perfection.

"We could make it quick," you broach, smiling.

Spencer scoffs. He shakes his head, nuzzles the pillow as he groans in quiet, steadily simmering frustration.

"Okay, maybe not quick, but…" you inch yourself closer, reaching up to cup his cheek. "We can optimise it? You're all about efficiency, right?"

He huffs, sounding almost amused by your offer, but he still shakes his head. "And how, exactly, would we do that? You and I both know that your libido is obnoxious—"

"We could forgo the condoms," you suggest, cutting him off. "That'll save about…fifteen seconds per round."

"No."

There's no weakness behind the word, this time, but his firm tone isn't enough to scare you off.

"It adds up, you know."

"No," he repeats. "How many times are we going to have this conversation?"

"Until you admit that I'm right."

"Oh, you're right?"

"The condoms serve no purpose." You're a broken record, at this point, repeating variations of the same sentiment only to be met with the same response: no, no, and no. If you're starting to sound a little exasperated, it's because you are. But, even so, you persist. "We're both clean, and I know you only insist on using them to spite me," you say, trying to bite back any frustration threatening to taint your voice. You take a deep breath, watching as Spencer's expression hardens further, before bravely continuing, "I can buy plan B. I can go on birth control, if that's what you want—but we both know it isn't."

Spencer's fingers twitch against your waist, and he shifts in the bed. He starts pulling away, as though distancing himself from you physically will make what you're saying any less true.

"You don't want me on birth control, Spence." You prop yourself up on your elbow, lowering your tone to something seductive, almost sinister. "You want the risk."

"That's enough," he says. He turns onto his back, fixes his gaze on the ceiling as you roll your eyes.

"Honestly, I don't see the point in depriving yourself of something you clearly want, especially when I want it, too."

"You don't know what I want."

You purse your lips, letting the silence sit for a moment before you move closer to him. "I know you want kids," you say.

He doesn't respond to that. He just keeps staring at the ceiling, and you can see his jaw muscles working, clenching and unclenching, in the low light.

"Little geniuses running around, wreaking havoc…top of all their classes, just like daddy." You continue your assault in the softest, most sympathetic tone you can manage. Your voice turns to honey as you speak. "I could give you that, Spence. We'd have cute kids, don't you think?"

You feel him tense as you brush your fingerprints against his chest. Feel the way he stops breathing entirely as you skim along the fabric of his pyjama shirt and work your way down, slowly, to the waistband of his pants.

"You could put a baby in me right now," you murmur. "You just have to let go…give in…"

Your fingers barely dip under his pants before the tension snaps. He shoves you, hard, and sends you tumbling backward. Your back hits the mattress, and you're left slightly winded.

"You're sick," he spits.

You make no effort to get up, but you do shoot him a smile as you say, "I'm honest."

"You are sick. Why would I— no, I'm not doing this." 

With a huff, he gets out of bed. You watch as he heads for the door (to go where, you aren't sure), and he looks, for a moment, like he might actually storm out, leave you all alone in his apartment. The thought leaves you slightly nauseous.

But then he turns back to you with a scowl. "Why the fuck would I want to— …have children with a serial killer?"

He's trying so hard to keep his voice down. It's a shame, really, that he has neighbours on all sides—neighbours that respect him, that he respects—because you want nothing more than to see him lose his temper. You'd kill for it. Not literally, of course; you don't do that anymore.

You sit up, eyeing him curiously as you say, "I don't know, Spencer, why would you?"

"I don't."

You nod along with his declaration. The gesture's overly animated, exaggerated in a way that tells him you don't believe a word of what he says, and by the sour expression on his face it's clear he would have preferred it if you had just laughed in his face.

The sheets rustle as you shift, perching yourself on the edge of the bed, eyes wide with an unapologetic amusement. You shrug and click your tongue as you breathe out a wistful sigh. "So those…dreams you had, I guess they meant nothing—"

Spencer crosses the room in an instant and, before you can finish your sentence, he's grabbing your jaw with such force it makes you gasp. You can feel his nails digging into your skin as he looms over you, angling your fact up to meet his cold gaze. The moon serves as a backlight, casting his tall frame in a harsh shadow.

"You don't get to use that against me," he says, voice unnaturally quiet. Calm. It's a warning, one that you'd probably heed with some semblance of seriousness if this weren't so fun.

"So I'm just supposed to pretend you weren't dreaming about having a family with me?" you ask, pushing the conversation (the argument, really) that little bit further. "It's a pretty difficult thing to overlook, Spence."

The fact that his face is obscured does very little to hide the way your words leave him seething. You can feel it in the tremble of his fingers, as though he's fighting an itch. A violent one.

God, what if he hits you? Now that would be fun.

"You never know when to stop, do you?" he asks softly.

"All I've done is state facts—"

"All you've done is piss me off."

You flinch when he moves, expecting—hoping—that his hand will meet your cheek, leave you with a mark that'll still be there in the morning, but it doesn't. 

"And you know what? It worked." He tightens his grip on your face and, instead of hitting you, he starts tugging at the drawstring of his pyjama pants. "Congratulations, Love, you did it."

You aren't sure there's much of a connotation between pissed off and rock hard, but you make no attempt to argue with him, not when he's standing right in front of you like this, pants around his ankles, cock so close you'd barely have to move to get a taste.

"You want it?" His voice takes on a gentle, almost soothing tone as he brushes your hair from your face, tucks it behind your ear. "You want this cock, right? That's why you're being such a brat?"

You couldn't make your answer more obvious if you tried; you're staring, wide-eyed, lips parted like you're about to start fucking drooling over the sight of him. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to raise your gaze before saying with a smirk, "I'm actually just doing it for fun—"

The yelp that escapes you when he pulls your hair doesn't sound like you at all, but the moan that follows when he presses your face to his crotch does. His fingers curl in your hair, and you feel him tense slightly as you nuzzle him, breathing him in with an open mouth. You try to touch him, but he swats your hand away before tearing you from him completely.

"A yes would suffice," he says.

The pain of his iron grip makes you wince, and you can feel yourself already beginning to grow smaller, quieter, as you look up at him and say, "…yes."

With his free hand, Spencer cups your cheek. The tender brush of his thumb against your skin clashes with the discomfort of him pulling your hair. "Where do you want it?"

"Oh, come on."

All he does in response is tilt his head to the side; clearly, your whining has no effect on him. His patient silence, however, is enough to drive you crazy. 

There's a burning in your core. It's been there all night, started as embers, and has since sparked into a blaze that's steadily breaking you down, making you desperate. And his touch, your position, it's only fuelling the fire.

"…I want it inside me," you mutter. You're clenching your thighs, trying to stifle the burning. "My pussy. Nowhere else."

Spencer hums, thoughtfully, in response. His fingers trace the edge of your cheekbone, trailing slowly down to your jaw where he angles your head up that little bit further and asks, in an agonisingly gentle tone, "You think you deserve that?" 

You laugh, but even that sounds desperate now. You've lost your edge. "You're kidding, right?"

"Oh, I'm serious," he says, keeping his voice smooth and low. "All that back talk, all that…relentless pestering, you think I should let you have your way after that?"

You open your mouth to retort, but your words fail you. There's a sinking feeling in your stomach now, and it worsens with each second that passes once you realise his game. A small, pleading smile creeps up your face.

"If it's an apology you want, then—"

"I don't want an apology," he says, cutting you off, "we both know you wouldn't mean a word of it. No, I'm done playing your games, Love." Releasing his grip on your hair, his hand moves to cradle the back of your head. "I think it's time someone put you in your place."

Despite his serious tone, you can't help but find humour in his words. "Like you? Come on, Spence, you're too spineless to—"

You never manage to finish that sentence on account of Spencer's cock pressing against your lips. You clench your teeth, shaking your head as you feebly attempt to deny him access, but his hand is quick to grasp your jaw, fingers pushing into the hollows of your cheeks as he forcibly coaxes your mouth open.

He shushes your protesting whines, telling you to "just take it, that's it" as he eases his cock into the warmth of your mouth. His gentle words disable whatever fight you had left, and you yield to him, taking him almost to the base as he strokes your hair, whispering soothing praises ("Good girl, there we go."), and you think, foolishly, that you're past the worst of it, until you feel his fingers curl into your hair.

Spencer's been rough with you before, you encourage it, but none of your past encounters compare to the harshness with which he abuses your throat. The moment you stop resisting, all of his gentleness vanishes; he holds you by your hair and thrusts into your mouth with no regard for your comfort, or the tears that well in your eyes, or the way you gag with every violent jerk of his hips.

You reach blindly for something to hold onto, and your hands settle on the backs of his thighs. Trembling fingers anchor themselves in his skin, not caring for the marks (or cuts; you're pretty sure your nails are doing some damage) they'll be leaving behind as he fucks your throat so hard the lack of oxygen is starting to make you dizzy.

It's not until he pulls out that you realise you're crying. You cough and sputter, tears streaming down your face as he holds you up by your hair, and you can't help but sniffle pathetically as he wipes the drool from your mouth.

"What's wrong?" he asks softly, pouting. He presses his thumb to the plush of your lower lip, pulls it down to reveal your teeth. "You don't like it?"

You're babbling without thinking, shaking your head and mumbling feverish nos and pleases until the words lose their meaning, silenced only by the force of his palm as it strikes your cheek. 

The contact rips and involuntary sob from your throat, and you choke on the broken sound as the stinging quickly settles, deepening into an intense, burning ache. Just when you think you might catch your breath, he's guiding your mouth back to his cock—and this time, you don't try to put up a fight. 

There's a warmth accumulating under your thighs, seeping into the sheets as he uses your throat like a toy. He's panting above you, cursing under his breath; occasionally he'll mutter some comment about your pretty mouth, how it's better when it's occupied as he buries himself so deep your nose meets the warm skin of his abdomen and you start to choke. You'll tap his thigh, frantic, and he'll hold you there until you see stars before letting go.

You know he's close when he starts whimpering. His rhythm starts to falter, his fingers tremble, and his breathing comes in uneven gasps as he tries to cling to the remnants of his composure.

"Fuck…" He throws his head back, keeping a tight grip on your hair as he bobs you up and down on his cock. The shift in his pace allows you room to breathe, to think, to actually try to suck him off instead of just sitting there. 

And the second you do, he starts to come apart. 

"Shit…I'm—" He hums, stifling a moan as you look up at him, meeting his gaze through tears. 

You feel his cock twitch against your tongue, and you whimper around it—and that is what sends him over the edge.

"Oh, fuck….God," he whines as he finishes, painting your tongue with his release before gently easing you off of his cock. "Don't you dare swallow," he hisses, legs shaking slightly as he crouches down to be at your eye level. "Don't— shh…just keep it there, that's it. You said you wanted me to come in you, right? Then you better savour it, hadn't you?" 

Tender hands cup your cheeks as you struggle to catch your breath. He doesn't wipe your tears, or your drool, or try to soothe the flush that's burning you from the inside out; he just watches you, a calm satisfaction in his brown eyes as he murmurs, "Oh, poor baby…" 

After giving your sore cheek a light tap, he rejoins you on the bed and gently coaxes you into his lap, ensuring his hands sit secured on your waist as you straddle him, sniffling. You try to lean on him, to hide away in the crook of his neck, but he holds you back. Returning his hands to your face, he dons a mocking pout as your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.

"That wasn't very nice of me, was it?" he asks, keeping his tone painfully kind as he holds you. "See what happens? If you hadn't pushed so hard, I wouldn't have done it. Shh…"

One hand drops to your thigh, slips up under the hem of your shirt (his shirt; you don't wear much of your own clothes when you're here). He presses his palm to your lower stomach, and the contact alone is enough to make you whine as he studies you with this cool, almost analytical look.

You aren't wearing panties (why would you be?), so when his fingers dip between your thighs there's no questioning how wet you are. You're dripping, and with every moment you spend like this, holding his salty release in your mouth, your need only worsens.

And that need drives you to lift your hips in a feeble, uncoordinated attempt to get to his cock—he's soft, sure, but you're sure you'd be able to get him going again, if he let you—but, before you can try anything, he cups your leaking cunt with his hand, creating a barrier between you and what you want most.

All you can do is whimper and grind pitifully against his palm, soaking his hand as you try to convey, without words, just how badly you need him. As though, if you're lucky, he might give in.

But he doesn't. He lets his gaze trail lazily up your body—your bare legs, his hand between your thighs, you in his clothes—before settling on your face, and he raises an eyebrow. "Is that the best you can do?" he asks, leaning in close. The sound of his voice, that disconcerting mix of mockery and softness, makes your stomach churn. "Just hump my hand and make stupid little noises. What happened, Love? Tell me…" He brushes his nose against your own before clicking his tongue. "Oh, right, your mouth is full. Sorry about that. Go on, swallow for me…"

You do as he says without question, swallowing his seed until only the aftertaste remains, and your obedience earns a smile.

"Open your mouth," he says. "There we go…"

As you part your lips, Spencer sets his thumb on your bottom teeth, holding your mouth open so he can inspect it thoroughly.

"I can't see too well in the dark," he murmurs, "but your throat is probably bruised. Did it hurt to swallow?"

"Uh huh…"

God, you sound like your throat's bruised. Your voice comes out raw and shaky. Pathetic.

"Good."

He catches your open mouth in a kiss, and you go so weak you almost collapse against him. You grasp his shoulders, steadying yourself as he breathes new life into you, but your composure fast unravels as his fingers tease your entrance, applying just enough pressure to make you whine into his mouth.

"Spence," you breathe, tearing away from him before you lose yourself, "please…pleasepleaseplease…"

"Please what?"

"Fuck me." there's no sugarcoating your request, not now. "Please, Spence, I can't do this…"

Spencer purses his lips for a moment, leaning back as his fingers continue their slow teasing. "I think you're doing just fine," he says, shrugging. "I'd even go as far as to say you're doing really well."

That tone. The mocking praise. You're going insane, you're sure of it.

"No. No—" A sharp gasp cuts through you as he rubs the ball of his hand against your clit. "Spencerr…I'm sorry, I'm sorry…please, just— fuck…"

Seeing you starting to lose it, Spencer bows his head, hiding his smile as presses his lips to the side of your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses along the sensitive skin. "What are you sorry for, honey?"

"God…if— if you want information, I'll give it to you," you whisper, frantic. Your hips buck against his hand, desperate for more of him. "You want the location of a body? Two? I'll tell you; I promise. I'll— I'll tell you anything, Spence…anything you want—"

"I asked you a question," he says, keeping his tone light as he cuts you off. He lets his mouth linger on your neck for a moment longer before he raises his head to look at you. "What are you sorry for, hm? You do know what you're apologising for, right?"

"I do…I do…"

"Uh huh. Then tell me."

"I-I was being annoying, and pushy…and I crossed a line, mentioning kids," you explain, nodding anxiously. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Spence. I-I won't do it again…promise."

Spencer nods along with you, pursing his lips in thought. "Wow," he murmurs, "you almost sound like you mean it."

"I do," you say, trying (and failing) to keep your voice firm despite your trembling.

"Yeah? You're sorry?"

"'m sorry…"

To your surprise, Spencer looks disappointed. 

His gaze drops once more to his hand between your legs, and you swear you see him frown. "Hm. That's a shame, really…I quite like this; punishing you, letting you make a mess of yourself…" he gathers your arousal on his fingers, drawing out a low whine before bringing those fingers to your mouth. The taste of yourself mixed with the aftertaste of him makes your fucking head spin. 

And then you feel the tip of his cock part your slick folds. It brushes your clit, and you almost come apart right there. 

"I like you like this," he continues, talking over your incessant whimpers, "all desperate and stupid, such a change from your usual self…I could do this all day long."

The mere suggestion is enough to make you sob around his fingers; or maybe it's the way the head of his cock keeps nudging your entrance, leaving you clenching around nothing, like your body is trying to suck him in.

"…but you really want this, don't you?" he asks.

"Mhm…" You're humming along in agreement before you can form a meaningful response. Your brain's working at a third of its regular speed, your words are scattered across space, maybe time, too. Even as he pulls his fingers from your mouth, every sentence you reach for disintegrates before you can speak it.

But if you've ever had a chance to win him over, to win this stubborn little war you've been fighting for months now, then this is it. Maybe you don't need to think in order to convince him, maybe well-formed sentences and snarky arguments haven't been working in your favour at all; maybe you just need to be desperate. As desperate as possible. Throw everything you have at him and pray that you hit a soft spot.

"You do, too, don't you?" you ask, making yourself sound as helpless as possible. "Please, Spence— angel, tell me you want this…"

A slight twitch of his brows tells you he likes the nickname; even if your efforts are in vain, you can still file that little fact away for later.

"I'm sorry for being such a pain, I really am. I just like you…so fucking much, and— and I don't know what to do with it sometimes…but come on, angel, please…" You touch your forehead to his, cupping his cheeks with trembling hands. "I need you inside me, no condom, just this once," you murmur, giving a tentative rock of your hips, watching the way he shudders as you grind against his length. "I…I wanna feel you…wanna be yours, please…"

Spencer is sweating. You feel his cock jump, straining against you, and you watch the way he bites the inside of his cheek. Tilting your head, you try to kiss him, but he dodges.

He purses his lips tight as his gaze drops to his hips, to the way his cock is so perfectly lined up with your entrance—and you're soaked, it would be so easy to just…

Leaning back, he gestures to the pillows and sighs. "Go. Face down, ass up."

His mutterings sound almost reluctant, but all you hear is a victory. Refusing to give him time to change his mind, you don't hesitate to climb off of him and settle into position like a well-trained dog: chin resting on your forearms, back arched, sodden pussy on display for him.

You can hear him shifting, hear the faint rustle of bedsheets as he comes up behind you, and the seconds seem to drag on for eternity. Each one seems longer than the last, making you stew in your anticipation until it's almost unbearable.

But then you hear something you don't expect; the last thing you want to hear. 

A poorly stifled rip. The crinkle of latex.

The sound hits harder than the slap you took from him just moments ago, breaking you free from your mindless obedience as you realise, to your horror, what he's doing.

"No. Nonono—"

You try to move, to get away, but Spencer's grabbing your hips, fingers digging into the skin as he sinks into you with one brutal thrust. The pain makes you see static, but it doesn't hurt half as much as the betrayal. 

You really thought you'd won. That it was that easy.

How stupid.

Tears stream down your face, your body struggling to adjust to the sudden intrusion as he stuffs you so full you swear you can feel him in your stomach. An awful noise escapes you, half moan, half cry, as you desperately shake your head, and it isn't until you hear your own voice that you realise you're pleading with him; strings of broken nos and stops are tumbling from your lips like despairing prayers.

But your God is cruel, and your prayers go ignored. Maybe he rejoices in them, you don't know. 

Unfortunately, you're loud. Much too loud for the thin walls of his apartment. So he does what little he can and shoves your face into the pillow, forcing you to bite the soft fabric and muffle your cries, leaving only the creak of the bed, and the sound of skin against skin as he ruts into you.

"You didn't think I'd actually let you have your way, did you?"

His voice above you is oddly quiet, almost tender in a way that entirely contradicts the way he's treating you. And, as soon as he finishes speaking, he's yanking you up by your hair, letting you gasp and whine before his hand finds your throat. 

He brings you closer, close enough to nip at your ear as he murmurs, "And if you really like me that much, you should be grateful that I'm doing this at all. I could've easily thrown you out on the street like the…fucking vermin you are."

Soft lips press a kiss to the side of your neck before he throws you back down and continues at his unforgiving pace. All you can do is cry into the pillow, choking out the occasional plea for him to stop, or to slow down, even though you know he isn't going to listen. 

"You're quite the…actor, aren't you?" he asks, breathing growing ragged under the strain of his movements. "That apology of yours…you almost had me— fuck…you almost had me convinced…I'm sorry, Spence. I wanna be yours, Spence…sounding so damn helpless…and now you're actually helpless, aren't you? How's it feel?"

"P-please— Spence, I can'tt…I can't t-take it—"

"Yes, you can…you wanna be mine, right?" He slips a hand down to your ass, gives it a firm squeeze before pulling back and spanking it hard, relishing the way you cry out beneath him. "Then be good for me…and take it."

Before the stinging can subside, he gives your ass another forceful spank before gripping your hips once more, keeping you steady as he fucks you. The pain shoots through you like a flash of lightning, and it goes straight to your head, turns your brain to putty. 

You mindlessly try to back up against him, meet his thrusts and bring yourself over the edge, but you're sloppy. You've no rhythm, not when you're like this, and all it does is make Spencer's grip that much tighter as he holds you in place.

"And don't you even think about coming," he hisses. "You don't deserve that, so just—"

"Please—"

"Just shut up." He holds you down as you try, weakly, to raise your head. "And let me fuck you."

Your pleas devolve into senseless moans as the last of your resolve crumbles, and you give in to him, letting the pillow absorb your obscene noises as Spencer thrusts into you so hard you think you start to think you'll pass out before he's through with you. 

The rest of your body goes limp as your thighs strain and tremble, muscles growing tighter with each cruel jerk of his hips. Your core is on fire, desperate for a release that he won't allow you, and one that you no longer have the willpower to pursue yourself. 

"You…are so fucking pretty like this. God, take me so well— fuck…" His breath stutters as his hips falter, and he forces his next words out through a groan. "…feels so good to use you—"

To use you. 

To use you, like you've been using him. This isn't just revenge, or punishment, for just being a nuisance, for poking sore spots in his psyche by mentioning kids; this is revenge for everything, for the months (almost a year now) of hell you've put him through. It's only fair, in a sense, that you lay down for him as he has, time and again, for you; it's Newton's third law, and this is just the beginning.

He almost collapses on top of you when he finishes. Barely able to hold himself up, he pants against your neck, hot breath fanning over sweat slick skin as he tries to regain his composure. 

You're incoherent, barely aware of the world around you, or of the way you let out a shameless, broken whine when he pulls out. 

The bed creaks as he gets up to dispose of the godforsaken condom, then groans as he settles back down beside you. His fingers skim, touch feather-light, along your spine over the sodden fabric of your shirt, and all you can muster in response is a defeated little whimper. 

He doesn't speak; he just gently coaxes you into his arms, brings your head to his chest, smooths out your hair as you both just breathe. When you sniffle, he shushes you, wipes still-wet tears from your cheeks. 

Once you've found the strength to speak, you insult him. Whinge about how mean he was, how you're barely going to be able to talk, let alone walk, tomorrow.

Spencer listens to your shaky complaints with a smile, nodding along thoughtfully, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head before murmuring, "It wasn't anything you didn't deserve."

[stxrgvsm]

so beautiful i’m going to show this to my man so he knows what i want

[ssa-dado]

Heart Stopper

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: Mutual pining & Fluff (I know, it feels strange for me too) Summary: Valentine’s Day is already hell when you’re stuck on shift avoiding your crush on Aaron Hotchner... then he shows up, fills out your café’s tacky matchmaking card, and basically confesses. Cute, right? Until has an allergic reaction, and you end up on your knees giving him an EpiPen injection that could very well land him in the ER for… entirely different reasons. Warnings: waaaay too cheesy (idiots in love), a few cuss words here and there, unashamed size kink about Hotch’s hands (sue me), relentless bullying over his lack of ass, Hotch has an allergic reaction (loser), incorrect use of EpiPen, Superman name-drop lovingly dedicated to Dr. Bin Hotchology Word Count: 4.1k Dado's Corner: request here!! I couldn’t resist cramming in some cheap philosophy within the first 200 words... so enjoy an entirely wrong take on Spinoza’s immanence!! YAYYYY! Still, I put extra love into the graphics this time, so have fun (or don’t!) scrolling through them hihi + super special thanks to @sweetheartsocks & @hotchology <3

masterlist

On your bathroom break (doomscrolling Facebook like a responsible adult) you stumble across the nugget that Dutch philosopher Baruch Spinoza once claimed there’s a little bit of God in everything.

Sweet sentiment, sure - but the man lived in the 1600s, with quills and endless afternoons to philosophize, not behind the counter of a cafeteria on Valentine’s Day, hemmed in by $9.99 polyester puppies gnawing on plush hearts with their polyester teeth.

(And what next… polyester organs? A polyester bloodstream? A polyester soul?)

God is hard to spot when every oven is a ticking bomb: sponge cake pleading for rescue in four minutes, croissants bronzing to perfection in twelve, the so-called Lover’s Cheesecake (just cherry in a tacky Valentine’s disguise, but slap “limited edition” on the label and watch the masses worship) demanding release in seventeen.

Meanwhile, the counter seethes - ravenous couples tripping over each other to pay, everything doubled, doubled, doubled - while you’re forced to hand out Valentine’s “get to know me” cards.

(The rules: fill one out as you order, swap it with whatever stranger in the café makes your loins twitch.)

Apparently flirting is a lost art, so now corporations have to prepackage desire and sell it back to people. Profitable as hell - no one’s here for coffee and cake, they’re here for the speed-date special (one drink + compulsory pastry purchase), hoping to get laid while you just get paid.

So you keep grinning, as if your soul isn’t evaporating into the steam belching from the industrial dishwasher, as if you don’t feel blisteringly alone in the middle of it all.

And through it all, your brain keeps skipping from timer alarms to the image of federal fingers, two knuckles deep, every time you’re piping cream into a puff. (Shit… down to the last few slices of cream pie, too.)

Suddenly, the strawberry glaze on the donuts looks uncomfortably close to the pink of his lips, and before you can stop yourself, every eclair, cannoli, and tart around you starts to register as blatantly, absurdly phallic.

So no, there’s no God in these few square feet of linoleum.

Only the rush, the timers, the low-grade panic of not scorching custard while imagining what it might feel like to have a very specific authority (say, a 46-year-old, father-of-one, Unit Chief of the BAU sort of authority) shoved into you, both literally and metaphorically.

Spinoza’s Theory: burned to a crisp.

Or maybe not burned - just torched by distraction.

Because it’s easy to dunk on Spinoza’s God-in-everything theory when the real problem is this: whatever it is you feel for Mr. Aaron Hotchner (swimmer, FBI agent, father of one, unfairly skilled at fingering) is not just lust. And those polyester Valentine puppies staring at you aren’t exactly helping you pretend otherwise.

The thing is, you and Aaron have undeniable (stupid) sexual chemistry. You’ve tried to avoid each other - it doesn’t work. You’ll both always find an excuse to meet.

And while the beginnings of those meetings are awkward-but-friendly, catching up like two people playing at normalcy, they never stay that way. Because inevitably one of you leans in, and suddenly (veeeery suddenly) you’re making out, messy and pressed together, and more often than not it escalates - your fault, mostly, but he never exactly protests - into grinding so intense it teeters on obscene.

(Dry humping. Yes. Very good dry humping. [Which is, frankly, mortifying.])

But that’s where it stops.

Because you both know if you cross that line - if hands slip below belts (or into that mythical zone where his undershirt never seems to exist) - then you’ll have to have the Talk™. And nothing is more terrifying than that.

So you settle for what you do: kissing until your lips ache, pretending the marks you leave on each other are accidental, silently agreeing that everything from collarbone to hip is no man’s land.

But then, inevitably, you have to leave.

He drives you home, walks you all the way to your door, and kisses you goodbye with such unbearable tenderness it makes you want to undo every boundary you swore you’d keep.

And now you’re starting to miss him.

You catch yourself wanting to see him even in your luteal phase (a biological red flag if there ever was one). You get a dopamine rush every time your phone screen lights up, only to spiral into frustration when it doesn’t say Aaron Hotchner.

You linger too long on his profile picture, sketching his face from memory, refreshing his status, waiting for the green dot to glow - then panicking and exiting the chat the second he comes online.

You’re absolutely cooked (like the sponge cake in one minute, croissants in nine, Lover’s Cheesecake in fourteen) for him.

And worse, you’re terrified. Terrified he might not feel the same. More terrified he does, and might want to make sense of… whatever this is.

It’s not that you don’t want love… hell, love is your longest obsession, the thing you’ve been starving for since you were old enough to understand what wanting even was.

But wanting it with him feels different.

He’s older, sharper, devastatingly hot in a way no guy your age could ever fake (though you do have to remind yourself, repeatedly, to redirect blood flow to your brain for at least a few more minutes).

He radiates competence, emotional intelligence, a steadiness you’ve never touched before, the kind of gravity that makes you feel like you could stop spinning out of orbit if you just stood close enough to him.

With Aaron, it isn’t about chasing chaos or flinging yourself into the arms of the wrong men for the thrill of the disaster, it’s about the terrifying possibility of something that could actually last.

The cruel joke, though, is that once you peel back the layers, Aaron isn’t a safe fantasy at all. He’s a very troubled man. And yet, that only makes you want him more.

You’d love to tell yourself there’s no one else like him, but since the start of your shift you’ve mistaken at least six dark-haired men in three-piece suits for him from behind.

Which is ridiculous.

You don’t even know why your brain entertained the idea in the first place. It’s not like he’d be dropping in on Valentine’s Day to check up on you.

He’s a busy man, for one thing.

And for another - you’re nothing. A distraction, maybe. A bad habit at best. You shouldn’t even be expecting him.

Still, you find yourself wandering past the pastry lab backdoor more times than necessary, circling through the staff room just to glance at your phone, hoping for a notification.

Maybe he feels as alone on Valentine’s as you do.

Maybe he’s texted, asking if you’re free, so you could meet up and trade war stories about your day… before inevitably ending up pressed against each other, doing the usual.

Or maybe he’s drowning in paperwork, too responsible to even look at his phone.

Maybe he’s found an actual date, someone who wasn’t too scared shitless to be direct and take a ride on his thick- well.

But no. Nothing. Not even the green light of him being online.

And your eyes start to betray you so badly that every man with dark hair becomes him. Then even that flimsy requirement collapses, and suddenly every man reminds you of him.

Every profile. Every flash of shoulders and jawlines in the crowd.

Every voice pitched low enough to rattle your ribs sounds like his, every passing accent with that faint, posh cadence becomes his.

Even silence begins to sound like him.

Even the nothingness, somehow, holds the echo of his presence. Which is cuckoo bananas, because the café has never been so suffocatingly overcrowded, and yet there he is, threaded through it all, standing right in the middle of the absence.

In every single few square feet of linoleum, he lingers.

He’s there.

For real. (FR! No, not France.)

Tangible. Matter and bone. On the other side of the counter. Not some hallucination, but him: all suited up, shoulders cutting the crowd, that disarming, unexpected smile tugging his mouth open just slightly as the line spits him out at the register.

“What can I do for you?” you ask, smiling - leaning into the double edge of the words, savoring the way he glances down, mouth still parted, shaking his head once before he finally drags his eyes back up to yours.

“Hey… uh. Hi. Just a Black Americano. No sugar, please.” The most basic order in existence… and yet somehow the most painfully awkward thing either of you has ever managed to say.

You scramble for the next step (payment? He does have to pay, right?) but his stupidly earnest eyes knock you so off-balance you almost forget capitalism still applies, even to sexual tension. (Definitely not an alpha move.)

“Um… cash or-”

“Card, please.” (Oh, he’s so pretty.)

Too pretty, really, to be digging around in a wallet, but here he is, taking his sweet time with a sleek leather one. He keeps eye contact as he thumbs through the slots, and you feel… warm. Uncomfortably warm.

He pulls out the first card, hesitates, quickly pushes it back in, checks the one behind (driver’s license), then the one even behind (library card, adorable), raises his eyebrows at himself in self-disappointment, and finally circles back to the original card - all with the composure of a man who clearly hopes you didn’t notice his clumsiness.

(And indeed, you don’t notice… you’re too busy staring at his hands.)

That’s when he spots the stack of Valentine’s matchmaking cards at the register. His brow furrows, leaning closer to read the tiny print.

…Right. Payment. Suspended. You almost forgot that tiny capitalism detail.

“To place an order, you have to fill-” (‘the barista,’ aka you, who now wants to die, preferably at the hands of those thick fingers) “-this card…”

You can’t even bring yourself to explain the rest of the drill, you just jab a finger toward the cutesy poster of instructions and pray he can read.

Still, the idea of Aaron Hotchner actually participating in a speed date within spitting distance of you feels like the kind of humiliation that would officially cement this as the worst Valentine’s Day in recorded history.

“You know there are better ways to harvest people’s personal data, right?” he says flatly, head tipped, brows arched in that unmistakable Disappointed Dad way. (Which is hilarious, really, because his eyes go wide and soft when he does it even while he’s busy lecturing you about petty larceny with customer info.)

“Scared no one will pick you?” you fire back, already sliding toward the pastry case like the world’s most reckless hypocrite.

Because it’s Valentine’s Day, you’re a feminist, and if your crush isn’t even bringing you flowers, then fine, you’re not bitter. Not at all. In fact, you should totally be the one showering him with freebies.

(Aka “picking him.” Aka immediately contradicting yourself in deed if not in word. Man… Aaron Hotchner can’t even enjoy the humbling experience of worrying what it might feel like not to be picked for once in his life, because here you are, doling out princess treatment. This is busted.)

And yet… there’s that hope. That flicker of idiocy whispering that maybe he’ll clock the gesture, tuck it away somewhere in that brain, and think twice before handing his matchmaking card to some random woman. Or man.

(Not that it matters. He’s free to do whatever he wants… you’re not together. You have no claim. You shouldn’t care. You could do the exact same thing. Totally. Hypothetically. You won’t, obviously. But you could.)

Just for him, you plate a tart you’re obnoxiously proud of: glossy pastry cream, a scatter of fresh raspberries, that faint blush from strawberry powder folded into the base (all-natural, no fake dye, because you’re ethical even in your hypocrisy).

“You really don’t have to do that,” he says, completely oblivious to the fact that this tart (this pastry masterpiece) is literally his entry ticket into the whole stupid matchmaking circus.

(Meaning it’s thanks to you he even gets to play the game at all. Was this the single dumbest move of your life? Quite possibly.)

“No shit.” You even tuck a cookie into a bag, right there in plain view. Hell, make it two - one for Jack, one for Jack’s infuriatingly handsome father.

He finally decides to shut the fuck up and, with visible reluctance, slides his card into the reader. You’ve never wanted to be a slit more in your life.

Most importantly: those thick fingers, struggling to stab a PIN into buttons designed for toddlers.

(Not that you sneak a peek at the code… he shields it with his other hand.)

(And anyway, you’re far too occupied with the gleam of his eerily smooth, hairless knuckles. Entire palm, shaved down to baby-soft nothingness. A crime against nature, really. At least the veins bulge thicker, defiant. Still, you mourn the furry paws. Justice for the furry paws.)

Fun fact: you almost never pay with card yourself, mostly to avoid the weird little purgatory where you’re forced into a staring contest with the cashier while the bank decides whether or not you’re trustworthy enough for capitalism.

Now multiply that by Aaron Hotchner.

It’s torture. The eye contact is nuclear, more dangerous than any you’ve shared since the first time you locked eyes.

The silence stretches until it feels scripted, like you’ve stumbled into the middle of a slow-dance montage no one warned you about, two leads locked in a wordless smize-off. For a suspended moment, it’s absurdly peaceful - as if the café has collapsed into just you and him - and suddenly all that “you and me against the world” garbage pop songs keep spewing doesn’t sound like garbage at all.

It sounds… plausible. Terrifyingly plausible.

His lips part - at least you think they do, or maybe you just keep staring at them so hard your brain invents it - and he looks like he might actually say something. Something important.

But then unfortunately the card machine shrieks its approval, vomiting out the receipt with all the bureaucratic joylessness of the IRS, slicing the moment clean in half.

“So can I-” he nods toward the stack of Valentine’s cards.

“Yeah… sure!” You both step toward it at the same time, him plucking a card, you fishing out a pen from the holder. “Here’s your pen…”

He takes the pen - but his hand is big enough that it engulfs your fingertips too, like he meant to catch more than plastic. And you don’t let go. Which makes him glance up at you, puzzled, but not quite calling you on it either.

“Just… make sure to give it back when you’re done,” you say, too quickly. “We don’t have that many.”

His hand is warm. You already know it’s warm (especially when it’s wandered to very specific real estate on your body), but today it feels explicitly warm.

Aaron clears his throat. “Of course…” Still not releasing your hand. Then again, you’re not releasing his either. “…You have my word.” (What the- for stationery?!)

Finally he juggles the pen, the card, and the bagged cookies with the grace of a man trying very hard not to drop evidence. “Um… thank you again for the cookies. Jack will be… elated.”

“Of course…” you echo, and yeah, you’re 90% sure you’re drooling.

Which is why you’re ready to murder your coworker for not letting you “table service” his order - i.e., personally deliver his coffee, hover like a lovesick bat, and snoop on whatever the hell he’s scribbling on that stupid matchmaking card.

Instead, you’re stuck behind the register, watching your FBI crush seat himself at a table for two. And not just any table for two. He’s across from a man who looks like he crawled out of his third divorce: orange-tinted skin, long hair, goatee, too many shirt buttons undone. Greasy aura.

Definitely older. Definitely trouble. Definitely… smiling at Aaron.

You can’t get it out of your head.

You’ll never be employee of the year if Aaron Hotchner is across the room, smiling at some stranger, talking to him like you don’t even exist - on the most romantic day of the year, no less.

There’s a weird, charged energy to it that knots your stomach, and you keep sneaking glances over, unable to stop.

His left hand scribbles on the card.

His face is focused… dangerously focused, the kind of face you wouldn’t mind sitting on.

The man across from him looks exactly like you feel: rapt, transfixed, probably wondering if he’s hallucinating.

Then Aaron takes a bite of the tart. Closes his eyes. Tilts his head back just slightly, licks his lips. He… likes it?!

You nearly faint.

His hand drifts, thumb rubbing across his index finger - a tell, you’ve learned, for when he’s nervous.

A few minutes pass and he’s doing it too often now, scratching his hand, taking deep breaths. Oh shit. He’s nervous. Aaron Hotchner, seasoned federal agent, absolute unit, is nervous about reentering the dating pool.

And then - he sets the pen down. Picks up the card. Your heart slams itself against your ribcage so violently you wonder if the polyester puppies can hear it.

He stands, pushes his chair neatly back into the table, and flashes the man-

-flashes the man one last smile!! (You might actually be having palpitations.)

He takes a few steps, looking down, unreadable. Your brain races. Where’s he going?

Sexy woman at table four? No. Must be the elegant lady at table three, perfectly age-appropriate.

Nope.

The philosophy professor at table two? God forbid. (If Spinoza’s right and there’s a little bit of God in everything, then surely He wouldn’t be cruel enough to let Hotchner flirt with a philosophy professor in your line of sight.)

(Who cares about Spinoza. Who cares about philosophy?)

What matters is that Hotchner keeps moving - past table two, murmuring polite apologies as he slips by table one - until he’s right there, mere inches away from you, standing at the cash register.

And he’s handing you the card.

He looks… red.

Red as in flushed, flustered - cheeks faintly pink, color creeping down the line of his throat where his collar doesn’t quite cover the skin.

Sweet. Wholesome.

Like maybe you, of all people (against all odds), finally managed to embarrass Aaron Hotchner, and now he’s standing here blushing like a schoolboy while silently declaring feelings.

But then your eyes catch on his hands.

The card trembles just slightly in his grip, and his palms look… wrong.

Not just the unsettling baldness of them - though that, perversely, makes it worse, accentuating the mottled patches, the angry red stippling, the rash blooming across his skin. The same flush climbs unevenly from his jawline, spilling down the exposed slice of his neck in a scatter of raised welts.

“Um,” he clears his throat, shifting, “by any chance were there strawberries in that tart? I might be… allergic.”

Strawberry powder.

You don’t think. You just grab his hand and tug, steering him through the chaos of the café as he keeps muttering “I have an EpiPen in the car” (like he’s going to make it that far) and behind the staff-room door.

It’s almost romantic if you forget the part where his throat might close in six minutes.

Anyways, you’ve trained for this. The way he can probably assemble a rifle in under ten seconds - you can save his life.

Step 1: Establish Dominance.

“Take your pants off,” you deadpan, already rifling through the cabinet. Orange tip down, blue safety cap off, your fist wrapped around the injector (like a pro!!! You’ve got this!!!)

“I’m sorry?!” His voice breaks halfway, startled and ragged… much like his breathing pattern (or maybe he’s into being bossed around? Not the time.) “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

Oh, fantastic. He doesn’t trust women.

Step 2: Remove Obstacles (Pants).

He doesn’t have time to activate his reflexes, because you’re already unfastening his belt. The buckle clinks. The zip slides down. (Do not give yourself bad ideas. Focus.) You drop to your knees, dragging his slacks down with you. He gulps audibly. You glance up.

“Are you seriously wearing Superman briefs? You go to the FBI every day dressed like that under your suit?”

“Yes, okay?!” He shushes you, flustered (which is rude considering you’re literally saving his life.) “But could you - quiet down a little? I can explain-” he involuntarily hisses as your fingers graze the inside seam.

Step 3: Insert Hero Juice.

Decoy successful.

He’s still sputtering about the Superman underwear - how he only wears them because his six-year-old has the exact same pair, and it’s their thing. A father–son tradition that makes no logical sense (but then, isn’t that the whole point of children?) - matching silly underwear, or “very cool” ones if you ask Jack, to get through the day not taking it too seriously.

(Not that his father has ever been good at that. Exhibit A: look where not choosing his pastry got him.)

You take advantage of the ramble to jab the injector into the upper outer thigh, right at the line of his (very cool!!!) briefs.

No reassuring click yet.

Also, to keep him still, you clamp your other hand around his opposite thigh - eloping him in place - dangerously close to forbidden territory. One inch higher and you’d have a handful of cake. (Pancake, more like… the man is devastatingly flat.)

“Is it in?” you ask, tilting your head up at him.

Sure, you’re no doctor - but you do know this much: being on your knees with one hand basically cupping his ass while driving a needle into his thigh isn’t exactly standard medical practice.

And the way he’s looming above you - with his skin flushed, eyes wide, and breaths shallow and uneven - you’re starting to suspect his hyperventilating isn’t just from the anaphylaxis.

He fumbles, swallows, shakes his head, then finally croaks out, “Um… yes.”

Step 4: The Longest Ten Seconds

Wait. Hold. Count to ten.

In ten seconds he could say nothing, could just breathe and let the medicine do its work. In ten seconds he could thank you, or - God forbid - flirt. Instead, out of the entire emotional buffet available, he serves you the worst dish.

“You didn’t have to take my pants off,” he murmurs, breath catching. “The pen can pierce through… very thick fabric.”

“Yeah, well, excuse me for wanting to actually see what I was doing,” you snap back, which feels defensive but also entirely justified, considering you just saved his life.

“It’s alright,” he says, heartfelt. Which, unfortunately, lands with a subtext you cannot ignore. Oh, yeah, I actually liked you pulling my pants off. Please do it again. Preferably slower next time.

Which is how you both end up marinating in two full seconds of unbearable silence, trading glances, the tension thicker than-

He cracks first. “I-I think we should do something.”

(Wow. Stunning clarity. “Something.” Could mean sex, could mean Scrabble.)

“Sex?” you blurt, because honesty is still the best policy.

He laughs and suddenly your impulsive guess doesn’t sound so insane. “No.” He shakes his head. (How dare he?) “I mean- I wouldn’t be opposed to that. But I was thinking… more of a date.”

And then it hits you: the smile. Rare. Unscripted. A little crooked. Prince Charming in an FBI badge. It detonates something in your chest, leaves you standing there half-kneeling, needle still in hand, absolutely cooked. (Speaking of which… you should probably go rescue the Lover’s Cheesecake from the oven…)

A date. He said a date. A DATE. On Valentine’s Day, while his pants are around his thighs. A DATE???? WHAT THE FUUUUUUUUUU-

“I… am not opposed to that either,” you stammer. “Yes.”

Step 5: You’re alone in the staff room, already kneeling between his thighs, one hand on his ass. You are, quite literally, in the ideal position to either suck him off, propose marriage, or skip both and immediately elope - new surname, new city, new life. You’re positive there’s a sitcom about this exact setup. Something about a neurotic, Type-A lawyer and his chaotic, overly earnest free-spirit wife who marry after, like, one date. WHO CARES?! AARON HOTCHNER ASKED YOU OUT ON A DATE FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK

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[stxrgvsm]

perfect fanfiction

[stxrgvsm]

H A I R C U T

soldier boy x reader (coming soon)

“look, you’re not a hero, ben!”

for once, he’s silent. his breath steams in the cold air, and you watch his eyes soften as he takes in your words. you continue, “nobody cares that you’re crying on cnn. and nobody believes that you really feel all that bad. stop lying to everyone!”

his gaze drops to the ground, and you almost miss his next words: “i don’t know what to do without this. i’ve tried, really, i have… and there’s not a place for me.”

you sigh. “you haven’t tried, ben. other people have tried for you. i know i did. got you a really comfy position. you didn’t want it.”

“because that’s not me!” he yells, looking up at you.

“then what is?”

he glances around wildly, gesturing with his hands. “i don’t know! that’s what i’m trying to figure out. can you just… be patient with me?”

“i’ve been patient. i can’t do it anymore.”

[stxrgvsm]

congrats on 100!!! i was wondering if you’d do remus lupin + friends to lovers? thank youuuu!

come celebrate 100 followers with me!

hi lovely! i hope you enjoy!

"would you rather be shot out of a cannon into the sun or be thrown into a pit of worms?"

remus looks up from his work, brow furrowed. "what?"

"would you rather be shot out of a cannon into the sun or be thrown into a pit of worms?"

"no, i heard you, i just don't know what you mean."

you roll your eyes and close your textbook. "well, answer the question."

his hair flops over his eyes and he shakes his head rather wolfishly to clear his gaze. he sets down his pen. "so the cannon is shooting me into the sun?"

you pretend to think for a moment, trying not to look directly at him. sometimes he can be incredibly distracting. "maybe it would make more sense if the cannon was shooting you off of the sun."

"i think so."

"then it's like a science experiment."

remus shudders. "definitely the pit of worms."

"i think so, too."

he suddenly laughs, loud and joyous. "where on earth did that question come from?"

"i just thought of it," you tell him, smiling at him. "i'm using you as a guinea pig."

remus lupin is your best friend. he has been for almost as long as you've known him, and you've loved him for just as long. his piercing eyes, his effortless smarts, his calming smile. everything about him is made to be loved. you do it better than anyone.

"nice to know i'm just your guinea pig, then," he says, grinning widely. "i guess that answers that question."

"what question?"

"just..." he trails off, ducking his head and picking up his pen. "uh, never mind." if you didn't know any better, you'd swear that there's a distinct blush creeping up his neck.

"no, what is it? c'mon, we tell each other everything."

"well, not this," he snaps. when you don't respond, he looks up, eyes wide with regret. "hey, i'm sorry, i didn't---"

"didn't think?" you shake your head. "don't worry about it. i get it."

five years you've loved him. five years of watching him and waiting, somehow, for him to say something, anything. for him to say he loves you, too. all of the love you have for him won't even fit in your chest anymore. it bursts onto your face into stupid smiles and stupider jokes, poking him for a reaction.

but remus doesn't love you like that, and maybe he never will.

you sigh and stand up, shouldering your bag. "look, i should probably go."

"wait, no, i--" he stops when you look at him, eyebrows raised expectantly. then, "i love you," he blurts out.

your entire world spins to a stop. it's comical, actually, the way you both freeze, like a record just scratched loudly. you can almost hear his long eyelashes brushing his cheeks as he blinks slowly.

"...what?" you ask, brows furrowing.

"i love you," he repeats, more earnestly, if that's possible.

"i--um, i..." you trail off lamely. "i don't know what to say... why didn't you tell me before?"

remus stands now and takes one of your hands in both of his. "you're my best friend," he confesses. "i didn't want to lose you."

"i love you too," you whisper shyly, and with that, your world opens up.

[stxrgvsm]

stxrgvsm's 100 follower celebration!!

because we hit 100 followers, i want to do something to celebrate all of you! thank you for supporting this blog! i want all of my writing to be something you can enjoy, no matter what fandom you're a part of. so i made this ask game for y'all!

here are your options:

⭐️ - send me a character (or two) and a trope and i'll write a blurb for it (ex: steve harrington + brother's best friend)

🌈 - send me a character (or two) and a line of dialogue and i'll write a little scenario about it (ex: arthur morgan + "who did this to you")

⚡️ - send me a character and a kink and i'll write a blurb for it (ex: javier peña + choking)

🌧️ - pick a mood (angsty, fluffy, or smutty) and a character and an idea and i'll write a short blurb (ex: angsty office romance + soldier boy)

this ask game is open to the fandoms: the marauders era, criminal minds, rdr2, the boys, stranger things, top gun, and star wars. please send in whatever character you'd like, and i'll do my best to write for it!

i hope you enjoy! send in as many requests as you want!

[stxrgvsm]

hi!!! i’ve read your arthur series in the last hour and i’m!! gagged!!! i saw you haven’t been active in a few months but if you happen to see this — i’m looking forward to the rest of the series <33 you deserve so many more notes on the chapters. i hope you are doing well!!

just for you, i posted the next part:) hope you enjoy!

[stxrgvsm]

crime of the century, part five | arthur morgan x reader

summary: you're running from a life you never wanted. arthur's running after you just as fast.

content: angst, genre-typical violence, mentions of past sexual assault

wc: 4k

two months later

this is the lemoyne where it’s easy to spot a church, but hard to find a saint.

this is the country of elegant dresses and expensive suits and girls for whom all of life’s promise comes down to a ring and a wedding dress and the birth of an anna or a bessie or a martha and then a few black eyes and a return to mama’s house. “we were just kids,” they’ll say, looking to the past with no regret. the past always looks good in lemoyne, because no one remembers the future.

here is where a humid wind blows and the old ways are still new, where divorces aren’t spoken of and where most live in shacks. this is the last stop for all those who are looking for something else, for all those looking for an escape. here is where they are trying to find a new life, a new life that looks remarkably like the old one. 

imagine the shops first, because that’s where you are. rows and rows of identical shops, all selling the finest that saint denis has to offer. the tailor has seen 5 brides today, all younger than you. all of life’s promise has come true for them. but you, she’s not so sure about.

you spin in front of the dim mirror, watching the delicate fabric float up around you. 

your mother laughs behind you, and you turn to see her bright smile. “you look so beautiful,” she whispers, hands clasped in front of her. 

“thank you, momma,” you say earnestly. “it really is a beautiful dress.”

the tailor gestures to stanford, who is sitting next to your mother, legs neatly crossed. he’s clearly the one in charge. “and you, sir? is it to your liking?”

stanford rises and steps over to you, circling the pedestal. his eyes flit over the dress, and he reaches out now and then to yank the fabric down or around. finally, his inspection over, he looks up at you. “you are a vision,” he says. 

everyone in the room releases relieved breaths. “is this the one then, dear?” your mother asks, glancing between you and stanford. 

the small boutique is filled with a strange tension. your mother, who should be the one everyone defers to, cowers in front of stanford. the tailor, who ultimately owns the dress and will decide who it goes to, has also kowtowed to stanford at every turn. and stanford, who shouldn’t even be there—bad luck to see the bride in a wedding dress—is the one making the final decisions. 

stanford answers for you. “this is the one,” he says, smoothing his hands over the skirt. 

for all of stanford’s flaws, he certainly knows wedding dresses. this one is a very fashionable cinched-waist style, with puffy shoulders. the ivory fabric is pure as the moon. very 1890s. the long train flows behind you, and the tailor is careful to pick that up first as she moves you to the dressing room to help you take it off. 

once you have the top of the dress off, the rest goes pretty easily. you assure the tailor that you’ll figure it out, and she ducks back into the sitting room. 

“i will pay for it,” you hear stanford say. 

your mother gasps. “mr. white, no. i can’t possibly—”

“please,” he says. “i love her. i insist.”

what’s one more item on your growing list of debts to stanford? 

after the party, he had assured you that the wedding was nonnegotiable. “this is the price of running away,” he’d said. “now you will never leave again.” true to his word, you haven’t been able to leave the home without a significant escort in months, and there is certainly no discussion of leaving the grounds of the estate. this is the first time you’ve been off property since your reunion with stanford. 

when you return to the sitting room, the tailor is writing up a receipt. she hands it to stanford, who offers you his arm. “shall we get lunch out?” your mother asks. “it’s such a nice day… it would be a shame to return so quickly.”

a burst of hope flares within you, but you don’t dare let it show. you glance up at stanford and know immediately that there’s no use. “i’m so sorry,” he says. “i don’t think your daughter is feeling well. are you?”

“no,” you murmur, ducking your head to avoid his gaze. 

your mother visibly wilts. “alright,” she says. “well, it was still nice to get out.”

“yes, it was.” stanford leads the two of you to the waiting carriage and helps you in. “i’m off to meet a partner. i will be back in a few hours,” he says. “stay in the house, please, dear. rest. i’ve already told the staff.”

your heart sinks within you, but you do your best to smile pleasantly. “yes, stanford.”

he reaches out to caress your cheek. “take care, evelyn,” he says to your mother. “it might be best if you spend the rest of the day at your cottage. i wouldn’t want my darling bride to get over-excited.”

“oh. of course. yes.” if it’s even possible, your mother’s face falls even further. 

pleased with his work, stanford steps back with a grin. “i’ll see you ladies later.” he shuts the door of the carriage and waves you both away. 

your mother leans into the seats and sighs. “i don’t like the cottage,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“momma, i don’t want to be the adult right now. i’m the one marrying him.”

she rolls her eyes. “he’s keeping me away from my daughter. i think i get to be upset at least a little, too.”

this is how it always is. “stop it.” you press your hands to the bench to keep them from curling into fists. “the day was going well; can we keep it like that?” she looks out the window wistfully and says nothing. you let out an exasperated breath. 

the rest of the ride is silent, broken only by your mother’s passive-aggressive sighing. the carriage pulls up to your mother’s cottage first, and she presses a kiss to your cheek before leaving, giving you a small wave. from there, stanford’s driver takes you to the main house. 

imagine now the house, white as bones, polished to gleaming. it rises above the neighborhood like a too-tall boy, not yet a man but no longer a child, in the limbo of adolescence. yet, ironically, its imposing dominance reminds one of an old man, in decline, past its golden age. over the years, wings have been added and demolished, giving the home a half-finished feeling, even on the inside.

your room, perched at the back of the house, gives you a charming view of the water. every morning you watch people sail away from saint denis and you dream of a different life.

“hello, miss, how was the afternoon?” your maid, cella, asks you as you shrug off your coat. she takes it from you seamlessly and hangs it up. 

“it was fine,” you tell her, toeing off your boots. “just wedding stuff.”

she nods, bustling about you distractedly. “did you find everything to your liking? the whole house knows mr. white has threatened every storekeeper in the county for you.”

you look at her quizzically. “what on earth do you mean, cella?”

her eyes widen, and her hands fly to her mouth. “oh no, miss, please don’t tell him i said that! we weren’t supposed to know, but… people talk.” she winces and bows her head, as though she expects you to physically discipline her. “i hope i wasn’t too forward.”

“no, no, it’s okay,” you tell her, lifting her up. “i’m not upset. i just didn’t know what you were talking about… stanford threatened people? why?”

she glances to the door. “well, um… there’s been some outlaws in the city recently, miss. i expect he’s just trying to keep you away from that. is there anything else you need from me today, miss?” you reluctantly dismiss her, but you can’t get her words out of your head, even as you climb the stairs to your room. threatened every storekeeper in town. for you. 

a puzzle fit for someone else’s hands. yours are too tired to undo it.

imagine now a bedroom, hardly a place of refuge. even here, stanford’s touch is everywhere. the bedsheets, frilly in a way you hate. stiff furniture designed to be looked at and not used. a vanity stocked with products you’ll never use. even so, you have no choice. your bedroom is the one place that is wholly yours, that stanford has never intruded on.

the first bout of tears kicks off when you sit down to your letter-writing. this is a new hobby that stanford is foisting onto you. he wants you to keep up a proper correspondence with his mother and some other female relatives. thus far, their responses have been bone-dry, leaving you with little to write. merely the thought of composing another half-hearted letter is enough to bring tears to your eyes. 

you’ve barely written dear anita when tears blot out the still-wet ink. the second crying spell doesn’t come till much later. 

that night, after dinner and an evening game of cards, in your mind’s eye, you can see arthur, all of him. his dark hair, and the way he bashfully covers it with a hat. “ain’t fit to be seen like this,” he would mutter, smoothing it down. his broad shoulders straining at the seams of a shirt. his sly smile when you asked him if he needed a new coat. his eyes, piercing and mournful, but also quick and lively. the scars that litter his chest and arms, each one with a story. his sense of humor, sharp as a tack but sometimes so dim-witted. 

his last words to you: “vengeance is an idiot’s game.” not for the first time, you decide that arthur is wrong. vengeance is worth every penny it will cost you. as much as you might miss arthur, you hate him more. and on nights when stanford treats you like this, you pull out your pet fantasy. 

you will find arthur morgan, and you will kill him. no matter how hard you must try. no matter how long you must delay the wedding. arthur morgan will not taste joy after what he did to you. you’ll make sure of it. 

imagine another part of the city, where a man slumps on a bar and cries out for more.

arthur heaves a deep sigh. 

“another,” he calls down to the bartender. 

the man rolls his eyes and begins pouring another glass of whiskey. “are you sure, man? you’ve been drinking for a while now,” he says, even as he slides the glass down the bartop. “might be time to stop soon.”

arthur shakes his head and downs the drink. he grimaces at the bitter taste. “no, sir. i’m just getting started. got a long night ahead of me.”

“so you’re getting drunk?” the bartender shakes his head. “doesn’t seem like a good plan to me.”

“s’posed to watch some lady for a bit,” arthur tells him. “don’t really want to.”

the man begins drying some glasses, throwing a towel over his shoulder for easier access. he looks up at arthur and frowns. “well, why are you doin’ it, then?”

“pays good,” he says. “i did the same job a few months ago. worked out pretty well for me.”

“and you don’t want to do it again?”

arthur signals for another whiskey. when he downs this one, a familiar doe flashes through his mind, injured. absurdly, arthur thinks of you. “just don’t like the man payin’ me. he’s an asshole.”

“aren’t they all,” the bartender muses. 

arthur stands unsteadily. “i better be headin’ off. good talkin’ t’ya.”

the bartender nods wordlessly without mention of arthur’s forgotten journey to drunkenness and waves him off. arthur stumbles towards the door and out into the saint denis streets. he’s not quite tipsy enough to be drunk, but he’s had enough alcohol that it shows. in the back of his mind, he thinks, stanford won’t be happy, but he brushes it away. stanford is never happy. neither are you. 

arthur would know. he’s been paid to watch you for the last two months. 

hidden in shadows and behind trees, arthur spends most of his days making sure you don’t get any ideas. he reports your every action to stanford. not that there are many actions. mostly you sit in your room and mope. you do a lot of crying. tonight, when arthur gets to his post below your window, you’re crying. 

he sighs. it’ll be a long night. 

sure enough, it’s a few hours of your weeping before you collapse into bed. the lamp burns out, and that’s when arthur leaves.

a man possessed, or maybe haunted, for the past eight weeks, all arthur can do is think about you. 

he replays your conversations over and over, trying to figure out how to talk to you, not that he’ll ever get a chance again. your laugh echoes through his head when he’s trying to sleep, and he even dreams of your smile. 

rarely does he let himself dwell on your body. with shame he thinks of the nights with you. never going any farther than touching, arthur would give anything to share a bed with you again. he dreams of your soft skin and fine hands, your timid touch and shy glances. he thinks more of his unworthy hands skimming the surface of your body, never asking, only taking.

and every night, arthur practices.

“i’m so sorry,” he whispers as he paces around the apartment. “please let me try again. i’m so sorry, i love you. i love you, i’m sorry. i love you. i love you.” but nothing is good enough. 

he writes letters. i’m so sorry. i love you. please forgive me. i love you. he burns them all. 

“back again so soon?” the bartender is still wiping down glasses, and he raises his eyebrows at arthur’s dejected form slumped over the bartop. 

“i love her,” he groans.

“what?”

“and she doesn’t even know it! i love her and she doesn’t know i exist.”

the bartender is silent, rolling his eyes again. 

arthur continues. “i would do anything for her. i would take her and we could run away together. i would protect her. from everything. but she doesn’t remember me.”

“i thought she didn’t know you?” the bartender asks. 

“no, she knows me. she… is engaged to another man.”

arthur remembers his heartbreak when he heard that. stanford’s grin when he told arthur is branded into his mind. that should be me, arthur had thought, and he still can’t bring himself to unthink it. 

“tough luck, man.”

“i have to take her far away from here.”

the bartender eventually refuses to serve arthur any more alcohol, and he finally slinks home alone, dead drunk. when he dreams, it’s of you, smiling and happy. he hasn’t seen you smile in months. 

one week goes by, then another.

you get used to the weight of the ring stanford has given you. the wedding is getting closer, and stanford has begun to send out invitations. 

“darling, can i see the guest list?” you ask him one night, putting on your best i-love-my-fiance voice. carefully, you rest your hand on his shoulder. he smiles up at you from his seat at his desk. 

“no, i want it to be a surprise,” he says. “i know how much you love surprises.”

your heart sinks. “no, angel, please let me see,” you plead. “i just want to know if i’ll know anyone there.”

“oh, you certainly will not,” stanford says. his mouth has dropped into a round ‘o’ in dismay. “no, i can’t have any of your friends there. they would ruin the night.” he shrugs your hand off of him. “go to your room now; i can’t be distracted.”

you slink off to your room as silently as possible. stanford’s moods are volatile enough that one wrong noise can set him off, and he does seem to be on edge tonight. 

cella is waiting for you with a clean nightgown when you open your door. “how did it go?” she asks, voice bright. she waits for you to unbutton your blouse and skirt before she helps strip off the rest, wrapping you in the nightgown.

“the usual,” you confess. cella produces a warm robe and places it around your shoulders as she begins to unpin your hair.

“he wouldn’t say?”

“no.” you shrug. “i guess it doesn’t really matter.”

“but it’s your wedding, too!” cella protests. she ushers you to the small cushioned stool in front of your vanity, and you sink down with a sigh. “don’t you want to know who will be there?”

“well, yes,” you say. “and i do know that my mother will be there. i don’t have any friends to invite anyway.”

“what about the man stanford brings around sometimes?” she asks, beginning to brush your hair. “he seems awfully interested in you.”

the bedtime ritual puts you to sleep very quickly, and you stifle a yawn. “what are you talking about?” 

the brush catches on a particularly knotty tangle, and cella mumbles a curse as she yanks it through. “oh, i don’t remember his name,” she says. “something mercan?”

“mercan?” you ask, frowning at her in the mirror. “i don’t know anyone with that name.”

“morgan?” she tries, pulling the brush through the tangle again. 

“morgan?” the surname catches in your throat, and you’re wide awake now. cella is just about to go for a third try at the name when you hear a horrifyingly familiar voice from below your window. 

“yes?”

cella makes terrified eye contact with you as you both freeze. she recovers first, racing to the window and pushing up the sash. you’re right behind her, clinging to her shoulders as you both lean out of the window. 

worst day of my life, you think. 

below your window, staring up at you, is arthur morgan in all his imagined glory. his sharp profile, stark against the fading light: his nose, his chin. his broad shoulders, heavy from the weight of who-knows-what. his is the country of invisible burdens, never too tired to take another one. you know him well. his smell, smoky and woodsy, drifts up to you, mingled with the smell of the city. 

his eyes go wide when he sees you, and he immediately ducks his head. “ah, shit,” you hear him mutter.  

you slam down the window and grab cella’s shoulders. “who is that?” you ask, even though you already know the answer. 

her wide eyes bore into your own. for once, cella is silent. in a flash, you’re back at the window. the sash raises with ease, but by the time you’ve opened it enough to see, arthur is gone. 

the city is perfect for dutch. 

men and women dressed in varying states of disorder slink through alleys and into saloons, downing mysterious drinks that no one’s ever heard of. the circus rolls into town and takes up permanent residence, inviting all to partake in its macabre wonder. and dutch’s boys have moved into the old plantation just west of the city, across the river. 

arthur leans over the balcony at the back of the house, half-listening to dutch and hosea argue behind him. not for the first time, he grimaces at the overgrown wildlife below; it threatens to swallow up the house whole. he feels the crushing weight of the vines creeping up the side of the manor; his heart strains under the pressure.

“dutch, for the last time, the money will be with him!” hosea says. “i knew him in new york. he’s old as shit, and he’s about to get married. he’s especially flush with cash right now.”

dutch paces the length of the balcony. he heaves a sigh. “but i know him, too!” he protests. “and he won’t let go of that money for all the world.”

“so we con him,” hosea says, like it’s that easy. “remember, he’s about to get married.”

“so?” dutch asks.

“so, his wife is our entry point.” 

arthur turns around suddenly. “what old codger are we talkin’ about robbin’ now?” he asks, frowning. 

dutch waves a hand dismissively. “friend of mine.”

“what’s the problem then? aren’t you the entry point?”

“he doesn’t trust me anymore.” dutch shoots a glance at hosea. “and he definitely doesn’t trust hosea. we need new blood. or maybe a new target.”

hosea’s rocking chair scrapes against the floor as he leans back. “this is the best target we’ve got,” he says. 

“i trust hosea,” arthur declares, crossing his arms over his chest. “sounds like the new wife might be a good idea. i’ll follow up with hosea and report back to y’all.”

dutch shrugs and raises his palms to the sky. “if i’m outnumbered, i’m outnumbered. hosea, this plan of yours better work.”

hosea rises from his rocking chair with a pleased smile. “trust me, dutch. he is a blind fool. he won’t know what hit him.”

to the south, thunder rumbles over the river, and arthur glances over his shoulder. “looks like a storm’s coming,” he says, but dutch and hosea are already inside. 

in the morning, stanford’s manor quakes with the force of the thunder, as though it relishes in your anguish. 

your room is lit up suddenly. fat raindrops pelt your windows relentlessly, and you pull the covers up over your head like you would if you were taking cover. it’s a feeble covering, though, because you can still hear the booming strikes. it’s exciting to feel scared sometimes; your heart races with irrational fear even nestled within your down mattress.

a soft tapping at your door yanks you into the real world. you sit up, holding the covers close to your chest. “hello?”

the door squeaks open, and your maid, cella, pokes her head in. “good morning, ma’am,” she says, curtsying. 

“you don’t need to do all that, cella,” you say, dropping the covers. “please just come in.” 

cella pushes the door open further and comes in, keeping her head bowed. “are you hungry?” she asks. “the cooks made your favorite: oatmeal.”

“they make that every morning,” you say, pulling a face. “i’m getting sick of it.”

“so no breakfast? what about some fruit?”

“has stanford eaten yet?” you ask in lieu of an answer. 

cella tilts her head in thought. “i think so,” she says. “he’s not here right now anyway, so i assume he must have eaten before dawn.”

a familiar tension releases within your stomach. cella eyes you with concern when you don’t immediately respond. both of you are loath to mention the sighting from mere hours ago, but neither of you can forget it. especially not you. 

tentatively, she crosses to the window and touches the oft-used sash gently. “oh dear,” she sighs. “i think we broke it.”

“what do you mean? it worked fine la—i mean, it was fine the other day.” if she notices your hasty coverup, she doesn’t mention it. cella has worked for stanford a long time. she knows the power of discretion. 

“i can telephone a repairman,” she offers. 

without bidding, arthur springs to your mind. you distantly wonder if he can fix a window. “don’t bother,” you say. “we’ll leave the house after the wedding anyway. and good riddance.”

but with the house comes arthur. stanford knows it. cella knew it. now you do, too. it’s cruel, almost—the way that stanford has cooked up this scheme. you would do anything to lose stanford, but he’s the one holding all the cards. this deal with the devil that arthur forced you into has done nothing but break your heart, and you’re beginning to suspect that arthur wanted exactly that.

[stxrgvsm]

R E M U S L U P I N

O N E S H O T S

⭐︎ ABOUT YOU

you've hated remus lupin longer than you've known him, if that's even possible. you'll never be able to forgive him for everything he did to you. in fact, it's insulting that he even wants to try. you'll show him.

© stxrgvsm

[stxrgvsm]

S T E V E H A R R I N G T O N

S E R I E S

⭐︎ IN YOUR DREAMS

© stxrgvsm

[stxrgvsm]

A R T H U R M O R G A N

S E R I E S

⭐︎ CRIME OF THE CENTURY

part one part two part three part four part five part six part seven (coming soon)

O N E S H O T S

⭐︎ GO AHEAD, BEG

© stxrgvsm

[stxrgvsm]

crime of the century, part four | arthur morgan x reader

summary: you're running from a life you never wanted. arthur's running after you just as fast.

content: angst, genre-typical violence, domestic abuse, past sexual assault, mentions of rape, sexual content (consensual), heavy petting

wc: 3.4k

two weeks later

in other circumstances, saint denis might be a lovely destination. 

you can tell that its citizens have deep pockets and aren’t afraid to act like it; the shops are filled with the latest fashions, all imported from paris; and the streets are kept clean, or, at least, cleaner than annesburg’s streets. it’s a shame arthur won’t let you leave the apartment without him. 

you’d watched in awe as the two of you rode in, shocked by the dresses some of these women wore. the houses were bigger than you’d ever seen outside of new york, and arthur told you that politicians lived in them. not hard to believe. 

but then he’d taken you up to a furnished apartment and told you to stay put. 

the apartment was on the second floor, atop some law offices that looked seedy. it was large enough. the one bedroom had a huge bed that took up most of the space, an imposing presence. you tried not to be in there during the day, but the bed was comfortable. the sheets were worn but clean. you tried not to think about who else had lived there, or, worse, who else arthur had taken here.

there was also a lovely sitting room that you spent most of your time in while arthur was off who-knows-where doing who-knows-what. the sofas were plush, a pink velvet soft with age. the sitting room had double french doors that opened onto a balcony overlooking a small courtyard. the place was very charming, you had to admit, but… lonely.

“are you kidding me?” you’d stomped your foot childishly, aware that you looked ridiculous. he didn’t spare you a second glance as he shouldered his satchel and slammed the front door behind him. you’re ashamed to admit that you had let out a scream as the door shut.

when he returned later that night, he was flush with cash. “poker,” he’d explained simply. 

after that, things were more bearable. arthur took you with him on business trips (read: high stakes poker games), and, to reward you for your time, he bought you luxury items every time you agreed to come. you suspected that he was using you as arm candy or maybe as a distraction. you didn’t care; you’d gotten new heeled boots out of the deal. 

but it’s getting old, and, two weeks after your arrival, things suddenly change.

“are you coming with me?” he asks, shrugging on a dinner jacket. “it’s on the steamboat tonight.”

from your position lounging on the sofa, you roll your eyes. “i’m so tired of the steamboat, arthur! can’t we leave saint denis already? what are we even waiting for?”

he ignores this complaint and tosses you a dress. “come on, i won’t wait forever.”

i won’t wait forever. isn’t that the truth. 

you stomp over to the painted screen that serves as your dressing room. “seriously, arthur, why are we still here?”  

you can almost hear his eye roll, but his voice is as smooth as ever. “sweetheart, hurry up.” you pretend not to hear the first word.

of course you oblige, slipping the dress over your head. it’s a light powder blue, almost green, tight on your hips but flowy around your legs. you have to admit it is a nice dress. arthur has always had good taste. 

“the game starts in—”

when you step out from behind the screen, his eyes blow wide and his jaw goes slack. it’s not the first time he’s reacted this way to you: shallow breathing, flushed cheeks, fidgety. mostly you pretend not to notice, just as he does when you arch into him at night.

arthur nods wordlessly and leads you outside to byron, harnessed to a streetlight. his hand hovers over your lower back on the way down, but he doesn’t say anything to you until you settle into the steamboat routine.

the men in the game are familiar to you, but even though you’ve watched their poker nights for a week now, you’ve never spoken to them. you’ve accepted that your role here is to perch on arthur’s lap and serve as a distraction. tonight, it’s going remarkably well. arthur has won all three rounds so far, and he’s well on his way to drunk. 

and one thing you’ve learned about arthur since coming to saint denis is that he’s awfully handsy when he’s drunk.

his large hand roams your waist and thighs, refusing to settle on just one area. he squeezes and grips, first here and then there. you can feel your face flushing, but he’s not even paying attention to you, which almost makes it worse. his touch lights you on fire, and he doesn’t even care.

then his hand dips lower, onto your ass. the dress is tight enough that you know he can feel every curve. where you should feel shame, excitement bubbles up inside of you. instead of nerves, you feel a thrill at his touch. two weeks’ worth of anticipation finally coming to a climax.

after all, it’s been a long two weeks. 

initially, arthur had taken the couch and you’d taken the bed. he said it was the gentlemanly thing to do, although you hadn’t been able to ignore his sorrowful sighs every night. when he started complaining about his back, you offered to switch with him. and then he’d suggested it. 

“why don’t we share the bed? we’re both adults.”

and, foolishly, you’d agreed. 

you’d learned almost immediately what a gentleman arthur is. refusing to touch you when sober, his hands are all over you at night. he grabs your waist and tugs you into him. he caresses your shoulders, your arms. you pretend not to notice when you feel his hardness poking your thigh in the morning, and he pretends not to notice when you arch into it. when he wakes, he won’t acknowledge anything. in fact, most days, he leaves quite early. you wake up alone and wanting. 

so tonight, you feel properly wound up. two weeks’ worth of foreplay, all for this game. all for this boat, where he stills your squirming with a gentle squeeze and then continues to feel you up. where his hand slips between your thighs and stays. 

you wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a wet patch on his trousers when you stand up. 

the tablecloth shields his fingers from view, and you’re quite thankful for this. your dress has fallen open around your legs, giving him a clear opening. his fingers dance along your inner thigh, his eyes locked on the cards in front of him. arthur still laughs at the appropriate times; so do you, but every time you release a breathy laugh, his hand drifts higher and higher. 

then he feels it. 

his forefinger presses against your slit, nothing at all—no fabric, no panties, no bloomers—between the pad of his finger and your seam. arthur inhales sharply. it’s not the first time you’ve seen him break, but you want nothing more than to see it again.

and then, without warning, your world comes crashing to a halt. the doors slide open silently. if it weren’t for your direct line of sight, you wouldn’t have noticed him at all. not for the first time, you wonder how it can be that the worst day of your life dawned so quietly. 

stanford walks in, straightening his cuffs and smiling like he owns the whole damn boat. he probably does. “gentlemen!” he exclaims. then his eyes land on you. they don’t sharpen, don’t sparkle, none of the things you’ve read about. no recognition flickers behind his eyes, but you know he knows. “and lady,” he says, offering you a mocking bow. “i hope you’re enjoying the game!”

arthur’s hand rips away from you and returns to the table. you’re so shaken up you can’t even mourn the loss. arthur joins the other men in a rousing cheer for stanford. 

“mind if i join?” he asks. no one refuses, because no one ever refuses stanford. you certainly never did. 

he sits next to arthur, close enough that you can hear his breathing. a shiver wracks your body, and you fake a sneeze to cover it up. without a word, stanford offers you a handkerchief. 

you take it, to be polite, and then you freeze. it’s your handkerchief. your initials are there, embroidered in the corner. initially a gift from stanford, the piece of fabric stops your breath and forces you into acquiescence. you know stanford well enough to see his game before it even begins. this is his way of saying you’re not fooling me. 

_._._

when arthur wins the game, stanford pats him on the back and leaves without addressing you. 

he hadn’t said a word to you the entire night, but you know your time is up. whatever scam you foolishly thought to run on stanford is over before it even began. he knows where you are. he will come back for you. 

in his drunken state, arthur doesn’t notice your silence. he’s talking too much. “‘n’ did you see how i won that han’?” he asks you, slurring every word. 

you nod and try to smile encouragingly. “let’s get you back to byron.”

“tha’s my horse,” he says. 

“yup.” you focus your energy on shouldering most of his weight, stumbling out towards the docks. arthur babbles the whole way there, mostly meaningless nonsense. you tune his rambling out—you’re too busy taking inventory of your entire life to listen.

the first time you’d run away, the police caught you. stanford seemed so relieved when they returned you that you’d been fooled. of course, as soon as the door shut behind their backs, it was all different. the back of his hand across your cheek a sharp warning never to do that again. 

“don’t you dare run from me,” he’d said. and then he softened. “don’t you see how much i need you?” you hadn’t the courage to say no. 

and for the first few weeks after that, things were different. he was kinder. treated you better. kissed you softer. there were no parties, no other men, and stanford didn’t make you perform. you’re ashamed to admit that he fooled you into a slow rhythm, and when everything went back to the way it used to be, you hadn’t known what to say. 

you didn’t know which was the real stanford. because there were two: one with sweet words and thoughtful gifts and one with a cruel laugh and rough hands. sometimes you preferred the second one, because at least he touched you, even if you woke up a little bruised. the first one sneered if you asked for his touch.

but this stanford—the one who’s come back for you? you don’t know who to expect.

when arthur collapses into bed, he immediately starts snoring. but you know you can’t sleep right now. sleeping feels reckless when he’s out there, somewhere in this city. you spend a few restless hours on the balcony, scanning the horizon for you don’t know what. anything to feel busy. 

eventually, the snoring stops and you brace yourself. 

“hey,” arthur says from behind you. his voice is husky with sleep. “what are you doing out here?”

“just couldn’t sleep.” it’s not a lie. 

“that was stanford, wasn’t it.” you don’t answer. arthur drops into the chair next to you. “i know you think i’m a fool, and maybe i am. but i’m not stupid.”

knowing that arthur knows doesn’t make it better. in fact, maybe it makes it worse. he keeps talking: “tell me what happened.”

so you do. “when i was 15, my momma couldn’t make rent. we lived in a shantytown in the city, and it was getting cold. one day the landlord showed up. he took one look at me and said not to worry about rent. next day momma got a job. she got me a job there, too, and then one day a man walked in.”

“stanford,” arthur supplies.

“yeah. he offered me a job posing for pictures, and we didn’t know any better. i knew it would pay well, and i made momma let me. one day, he asked me to come over for lunch with one of my friends from the studios. his home was so beautiful. i cried. i couldn’t very well say no when he asked me to stay with him forever. how was i supposed to know?”

arthur is silent across from you. his brow furrows in thought, and he stares down at the courtyard. you continue. 

“then the money stopped coming. he told me the experience was the pay and i would thank him later. i never did. he started taking me around to parties across the country. there was even one here. that’s where i met dutch.”

at that, arthur’s head jerks up. “is that what he was talking about?”

you nod. “he paid stanford to sleep with me. a lot of men did, i guess, seeing as how many times i couldn’t remember the previous night. but then one day i ran away. when the police brought me back, he hit me. then he cried, and he promised never to do it again as long as i always stayed with him. he said he didn’t want to hurt me. i believed him.”

“what made you run away again?”

at this you pause. he looks so earnest. you tell him. “at one party, there was a boy named thaw. he gave me a lot of money to see me again, but stanford said not to. i did anyway. i sent all the money to my momma. she needed it more than me. anyway, stanford found out. he wasn’t happy.”

“is that why you left?” arthur asks. 

“no. i left because he killed thaw.”

to his credit, arthur doesn’t look too surprised. he nods. “and now he’s back to finish the job?”

“i don’t know why he’s back,” you admit, desperation leeching into your voice. “i don’t know what else he could possibly want from me.”

“money,” arthur says like it’s obvious. “or sex. or revenge.”

“what do i do?” 

he shakes his head. “vengeance is an idiot’s game. he’ll get what’s coming to him.”

“arthur, he’s going to kill me! what do i do?”

“look at me,” he says. your eyes flit to his, and you’re taken aback by the intensity in his gaze. “i’m going to keep you safe. nothing will happen to you.”

it’s a little silly, how quickly tears spring to your eyes. no one has ever said that to you. no one has ever been there for you. even thaw, despite his money, wanted to use you. “thank you,” you tell him earnestly. 

“do you trust me?” he asks. 

“yes.”

“then let me take care of it.” arthur’s dark eyes bear into yours, earnest and loyal. “stanford will not find you.”

_._._

but things fall apart, and arthur cannot always be there to protect you. 

when stanford knocks on the door one day, you don’t know what to do. arthur left it unlocked when he left. of course you hadn’t thought to lock it, and now you’re hiding under the bed with a dull knife that arthur keeps forgetting to sharpen. 

the door creaks open, and you hear thudding footsteps. stanford’s always-open eyes flit through your mind, terrifying and suffocating. his breathing is audible even from the bedroom. “where are you?” he sings. “i’m going to find you.”

his voice drifts into the sitting room. “do you remember what i said last time you ran away from me?”

you hold you breath, and he sighs. “i promised that i would find you no matter where you go. and i have!” 

you watch from under the bed as his heavy boots step into the bedroom and stop. he chuckles. 

“there’s no use hiding,” he warns. his voice is light. “in fact, it will be better for you if i don’t have to come find you.”

you clutch the knife closer, as though it will protect you.

“i know you’re in here.” he steps closer to the bed. “don’t make me grab you.”

the knife clatters to the floor and you slide out from under the bed. “please don’t hurt me.”

the first thing you notice is his face. he has changed since the last time you really saw him two months ago. there are new lines under his eyes, and his beard hasn’t been shaved. you can’t help but compare him to arthur’s rugged build. stanford is round in the middle, and you notice the guns he keeps on a gun belt around his waist. for the first time, you’re not afraid of him: he’s just an old man. 

then his face splits in a big smile. “my dear,” he says. then he pulls you up to standing, and that bravery vanishes. he still towers over you. “your mother is worried sick about you. frankly, so was i. kidnapped, how awful.”

stupidly, you frown. “i wasn’t—”

he backhands you across the face. your cheek aches with the force, and you lift a hand to tenderly feel the flushing skin. inside your mouth, you can feel where the skin split from your teeth. 

“next time i’ll kill you,” he says, smile gone. his hands haven’t left your shoulders, and fear bubbles up inside you. “don’t ever contradict me again.”

you nod. 

“now let’s go. foolish girl. a waste of my time, really.” he drags you through the apartment and down the stairs and then he shoves you into a carriage waiting on the street. “i can’t believe how stupid you are. if you weren’t worth the world to me, i wouldn’t have bothered.”

he climbs in himself and sits opposite you. the carriage lurches into motion, carrying you away from the apartment, away from arthur, wherever he is. “where are we going?” you whisper, eyes cast downward. 

“speak up,” he snaps.

where has your courage gone? your resolve? where did arthur go? you think. 

he promised to protect you. 

you look up. “where is arthur?” 

“who?” stanford looks at you as though you’ve gone daft. “oh, arthur! that delightful bounty hunter who led me straight to you.”

your world spins to a stop. “what?”

“how on earth do you think i found you two? he told me where you would be. i paid him well, don’t worry. he’ll be living comfortably for a long time. perhaps i’ll keep him on retainer for the next time you try to get away.”

oblivious to your thoughts, stanford rambles on, but you’ve stopped listening. he told me. paid him well. keep him. next time. the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad truth slowly dawns on you: arthur lied. 

he lied that night on the balcony. he lied at camp, when he said he would protect you. he leid in the cave. he lied in annesburg. and you walked right into it. you knew stanford was cunning. desperate for something to believe, you walked right into his trap. 

and arthur was so handsome, so believable. it was too easy to trust him. but the truth is all there in front of you: he lied. 

stanford talks until the carriage pulls up to a familiar mansion. it’s the place with all the parties. “remember dutch?” he asks. you nod, suddenly exhausted. “he’ll be here tonight.” then he winks. 

your heart sinks. it will always be like this.

_._._

but this party is different from all the others. 

for one, dutch doesn’t try to touch you. no one does, besides stanford, who always keeps a hand around your waist. everyone seems so happy. and there are women who fawn over you and tell you how beautiful you are. 

“where is the ring?” someone asks. 

stanford presses a hand to yours. “it’s getting resized. we wanted it to fit perfectly!” the crowd gathered around you two laughs heartily. you don’t have the energy to ask what on earth they’re talking about, and stanford’s harsh touch on your hip warns you not to speak. 

instead you smile gently. all night, mostly stanford does the talking. you’re glued to his side helplessly, and then, slowly, this new realization comes to you.

“are you so excited?” a woman asks, peering into your eyes as if she can see straight through you. 

“yes,” you say, forcing a smile. 

“what will the dress look like?” 

“the… dress?”

“the wedding dress, silly!” she shakes her head and laughs. 

wedding.

[stxrgvsm]

i think when we reach 100 followers i'll do a blurb celebration!!

[stxrgvsm]

crime of the century, part three | arthur morgan x reader

summary: you're running from a life you never wanted. arthur's running after you just as fast.

content: angst, genre-typical violence, past sexual assault, dutch is an asshole sorry

wc: 2.9k

after a few miles, your cries subside into soft sniffles, but they never fully go away. 

stanford’s empty eyes flit through your mind, never fully shut even in his sleep. the first few nights, it had scared you. after that, you got used to it. you got used to a lot of other things, too. his phantom hand gripped your upper arm tightly, yanking you into the past. 

“i’ll make it good for you,” he’d promised. “i can help you.” 

and foolishly, you’d believed him. allowed him to drag you from your home and onto the stage, pocketed your income and told you the experience was the gift. posed you in front of cameras and let managers and producers do what they wanted. as long as he got the final say, of course. 

“isn’t it better this way?” he’d asked. 

then came the parties and the drinks, where stanford introduced you to people whose names scampered in one ear and out the other. except for one—thaw. he told you he was an heir, which hadn’t meant anything to you then. not until he’d winked and slipped you a bouquet papered with bills. then he’d laughed. you can still hear that laugh echoing around your head sometimes. 

stanford pulled you away from thaw and pressed drink after drink into your hands, assuring you that you wouldn’t remember any of it in the morning. he’d been wrong. the blood on the sheets told you all you needed to know. 

 arthur’s hand lightly taps your hip, bringing you back to the moment. he’s dismounted, and he looks up at you with clear, bright eyes. “you okay now?” he asks, rubbing your wrists. somewhere during your reverie, arthur had removed the rope, leaving only a faint mark. 

you nod distractedly and he helps you down. arthur’s fingers drift to your cheek, and you think he’s about to wipe away your tears. his touch lands, soft and steady, and then it’s gone. “let’s find you a tent,” he says instead, leading you away from byron. 

a camp sprawls before you, stretching into a yawning cave mouth. various tents and wagons have been pitched along the road. there’s a stew pot near the cave, and a man stirs it halfheartedly, throwing vegetables in seemingly at random. besides the cook, there’s a gaggle of young women huddled together by a tent at the edge of camp. they’re staring at you, but they don’t seem to be mean. one of them smiles encouragingly. 

“miss grimshaw,” arthur calls. a woman you hadn’t noticed before looks up from some washing. her arms are dipped in soapy water up to her elbows, but when she sees you, she wipes them on her skirts and stands up. 

“arthur,” she says. “who is that?”

he looks down at you and nudges you forward. “go on,” he says. “tell her your name.”

you do, keeping your gaze pinned to the ground. it’s funny, all those years in front of cameras, and you’re still shy. you can almost guarantee that this grimshaw woman has seen photos of you in various states of undress. but her gaze doesn’t register any recognition. 

“nice to meet you,” she says, sticking out a hand for you to shake. her skin is calloused by hard work, and you don’t miss the way her brow furrows at your own weak handshake. “what kinda housework you know—”

“she’s a guest, susan,” arthur laughs. “i’m not putting her to work.”

miss grimshaw harrumphs and turns back to her washing. “she can stay with the girls,” is her final judgement. 

arthur turns you around and leads you back the way you came, towards the girls huddled beneath a tent. “ladies, is it alright if my friend here stays with you for a bit?” he asks, a slow smile forming on his face. 

the girls don’t seem very amused by his tactics. one of them, a blonde, speaks up. “arthur morgan, let the girl speak for herself. goodness. all we’ve seen since you pulled up was an overbearing man.” the others giggle at her boldness. 

arthur smiles bashfully and glances at you. “we had a rough start. was hoping you all could talk to her.” he nudges you forward. “i know you can talk.”

another girl grabs your hand and pulls you down to sit with them. “my name is tilly,” she says, already moving on from arthur. “it’s nice to meet you.”

arthur takes the hint and tips his hat. “i’ll see you ladies in a bit.” then he strolls off, and, despite your rapidly cooling anger, you find yourself eyeing the back of his jeans more openly than you’d have liked. 

the blonde girl hands you a biscuit from behind her. “i’m karen,” she says. “sorry, the biscuit is a little hard. i’m guessing you’re pretty hungry.”

“arthur gave me some apples,” you tell them. “that’s about it.”

“how unromantic!” the final girl gasps. “arthur knows better than that.”

yeah, right. “how long have you known him?” is what you say instead.

“‘bout five years,” karen says. “he’s not a bad guy. i’ve known worse.”

“same here,” tilly says. 

“me too,” the final girl echoes. “i’m mary-beth.”

“so how’d you meet arthur?” karen asks. 

“it’s kind of a long story,” you admit. “but mostly we met after i shot him a few weeks ago.”

their eyes go wide with shock. “you shot arthur?” mary-beth exclaims. 

“yeah. somebody paid me to do it.”

“and he didn’t kill you?” tilly asks.

“no. but i think that was more to do with pity.”

they seem to sense your unwillingness to talk much, because karen stands up suddenly. “ladies, we’d best give her a moment to rest. arthur’s not the patient type, and he’ll want to be back on the road with you shortly. it was nice meeting you.”

the other two express similar sentiments, and then they file out of the tent, leaving you alone. through the opening, you can see arthur laughing with the cook. he dips a spoon into the stew and tastes it. then he nods and pats the cook on the back and moves on to the next person. 

once he’s greeted a few others, he looks back at you, face open and unguarded. immediately, you duck your head, but it’s too late; he’s caught your eye, and he lazily walks over to you, letting his hips sway in the late afternoon sunlight.

“you doin’ alright over here, ma’am?” he asks with a teasing smile.

“yes, arthur. i’m fine.” 

arthur sets himself down in front of you, careful not to touch any of the girls’ things, even as he stretches his legs out. then he looks at you, really looks, and you find yourself flinching away from his gaze. 

“are you going to take me to valentine?” you ask quietly.

“no.”

a hushed refrain, freedom, chants within your soul, but you tamp it down. “why?”

his face hardens. “i don’t deal with men who hurt women.”

both of your gazes drift to your forearm, where a faint ring of bruises from stanford’s hand still blooms. you rush to cover it. “that’s none of your business,” you say. “i could have handled it. i was handling it.”

to his credit, he actually looks surprised. “woman, what on earth are you on about? the man who gave me your wanted poster could have ripped you apart with his teeth.”

you’ve no doubt that’s true. stanford employed the biggest, stupidest muscle in new york city to do his dirty work. “i’m not a kid,” you protest.

arthur actually laughs. “then stop acting like one.”

you cross your arms over your chest. you’re aware that you’re pouting, but it’s to no avail. his gaze doesn’t soften and he doesn’t shift his posture. “if you're not taking me back, then what am i doing here?” you finally ask.

at that, he does shift uneasily. “i’m not sure,” he admits. “i was hoping to have that figured out soon.”

you let out an exasperated sigh. “why can’t you just let me go? nothing bad is going to happen to me.” you search his face for some sign of mercy, even the vaguest relaxation for you to worm your way into. you’ve always been good at squeezing into tight spots. but there are none for you. 

instead, a firm resolve fits itself onto his face like an expensive mask.  “i have to protect you,” he says. “i don’t know why or how, but i have to protect you.”

“from what?”

he doesn’t have to answer. you already know. stanford’s endlessly open eyes stare you down. you can almost hear his voice. 

“i will find you. no matter where you go, or how far you run. i will find you and bring you back.” at the time, it had been sweet and comforting. he’d pulled you in and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

looking back, it was a threat. you know that now. and that morning, with blood on the sheets and a sharp pain between your legs, you knew something else.

arthur’s hand covers your own. when you look up, his gaze is locked onto your fingers, curled into a fist. “who was it?” he asks. 

you pull your hand away. “it’s none of your business.”

his face falls and he stands up. “i tried,” arthur says, shrugging down at you. “you’re only hurting yourself with your stubbornness.”

“you kidnapped me!” you can’t believe his attitude. as though you owe him your trust or your life story. “i’ve only known you for two days.”

“you shot me!” he returns, just as quickly. 

“they paid me to do it!” you scramble to your feet, feeling heat flood your cheeks. “you can’t pin that one on me!”

“you battered me with a rock,” he says, annoyingly casual. his hand is propped on his hip, and he’s staring you down with a look that says you’re not fooling him. 

“the o’driscolls—”

suddenly, he presses a hand to your mouth as if to shove the words back inside. he steps closer to you. “don’t say that so loud,” he warns you in a hushed tone, eyes gone wide. 

but it’s too late. a booming laugh sounds out over the camp, and you watch over arthur’s shoulder as a man strolls out of the cave with familiar ease. a chill crawls down your spine at his gaze. “arthur,” he calls. “who are you hiding there?”

arthur winces but peels his hand away from your face and steps back. “this is a friend of mine,” he says. you think he’s being a bit generous. 

“don’t we share everything?” the man asks. he’s close enough now that you can see the glint in his eyes. his ornate red vest sets him apart from the rest of the camp, marking him as one in authority, the one with the money. 

his grin makes you nervous, but you force yourself to shake the hand he offers. “dutch,” he tells you.

then you recognize him. 

a party, years ago. some mansion in saint denis. you’d woken in a soft bed to a pounding headache. stanford perched on the side, brushing your hair away from your face. wordlessly, he had handed you a small stack of bills. when you took it, he stood, winked, and left. 

no blood on the sheets this time, but the soreness between your legs was the same as before. and when stanford introduced you to dutch later that day, he’d reached out to touch your chest. when you’d stepped out of his reach, stanford had pinched your hip and pushed you forward again. dutch didn’t seem too bothered. he didn’t try again, though. 

“behave,” stanford had hissed in your ear. 

so now, when dutch shakes your hand, you step back into arthur. he looks down at you with a frown and nudges you forward. it’s all so familiar when dutch laughs again. “haven’t seen you in a while,” he says, leering at you. “how’s old stanny doing?”

arthur goes still behind you. “you know her?”

“well, sure, i know her. stanford white introduced me to her,” dutch says, as if it’s no big deal that he paid someone for the privilege of having sex with you years ago. “says he hasn’t seen you in a while, though. supposed to be a big cash prize.” 

“i wouldn’t know about that,” you tell him, tossing your hair behind your shoulder. “mr. white and i haven’t spoken in a long time.”

“mr. white!” dutch laughs, pressing a hand to his belly. “how formal. my dear, you don’t need to worry. i won’t return you.”

return. as though you’re a missing piece of baggage. as though stanford has simply borrowed you out to his sleazy friends. you’re sure dutch can read your inner turmoil; he suddenly looks very smug. 

arthur settles a hand on your shoulder. “we’d best be getting to bed, dutch. see you in the morning.” it feels like a shitty lie, but dutch buys it. he kisses the back of your hand and winks. it sends another chill down your spine. 

when dutch turns away, arthur pulls you back towards his wagon. both hands on your shoulders, he looks you dead in the eyes. “what was he talking about?” arthur demands. 

“nothing!” but you can’t meet his eyes. “it was nothing. he’s just… i don’t know. nothing.”

behind arthur’s back, you watch the sun meet the horizon in a brilliant burst of color. distantly, you’re reminded of a lullaby. 

the sun departs in a golden boat / across the sea of tranquil blue / and leaves behind a crimson coat / to paint the sky for me and you.

as the glowing rays explode across the sky, you wonder what it would be like to sail away with them. to be a passenger in that golden boat. to run far, far away from stanford and the past you’d do anything to erase. 

running from him is beginning to feel futile. he followed you to annesburg. he followed you to beaver hollow. even the o’driscolls had provided no escape, only paltry pay for shit work. you’re lucky to have escaped them; you think about the girls who aren’t so lucky. 

 arthur glances at the sunset. his grip relaxes a little. 

“arthur,” you say tentatively. 

he hums in response, still looking behind himself. 

“when can i go home?”

his gaze darts to you suddenly, and you find yourself shrinking beneath his stare. “don’t,” he says, in a tone that speaks of heartache and grief. “please don’t. stay with me.” 

you’re inclined to obey.

you wake to a darkness that feels all-encompassing. 

for a moment, it’s frightening. it swallows you and seems to find you lacking. it spits you back out into life. you claw at its gates, crying out for release. 

the fear melts into comfort almost immediately. stanford and dutch fade away. the hands of men whose names you don’t know slide off of your skin, and you’re back with your mother. she’s humming to you, a song you haven’t heard in years. tears slip down her cheeks. 

“mama, please, what’s wrong?”

she shakes her head and doesn’t answer, just keeps humming that song. 

“mama! where have i been?”

then you wake for a second time, and you’re alone. harsh daylight breaks through the gap in the tent’s fabric, and you blink the sleepiness from your eyes. arthur is nowhere to be seen, and, when you peek your head through the tent flap, the camp is still and silent. even the horses are gone. 

your heart sinks within you. he’s gone. it will always be like this. 

you settle back into the tent, wrapping yourself in one of the blankets you’d been given, trying to formulate a plan. you don’t need arthur’s protection. you made it to annesburg just fine. you can make it somewhere else, too. 

you’re stuffing the blanket into a bag when you hear a laugh ring out over the empty camp. fear chills you to your bones and you freeze. 

“there’s no one here, boss,” you hear a man call. “place is deserted.”

then a growl. “lift all the valuables you can find. they must have left a trail somewhere. we will find that girl!” a cheer goes up from the small group and then you hear rustling. heavy footsteps approach your tent, and you duck under the blankets. 

a shitty disguise, you think. sure enough, the blanket is ripped off of you and you find yourself staring into a boy’s eyes.

he is young, younger than you. probably only 17. his eyes are wide with fear and shock. he sports a bright golden badge that reads deputy. it almost makes you laugh. 

he’s clearly a stanford pick. you know that it’s his life or yours. you don’t hesitate.

you grab him around the neck and bring him close to your face. “if you give me away, i swear i will track you down and slit your mother’s throat,” you hiss, glaring at him.

he nods frantically, beginning to claw at your hand wrapped around his throat. “do you hear me?” you ask. 

“yes, ma’am,” he whispers. then, louder, “clear!”

“get out,” you order. he obeys.

shortly after, the men clear out, leaving you alone. again.