#tiny round glasses... a singular earring...

[okashiras]

the orange of yukishiro enishi’s outfit is disgusting i love it

[theghostinthelibrary]

hook 'em.

pairing: glen powell x f!reader  rating: 18+ (minors dni)  warnings/triggers:  close knit family dynamic, mentions of glen’s family (by name), drinking, being tipsy, swearing, partying, lots of smut in the end half! p in v sex, oral (f receiving), praise. if rpf gives you the ick, this one is (in my opinion) muy caliente (🌶️🌶️) and may not be for you. word count: 9,944 (oopsie?) summary: burnt orange. longhorns. jerseys. you don’t know a thing about football, but glen’s more than happy to teach you.

A/N: it’s FINALLY heeeeere! had a lot of fun with this and it ended up being equal parts plot as it did prn. enjoooy. also, pieces like this make me hope to sweet baby jesus that glen doesn’t read fanfiction about himself, and if he does, that he never finds this one. fingers crossed, biddies! 

also, i literally know next to nothing about football, let alone the longhorns, but i got this done quickly and kept editing, so be gentle on meeee. i did watch an entire documentary on “Big Bertha II”, so i feel i should be commended. 

not fully beta'd, but special thanks to @auntiechele / @cowgirlstateofmind89 for helping to be an extra set of eyes on the football terminology for this one. banners and dividers are all created by me, so if you want to use them, please tag me! 

next ones in my drafts, in no particular order, are: 

• false god ((jake x f!reader (cult narrator) - more of “figure you out”);  • cherry bomb ((jake x records girl/fbff!reader) - more of “don’t worry darlin’”);  • the man i need (tyler owens x f!reader);  • two hands (glen powell x f!reader);  • wrapped (jake x f!reader);  • put a spell on you (glen powell x f!reader) 

the tags are bananas right now, so if i miss you—sorry! The best way to make sure you see my new stuff as it gets posted is to give me a follow! you guys are the most amazing people ever. keep interacting and i'll keep posting!  

❥ masterlist ❥ 

It was late—too late for coffee, too early for breakfast. Somewhere in that hazy golden hour where sleep still hadn’t come, and the quiet of the open, seemingly endless stretch of land outside the wall-to-wall glass at Glen’s place took on a pre-dawn blue hue. 

You’d flown in that night, or maybe it was now the night before.  

After dinner at some BBQ place in Austin Glen swore up and down would “change your life,” you let him choose dessert just to watch him light up. He’d decisively picked the place his parents used to take him and his sisters to when they were kids—on the weeks he made it through without setting something on fire or giving Cyndy cause to field calls home from school by equally exasperated, woefully underpaid teachers. A tiny ice cream hut, barely big enough for two people and a clunky machine that rattled like a forty-year-old AC unit, used year-round to combat the singular climate condition in Texas: Satan’s ball sack levels of heat. 

You sat cross-legged on the long plush couch in front of the fireplace, Glen’s hoodie swallowing your frame, glasses slightly crooked, hair tucked behind one ear. You held tightly to a cup of green tea, sipping contemplatively as you squinted at the iPad Glen had slid into your lap. 

“Okay,” you murmured, slow, serious, scrubbing your eyes as if the act of doing so would erase anything they’d seen on the screen before now. “Explain it to me again, but this time pretend I’m, like… a golden retriever, four-year-old non-Texan, Canadian, with an English degree. Minus a firm grip on any Texan-isms. Please.” 

You didn’t tell him that his hand, wide and splayed on your bare knee, ever so casual, had short-circuited your brain when he absently swiped his thumb in lazy semicircles, mid-explanation of the play he was trying to show you. 

Glen’s responding smirk knocked something loose in you, the way his green eyes scanned you from under his impossibly long lashes for a beat. “So, just so I understand, you want me to explain college football to you like you’re incredibly loyal, a little distracted, but could out-argue a philosophy professor, two whiskeys deep, in a bar?” 

“Exactly,” you deadpanned, ignoring the fizzy feeling settling in your stomach as he shifted. When he settled in again, sitting up and twisting the worn Longhorns ball cap backward, he stretched his arm along the back of the couch. Instinctively, you adjusted to wriggle into the crook against his chest as his arm came around you to scrub the footage back. 

The content in question was from a game last fall—Texas vs Oklahoma. The Red River Rivalry. The Red River Shootout. The rivalry to end all rivalries in the world of college football. Only the most important game of the season, backed by centuries of history. 

You’d collected that much information and stored it in the mental space usually reserved for true crime podcasts—affectionately dubbed the “murder board”—title card pinned dutifully at the top of the otherwise empty space. 

You couldn’t be blamed for the flimsy collection of evidence/information entirely. Glen, after all, was very good at being distracting.  

You dared anyone to concentrate the first time he showed you the clip, his words rumbling in his chest as you leaned against him. 

You challenged a stronger woman to not think about his mouth and the things it could do when he showed the play a third time and his tongue swiped absently over his bottom lip. You’d caught it from the corner of your eye as you fought against the distraction of the size of his hands against the screen and suddenly all you could think about was his mouth on yours, on your collarbone, on the space between your breasts and lower still. 

You’d been jolted out of your daydream, mouth dry and thighs clenched together tightly when you heard the uptick of his voice that suggested he’d asked you a question. Casually, you cleared your throat and played it off, pointing at the player on the freeze frame and asked a clarifying question. Is that guy supposed to be over that line? 

You thought you were being sly, but the way he smirked, you knew you’d been caught. 

Now, on the fifth viewing, you’d get it under control. Focus. On the screen. On the names of the players. On the weird plays you were only half sure weren’t elaborate long game pranks being seeded by Glen.   

You wanted so badly to understand this thing that meant so much to the man who meant so much to you. Mainly because Glen had been so incredibly patient, the excitement when he’d handed you the burnt orange hoodie earlier, palpable. Even more so when you asked if he’d mind explaining it to you. 

“All right, start here,” he said finally, pointing at the screen as the burnt orange jerseys began to line up. “This is the snap. Quarterback’s in shotgun—see how he’s not under center?” 

You leaned in, eyes narrowing behind the lenses of your glasses. “Shotgun formation. Okay,” you added it to the mental board, “that sounds unnecessarily aggressive.” 

Glen huffed a laugh, though his focus was still on the game on the screen. His eyes flickering across the play like it was live and he didn’t know the outcome. “It’s football, babe. Everything sounds unnecessarily aggressive.” 

You made a soft hmm noise—the sound of processing, the equivalent of a loading bar across the screen in your mind, progress on the storing of information, not necessarily in agreement—and watched as the play unfolded. 

Glen sat forward a little, the excitement palpable. “Okay, okay—see this guy? Number 88? He’s the tight end. He’s gonna fake block, then run what’s called a seam route—” 

“I accept shotgun as a formation,” you held up your hand, waved away the words that weighted your tongue, tapped the screen to pause the replay before you started again, “but seam route? I submit for the approval of the Midnight Society: you’re making these terms up, Powell.” 

His face twisted into something mock serious, his hand pressing to his chest, an oath, “I swear to god, I’m not.” 

“Ok, fine. Seam route,” you narrowed your eyes, repeated the term slowly. “We’re talking like, S-E-A-M, a rip in a dress?” 

“Exactly,” he grinned, settling back into the cushions before tapping play again. “So, tight end. He’s gonna run it right down the middle of the defense. They don’t expect it because the tight end usually blocks. But this guy—Endries—he’s quick. Watch.” 

On the screen, the play exploded, along with the roar of the crowd—a blur of motion and cheers through the iPad speakers. Number 88 caught the ball, tucked it tight to his chest in stride and booked it down the middle of the field. The crowd roared in delayed digital surround. 

You blinked. “Okay, that was absolute wizardry.” 

Glen chuckled. “The play or the player?” 

“Yes.” 

He laughed harder, and you felt the swell of a full heart in your chest, the sound of his joy, pure, unscripted—loud at first, then warm. It tapped something in you that reminded you of the feeling of coming home: the smell of fresh baked bread and the distant laughter of family somewhere in a big house. You could feel the goofy smile pulling at your mouth. 

Quietly, he leaned forward, pressing into your space, close enough that you could smell the last wisps of his cologne, mixed with the base notes of something uniquely, intoxicatingly, him. Just as your pulse kicked and your eyes locked on his, you felt his fingers brush yours, tugging the cup—the one you’d forgotten you’d been holding—from your grip. Carefully, he set it on the small side table behind you. Which, you supposed, was fair—you’d baptized this iPad before when he’d shown you the clip of the baby panda at the zoo in China, sneezing and scaring its mom. 

When he leaned back, drink safely tucked aside, he held the closeness, his hand tracing up from your elbow to your wrist. By the time he spoke again—that soft Southern drawl you noticed grew thicker the closer he was to Texas—you had to shake the thought of what his hands would feel like, fingers biting into the curve of your hips. 

“All right. Big picture. Texas football isn’t just about the game. It’s about… pride. Family. Tradition. It’s fall Saturdays and burnt orange everywhere and my dad screaming at the TV like he’s calling the plays himself.” 

He glanced sideways at you—that quiet thing he did when he was giving you space to find the overlap between his opinion and yours. “I know it probably looks like chaos to you, but—” 

“No,” you interrupted gently. “It’s not chaos. You haven’t seen my family during the Division Finals when the Habs are playing. This is just a rhythm—syntax I don’t know yet. Kind of like how I think some things Southerners say are nice, but…” You shrugged. 

You watched Glen’s throat bob, the breath of a laugh leaving him as he looked at you—draped in his Longhorns burnt-orange hoodie—like he’d never heard anyone describe football that way. Like he’d never realized the similarities between you: you, who’d grown up braving summer days that dipped into the chill of fall; him, in the red dirt and scorching heat of Texas. Hockey in place of football, sure—but parallel scenes all the same. Dads in armchairs, yelling at officials who could never hear them through the TV. 

 

Two sides of the same coin—different, and yet so alike. 

Before you could break the silence or cut the beat of extended eye contact, he cleared his throat. “You’d like the games. The real ones. Being there.” 

You leaned back, tugging the sleeves of the hoodie over your hands. “Only if you explain the calls in real time. And buy me one of those giant foam fingers.” 

He raised a brow. “You want a foam finger? Most girls want jewelry.” 

“Nope. Not me.” Your chest puffed, proud. “Just foam fingers, a steady coffee supply, and whatever gets me full Longhorns initiation rights.” 

Glen grinned, easy, wide—something you thought was akin to the spark of joy you’d seen a glimpse of earlier that night at the ice cream shanty, lighting his eyes, oceanic. “Then I gotta teach you the hand sign.” 

He held up his hand, index and pinky fingers raised, middle and ring tucked beneath a folded thumb—the signature Hook ’Em Horns gesture you’d seen in the footage he’d shown you, the camera panning over a sea of burnt orange and white. 

You mirrored the movement, slow and careful. It connected something in your brain to the moment you learned “live long and prosper,” gap-toothed and lisping after Mr. Spock. 

“Hook ’Em,” he said. 

“Hook ’Em,” you echoed, voice soft but certain. 

Your hands bumped—the smallest, most ridiculous Longhorns-themed high five, a pact sealed under the warmth of dim pot lights and the faint light gathering beyond the windows. 

For a moment, neither of you moved. The stillness felt earned—suspended somewhere between belonging and something deeper you weren’t quite ready to name. 

Then you broke it, the grin tugging at your mouth before the words even formed. 

“Also,” you said, as if the thought just crossed your mind, “I want to pet Bevo.” 

His laugh came instantly, bright and incredulous. “Of course you know about Bevo.” 

“But seriously,” you pressed, feigning solemnity, “is it true there’s a five-hour Christmas feature of him on his ranch?” You adjusted the throw blanket, made your best cute face. “Can we watch it?” 

Before you’d passed out on Glen’s chest in the early morning hours—somewhere between listening to a man sing Christmas songs with a Southern twang while playing an accordion in the presence of Bevo (the Fifteenth, respectfully) and parroting back all the plays you could name—you’d said yes to seeing a game live. 

“Are you sure it’s okay if I wear this?” you repeated, your lips brushing his ear as Glen wound your hand in his, tugging you impossibly closer. The words came out louder than you meant, just to be heard over the crowd. Your free hand found his chest, steadying yourself as the brim of his Stetson brushed the top of your head. 

It was the third time you’d said the words, but the first he’d actually heard them—the first two attempts swallowed by the unholy wail of vuvuzelas and clattering tambourines, and the beat of a giant bass drum (mini-Bertha, according to the lettering) strapped to the chest of a man wearing nothing but an orange speedo and matching body paint. Each thundering strike reverberated through your chest like a second heartbeat. 

You’d made it safely to the belly of the beast—Texas Memorial Stadium—just back from the tunnel while Glen chatted with the Longhorns security guys. 

You’d learned early that about 80% of Glen’s closet was Longhorns orange and today was no exception: a weathered suede button-up softened by wear and body heat, creased where it clung to his shoulders. It hung open over a white undershirt, a thin gold chain glinting at his collarbone, sunglasses hooked there the way he always did. Prescription lenses—because, as you’d learned, Glen Powell—movie star, friend to everyone, all easy Texas charm—was secretly a little bit blind, something only the people closest to him knew. 

The white Stetson on his head dipped as he laughed, the deep sound reorienting you in the chaos—the fans overhead in the stands, the echo of it down the tunnel. 

As if sensing the edges of your overwhelm, he shifted his stance—one hand still gesturing as he talked in that quintessential Glen way, the other finding the small of your back without breaking conversation. Wordless. Grounding.  

While Glen’s back was turned—still jawing with security about logistics and Tom Cruise—Cyndy, flanked by Leslie and Lauren and Glen’s dad, each with the signature Powell grin, pressed a burnt-orange gift bag into your hands. “Just something small, honey.” 

Behind them came a high-pitched squeal—Glen’s niece darting between a stack of training cones and a bag of extra footballs, her brother hot on her heels, while Lauren and Leslie’s husbands trailed behind, each balancing a baby on one hip, half-heartedly trying to corral the chaos. 

“Something small,” Cyndy had said when she’d passed it off. But when you pulled the paper out and reached into the bag, you knew it was anything but. The jersey you pulled from the bag was new—the smell was a dead giveaway—but when the burnt-orange fabric unfurled in your hands, it wasn’t the jersey that made your stomach kick. 

On the back, patches stitched on with care. Six letters. Two numbers.  

But they weren’t yours. 

 POWELL. 43. 

They were theirs, his. 

“Can’t have you wearing just anything,” Lauren smiled, shaking you out of the wide-eyed, frozen daze you must have been in, “becoming a Longhorns convert is a big deal in this family.” 

“I—uh—” you stammered, the sound of half words falling from your lips in a jumble of letter-like sounds. Eyes transfixed, you were convinced you must’ve somehow gone Glen-level blind. “This is—” 

“Try it on!” Leslie urged with a small clap, reaching forward to tug the bag and the tissue out from under the crook of your arm. “We thought ‘43’ for your birthday, month and day...” 

You had tossed a look back at Glen, his hand still warm on your back, but now his eyes were on you—and you caught the brief flicker of surprise before it softened into that familiar Powell grin. At his side, the man still chatted away. 

You pulled the jersey over your head, let the material settle around your waist, and pulled your hair out of the collar, twisted it over your shoulder. 

There was an unorganized echo of applause and behind the OG Powells, the husbands paused their chase to raise the Hook ‘Em horns. 

“So now you can go on and tell the folks up North you’re officially part of the South now too.” Glen Sr. huffed a laugh in the familiar dad way, patted the Longhorns patch on your shoulder. He smiled, crow’s feet pulled in around the edges of his eyes as Cyndy stepped in to give you a tight, lingering squeeze.  

When Glen slipped away to lead some on-field cheerleading—stealing a quick, cheeky kiss as security urged him toward the tunnel—you hung back with the rest of the Powells. You felt the weight of the name on your back, the meaning it carried. The quiet shoulder-bump from Cyndy between cheers, hands cupped around her mouth as Glen led the section. His nephew tugging at your arm, asking you to lift him for a better view. Lauren joking that you’d better start lifting weights if you planned to keep up with her kids. Leslie leaning in to ask how it felt to be here—the ground vibrating with the roar of Longhorns pride—as her hand brushed the lettering on your back when you let out a ‘woo’ from deep in your chest. 

Now, back in the roar—the team burst out of the tunnel to raucous applause and a sea of screaming orange fans. Security swept you all to the side. Glen was already there—flushed, chest gleaming with a sheen of sweat. 

You gave him room to fold Cyndy under his arm, press a kiss to her hair, to pull Leslie into the familiar older-brother headlock. 

Slipping in quietly after he leaned forward to say something into his dad’s ear, his hand was quick to find yours in the noise and the movement, the chaos pressing in around you as he comfortably threaded his fingers through yours. Before you could speak, security had already become a current, pushing you all toward the side exit, past a line of officers in identical black Stetsons. 

 “I mean—did you know about this?” 

You didn’t say you didn’t want to make it uncomfortable for him—the jump-scare scene in most new relationships: deeper commitment landing a fraction too soon. You didn’t remind him that anything you did together outside the safe confines of privacy was bound to be all over social media faster than a sneeze through a screen door. 

He paused mid-stride—the kind of unhurried confidence that made chaos bend around him—and stepped back to spin you in place, fight songs and screaming chants a backing track to his magnetic charm. Around you, the Powell clan broke, a river bending around a rock midstream. 

“Baby, if this was the only thing you wore for the rest of the week, I’d be fine with it.” His smirk deepened, dimples cutting in. “More than fine. Sexiest thing you could do right now is wear burnt orange—and my name.” He squeezed your hand once, almost reverently, before the grin returned. Reassurance. Fractions of time be damned. 

From the box seats, the stadium felt alive—a steady pulse, a heartbeat, a rhythm pounding beneath your feet, the air electric, hot and wild. Orange and white swathed the bleachers, stretching on as far as you could see, a sunburst of colour pulsing with excited fan energy. Above it all, the echo of the marching band, led by the mammoth bass drum Big Bertha II, thundered into the late afternoon sky. 

You moved through the suite, past the sitting area, and down into the two sunken rows of seating against the glass. You perched on the edge of your seat, peering down into the bowl. Glen dropped into the chair beside you, leaning back just long enough to clasp hands with one of Leslie’s husband’s friends, trading an easy laugh about something you didn’t catch. They kept chatting—effortless, familiar—but you weren’t paying attention, not with that view outside the glass. 

“This is insane,” you murmured, excitement thrumming in your chest, your wide-eyed gaze chasing every moving part of the scene. The darting focus of a cat. Without realizing it, you’d already scooped up the pair of binoculars slung over the armrest and bundled them in your lap. 

Glen stretched his long legs, knee bumping yours—intentional, familiar—and when you looked up, his grin stretched wide. “It’s church, babe—just louder.” 

Loud was certainly one way to describe this, but it still fell woefully short. Loud was the familiar, well-lived, organized chaos of your family on holidays and baptisms, celebrations of life and birthdays, graduations and Hockey Night in Canada gatherings. The shriek of screaming sophomores mirrored the sound your uncle made one Christmas when he tucked into your aunt’s famous deviled eggs—only to discover she’d changed the recipe by adding tiny bits of cubed ham. 

The slow-building honk of the vuvuzelas triggered a kind of déjà vu: your dad and brother versus your maternal uncles during a playoff game (Habs vs Rangers), locked in a chirping circle of trash talk that escalated steadily until one uncle ended up in the backyard, smoking, steam quite literally rolling off the top of his head in a foot and a half of snow. This—the screams of die-hard fans, the flawless beat of the marching band spread from endzone to endzone, the anthem pumped through hundreds of loudspeakers—was infinitely more than just loud.  

Easily, it shot straight to the top of the internal hierarchy labeled “vibes.” 

Glen’s voice, close to your ear, brought you back to the suite. A balloon lost in orbit, finally floating back to Earth. “Too much?” he asked, and you didn’t know if he meant the noise, the heat—or the way his thumb had found its way to the inside of your wrist, as if on instinct alone, and was still brushing your skin. 

“Weirdly? Kind of the opposite,” you let out a breath like you’d come home after a long day and were settling into a space of comfort, “feels a bit like home, actually.” 

He clicked his tongue, battled a smirk that threatened to light his face in the way you quickly were learning you didn’t want to live without. “Sounds to me like you fit in here more than you know.” 

You felt the full-heart swell again, not for the first time since you’d been here in this strange and yet familiar, parallel place, with Glen, his family. “Though I do have a question. Football related, promise.” 

Glen tipped his chin, a wordless go-ahead. 

“What’s a—” you took another look through the binoculars before lowering them again, “—QB2?” 

You watched Glen’s brow furrow for half a beat. “Usually second string—backup quarterback.” 

You hummed, chewing your lip. “So... you wouldn’t be a QB2?” 

Glen opened his mouth to speak, closed it, then opened it again—a rare moment, you were sure, that Glen Powell was momentarily speechless. 

You didn’t waste the anomaly.  

“...as in—” you started, squinting toward the stands, “—GP, Marry Me, QB2?” 

His eyes narrowed, then blinked. A deep-sea diver resurfacing suddenly to realization like oxygen. “Wait, what?” 

You angled the binoculars toward him, then nodded toward the field. “Front row, fifty-yard line. Lots of burnt orange glitter. GP, Marry Me, QB2.” 

A fan chant picked up just outside the glass, the excitement cresting as the minutes ticked down to kickoff. 

He popped his gum, eyebrow raised but didn’t accept the binoculars, even as you shook them at him playfully.  

When he finally spoke, his words came out on the edge of a laugh. “Jesus. Only in Texas.” 

“So that’s a, yes?” 

His laugh was soft, knowing. The kind that didn’t reach his eyes right away. 

“To the sign?” His mouth tipped into a curve, dangerous to your already sheer and frayed constraint. “Or the question you’re not asking?” 

You shrugged, ignoring his question as you slipped the binocular straps over your head. “I mean, it’s straight up rival energy. She’s not even being subtle.” 

“Difference is she doesn’t know the game’s already over,” Glen murmured near your ear, voice a little too soft to be teasing. 

You glanced up at him, sunlight catching the edges of the hair that stuck out just beneath the brim of his Stetson, flattened by sweat at the back of his neck. A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. 

“You just like me ’cause I’m good at listening when you talk about formations.” 

“And ‘cause you look fucking incredible in burnt orange.” 

“I was born to wear it.” You shrugged, chin tilted up, overconfident, brushing imaginary dust off the shoulder of the jersey. “Just a natural fit. Don’t even have to try that hard.” 

“You were.” His drawl softened—slow, honest—as he reached for your chin, tugging it down just enough to meet your eyes. “You really were.” 

For a heartbeat, the stadium noise dropped away. His hand lingered—thumb brushing once, barely there—before he caught himself, leaning back as Leslie laughed at something behind you. His grin returned, easy and disarming, as if he hadn’t just set every nerve in your body alight. 

As if he hadn’t just given you full-on, bedroom-fucking eyes. 

He cleared his throat, stood, and climbed the two steps into the suite. Right as the crowd surged to its feet—fight song swelling through the stands—he returned with two beers, foam spilling over his knuckles. He handed one off to you, eyes on the field below as he absently licked the spill from his skin. 

The team burst through the tunnel to a riot of pyrotechnics and fireworks, the frenzied screams of the fans and the crescendo of the fight song swallowing the air. 

Somewhere between the national anthem, some excited whoops and hollers from Glen and the Powell clan, Lauren set a Stetson over your head that matched the new-car smell of the jersey. 

You were peering down at the starting line-up, Glen exchanging the occasional comment on the players setting up on the field below with his dad when, in a lull of chatter, you elbowed him suddenly. Pointing down at the movement at ground level from your eagle-eye vantage point, “okay, is that guy the tight end?” 

Glen’s gaze followed the path of your finger, taking the offering of binoculars still looped around your neck. You leaned into him with the pull of the strap, his cheek, rough with the beginning of scruff, pressing against yours as he squinted at the lineup through them. “No, that’s the kicker. Shipley.” 

The timbre of his voice settled low in your chest, fluttering something deep in your abdomen. His cologne lingered—a warm, heady haze around you. You were a woman one step removed from gone for him. You felt it in the way he lived under your skin, in the pull he had on your body. You felt the subtle movement of his jaw as he chewed and popped his gum—the flex of muscle against your cheek sending heat rushing through you. 

“Oh.” You paused, taking a beat to measure out your tone, to strip the breathlessness from your voice as you accepted the binoculars he tipped back toward you. Glen didn’t move to make space between you, and you could feel his eyes on your face—his gaze flicking to your mouth, then lazily tracing the line of your neck where your hair brushed just behind your ear. “He’s very... well, not what I was expecting a kicker to look like.” 

Glen barked out a sudden burst of a laugh that had you swallowing—hard. “Don’t let his looks fool you. He’s the reason we didn’t lose to Bama last season. He was the backup before Auburn transferred in April.” 

You nodded, solemn, fingers drumming the binoculars. “Understood. I will adjust my respect accordingly.” 

By the time the sun slipped below the horizon and the last of the orange drained from the sky, the field lights flooded the Astroturf in white-gold glare. The Longhorns scraped out a nail-biter win over the Wildcats, 16–13. 

After the anthem and the opening kickoff, Glen managed maybe four minutes and twenty-three seconds actually in his seat. The rest of the game he paced the suite—hands on hips, muttering play calls under his breath—while Glen Sr. lobbed well-timed insults at the refs. Half of them earned synchronized warning looks from Lauren and Cyndy, both tipping their heads toward the kids. The other half had Glen cracking up, even as his own nerves ratcheted higher with every play of the final quarter. 

You’d even thrown out a “c’mon” groan yourself—caught up in the collective Powell energy—when the Longhorns drew a flag for roughing the passer in the third quarter. The reaction earned you a quick, proud side glance from Glen. 

When the final whistle blew and the stadium erupted, Glen’s reaction was instinct. He caught you around the waist, pulled you flush to his chest, and pressed a kiss to your temple—quick, unthinking, like the kind of habit that had been there forever—before whooping and clasping hands with Leslie’s husband, who shouted in victory beside him. 

If you thought the night ended there, your newfound group of friends and adopted family alike floating out of the stadium on the recollection of plays and peak fan energy, you would have been sorely mistaken. 

You climbed into the sprinter van second-to-last, Glen right behind you, his hand a barely-there touch on the seat of your jeans. “Just giving you a helping hand,” he murmured, low enough for you alone. Heat crept up your neck as you slid into your seat while Leslie, already scrolling through her phone, didn’t miss a beat. 

“If we make it back to Glen’s by eleven, Tim’s band’s opening for—” she snapped her fingers, thinking, “—the one with that song about boots and…” 

“Oh, that’s the Bruce Smith Band,” Glen slid into his seat beside you and slid the door shut. 

“Right,” Leslie hummed, thumbing at her phone screen without looking up, “so then we could catch that and head over to White Horse after if we’ve still got gas in the tank.” 

The van lurched onto South Congress, headlights cutting through the humid Austin night. From the backseat, the city unfurled in neon and laughter—signs for tacos, whiskey, and live music blurring past like promises. 

Brisket was snoring on the couch when Glen dropped his keys onto the small table by the front door. By the time you were tugging your boots off, Brisket trotted into the foyer, stretching, shaking, then padding straight for your outstretched hand. You scratched him under the chin with a grin. 

When you and Glen had first started seeing each other, Brisket always barked at you the way all small dogs barked at new faces. After those first few meetings, though, it was as if there’d been a quiet acceptance of your presence. You supposed the duck jerky treats you kept tucked into your purse had helped grease the wheels. 

Earning Brisket’s trust had felt like a small triumph—a quiet, hushed exhale the first time the brown-and-white ball of fuzz hadn’t made you feel like an intruder. 

You heard the soft jingle of the chain around his neck behind you, the creak of a floorboard, and then warmth at your back. 

“Man’s best friend, huh?” Glen teased, scooping Brisket up as you straightened. He followed you deeper into the house, easy stride and drawl in sync, Brisket tucked carefully, football-like, under his arm. “Starting to think he likes you more than me.” 

You’d been dropped off first to a chorus of heckles from Lauren and Leslie—half-whispered over the snores of the kids sprawled between them—about how Glen had better not hide the good beer before they got back. 

“We talk when you’re not around,” you hummed, already in the kitchen like you were on autopilot, as if you lived there, full-time, with Glen, always, “rest assured: he does.” 

You padded toward the fridge, in search of the aforementioned “good beer,” aware of him leaning in the doorway, watching, as you bent at the waist to peer inside. You felt his heat at your back again, this time, as he reached over your shoulder, his chest pressed against you. His other hand, almost on instinct, found your waist. 

You stayed like that, eyes angled down at the splay of his wide hand on your side, the hum of the fridge loud in the quiet kitchen, until he slipped away and the clatter of bottle caps into the sink broke the spell. 

“So?” Glen was leaning against the marble-topped island now, feet crossed, boots still on (something you’d never understand—Americans and their shoes inside). He held out one of the open beers. “What’d you think?” 

“I mean, as far as football goes,” you shrugged, trying to play it casual as you took the beer and set it down on the counter, “I think it was the best game I’ve been to.” 

In reality, you’d felt like a kid at Christmas. The equivalent of the meme “Now You Know” splashed across the screen that was your life. It had been electric. Amazing. All Glen. 

His hands framed your waist, reading your mind without your having to ask and he helped to lift you onto the counter’s edge as you hopped. 

“Thought you’d never been to a game.” 

“Nope, haven’t.” 

His smile was at once radiant and megawatt. You couldn’t help your own smirking grin in response, the heart-flutter as his hands slid from your hips to the counter—his body a tight frame around yours. It’s awfully inconvenient sometimes, that you love this man so much his smile can pull you from the most annoyed state in 0.02 seconds flat. Criminal, really. What college football team does a girl have to insult around here to start the most unserious argument that ends in the best makeup sex, eh?  

At least that’s what you’ve been telling your friends—now that you can no longer complain about having the kind of boyfriend-slash-husband-slash-partner who doesn’t buy you flowers or take you anywhere. 

You stashed the matching “her boo” and “his witch” Halloween themed Rae Dunn mugs when you hosted wine nights. Ripped off and hid the cute “proud of you” / “miss you” cards off boxes of expensive chocolates in a shoebox in your closet when you put them out to share. 

You shrugged it off when Michele asked you how things were going with life after having dramatically gesticulated while explaining that “even Taylor Swift is engaged, and I should probably just go drown myself in a puddle because I keep getting dates with finance bros who want me to Venmo them for my espresso martini.” 

A fucking fantastic boyfriend does not a good bottomless mimosa brunch attendee make. 

“What’d you like about it?” He pressed. His eyes flickered over you, found a place to land (your lips), then flitted away before moving to the Longhorns logo on your shoulder. They stayed there for another half-second before his eyes, the most beautiful shade of garnet in the right light, met yours. 

Where to start? Your mind played the day like a highlight reel, innumerous micro moments creating a larger, more vibrant picture. So, you went with the truth. “The energy was just—and you, your family...” 

His thumb hooked in the hem of the jersey sitting on the counter, like he too was reminding himself who’d given it to you. The name on the back. Loud, proud: Powell. 

“It’s just—” you started again, taking a deep breath, eyes focusing on nothing and everything as you searched for the words. You were supposed to be a writer; inconvenient that Glen was, all at once, your greatest muse and your most reliable brain scrambler when he stood this close, looking like, well, him. 

“It was amazing... really.” Your eyes broke from his as you tugged at the front of the jersey and let it fall. “A lot—but in a good way.” 

“I think you’ll find,” he sighed—martyr to the cause; servant to the pull; but a mortal man, “once a Powell’s got something on their mind, not much’s gonna change it.” 

Your heart thumped at the base of your throat, and you took the opportunity to tip your beer to your lips. Somewhere in the next room, Brisket’s collar jingled as he scratched. 

“Hat looks good,” he nodded up once you set your beer down, gripped the brim of it, teasingly pulled it too low over your eyes. “Thought you needed one.” 

You were thankful he didn’t bring his family up. Your mind had fully crossed into the inappropriate portion of the night—where his sweet, adoring family did not, could not exist. You couldn’t think about the things you wanted to do to Glen—the things you wanted Glen to do to you—in the same stratosphere as them. It felt like they’d somehow know, picking up telepathically on the bat signal of all horny bat signals you were now broadcasting. That if you so much as thought about them, your phone—sitting a few feet away on the counter—would somehow call them mid-moan while Glen absolutely ruined you. 

Calmly, you pulled the hat up and off your head, looked at it, twisted it in your hands, “right? Black is my colour, I think.” 

Carefully, you set it on the counter beside you, crown down, brim up: the luck, as superstition had it, held firmly from spilling out. “Though I think white might be more in my lane this time.” 

Your smile was mischievous as you plucked the hat from his head, reverently. His hair—longer now between filming—fell back into place as the brim lifted away. The silence that followed was thick, heavy; it moved in like humidity. You settled Glen’s hat on your head, adjusted it for fit, and winked.  

“Seasonal colour palette. You understand, right?” 

The quiet stretched, dense as molasses. Glen watched you—expression unreadable—and for a second, you swore your heartbeat was loud enough for him to hear. 

Glen clicked his tongue, low and chiding, but there was a flicker of something else behind his eyes—something that made heat pool low in your belly. “Time for another Texas lesson for you, huh?” 

“Shoot, Tex.” 

He nodded toward the pristine white of his Stetson now sitting on your head, eyes never leaving yours. The air seemed to thicken between you—a soupy mess of unseen vibes you both understood with dangerous fluency. 

“There’s a hat rule.” 

He looked almost rueful—like he was sorry to be the one to break it to you—that you’d two-stepped all over a sacred Texas ritual and were now standing in the wreckage. The consequences of which already rolling toward you, fast as the boulder chasing Indy after he’d stolen a relic. 

“Oh?” You fought to keep the smirk out of your tone; you knew about the hat rule. 

“If you wear a man’s hat,” he said, voice dipping lower, “you have to fight him.” 

You paused, feigning consideration, then let the corner of your mouth tilt. “Well, I don’t want to fight you.” You swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “So... what’s behind door number two?” 

“Door number two, huh?” 

You bit your lip, nodded, mock serious. 

His laugh came quiet and rough. He half-looked away, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. The hands braced on either side of your thighs went white-knuckled—then, without warning, they were at your neck, his mouth against yours. 

Your body moved before thought caught up—meeting his kiss, knees falling open as you tugged him closer by the front of his burnt orange shirt. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t slow. It was instinct. 

One hand slid from your throat to the button of your jeans, popping it open without hesitation; the other found the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, never breaking the kiss. 

When his lips moved to your neck and his hand slipped beneath the Longhorns jersey, his thumb brushed over the peak of your nipple—and the sound that left you was something you heard out of body. He kissed it from your lips, stole the next one that followed when his fingers hooked under your bra and pinched. 

Your thighs tightened around his hips, and you swore you heard a soft, ragged fuck slip out of him when his mouth left yours. 

Then your jeans were being tugged down, and you lifted your hips to help. They’d barely hit the floor when Glen’s warm hands found the backs of your knees, dragging you toward the edge of the counter. 

You knew what came next—and you were nothing if not helpful. Leaning back on your elbows across the island, chin tilted up, you watched him sink to his knees between your legs. 

Every nerve, tight and coiled, was focused between your thighs now. His hot breath raised goosebumps on your skin, the muscle on his back flexing beneath your heels.  

You were so focused on this moment—this suspended fixture of time—that when the doorbell rang, you swore you imagined it. 

What you knew you didn’t imagine was how Glen’s fingers, hooked on the edge of your soaked panties, halfway dragged down your legs, stilled. 

You whined as the bell rang again and your head fell back with a groan. 

Glen stood slowly, his forehead falling against your bare thigh as a sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl escaped him, reverberating on your skin.  

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m com—” he hollered, pausing only to rethink his phrasing for half a second, “—I’ll be right there.”   

He nipped the soft spot where your thigh had met the band of your panties just a moment ago, before he’d tugged them half-off. The involuntary gasp that tore from your throat earned a quiet, apologetic kiss before he straightened fully, adjusted the unmistakable outline in his tented jeans. 

He was halfway around the counter when he turned back, hands finding your hips and caught your mouth again—hot, hungry—his tongue pushing past your lips. You were still lost in it, pulse stuttering, when the bell chimed twice more in rapid succession, echoing through the front hall. 

“Go, go,” you breathed, shoving lightly at his chest as it rang again—three long peals this time, the sound of someone holding the button for too long. Between Brisket’s barking and the echoing door chime, you swore you heard Leslie through the door, yelling at her brother to stop hiding the good beer. 

You’d just closed the door to Glen’s room—jeans in hand, your own hat back on your head—when the low hum of music started in the kitchen, laughter spilling through the walls. 

By the time you’d slipped back into the fray—freshly showered, appropriately pulled together from the mess Glen had almost made of you—he’d changed too, though he still wore the white Stetson. Without thinking, your eyes skimmed over him, assessing, noting how his new jeans no longer looked quite so uncomfortable beneath the curve of his belt buckle. 

He was mid-conversation with a college friend when he looked up and found you. For a moment, his expression didn’t change—but you felt it anyway: that faint ripple of disappointment rolling off him in waves. The jersey was gone. 

You laughed with Leslie, trying not to glance toward the island—toward that spot. You shared a tight, familiar hug with Lauren, who pressed a heavy glass of whiskey into your hand, warning that shooting it was a sin. You nodded, sipping slowly. Near a table lined with beer cans and keys, you traded a knowing shrug with Lauren’s husband, Will, who muttered something that sounded like a mix between can you believe these guys, Powells and welcome to the club. 

Eventually, when you found your way back to Glen’s side, he tucked you against him without a second thought. 

Between the steady flow of new faces filling the house and a guy named Kyle shouting the night’s itinerary from the staircase (Güero’s Oak Garden for Tim’s band’s opening set for The Bruce Smith Band, then White Horse), you somehow mastered the art of shot-gunning a beer. 

“You sure you’ve never done that before?” Glen murmured against your ear, voice low enough that you almost felt it more than heard it. You carefully wiped the dribble of beer from your chin. “Most people throw up their first time.” 

He’d walked you through it, each step strangely intimate for something so benign. Though maybe the alcohol buzz hadn’t helped—your brain still fuzzy, still needy from earlier, unwilling to move too far from the thought of how this night should end. 

You shook your head, high-fiving a guy named Jake—your first beer shotgunning partner—who looked a little green around the edges. “Just a humble Canadian, living my best life. Wait, throwing up was on the table?” 

A short-lived chant of U-S-A, U-S-A broke out from somewhere above, rising over the twang of 90s country now bleeding into Luke Bryan, Combs, and Morgan Wallen. 

“You gonna let them disrespect you like that, Canada?” Glen’s smirk was conspiratorial, sly. You bit, hook, line, and sinker. 

Your snort was both amused and unladylike. If Glen minded, he didn’t show it, and you were sure his mouth twitched wider. 

“Not a chance.”  

You waved on the next beer, ready for round two. 

When the shuttles arrived to take the guests to the first bar, you, naturally, fit into one with Glen and his sisters, and Leslie’s husband. Will lingered in the driveway, one hand on the Uber door, the other raised in a wave, as the vans pulled away. 

“Think you forgot these in front of the fridge,” Glen murmured, voice low and conspiratorial in the back seat beside you when one of the van occupants asked the driver for the AUX cable and to turn the volume up. 

You looked up to see your panties—lacy, light, unmistakably yours—dangling between his fingers. A flag. White. Surrender. 

You snatched them fast, eyes darting to the backs of the heads in front of you, heat blooming up your neck as you shoved them into your clutch with fumbling fingers. 

Glen’s lips twitched, amusement ghosting across his face as his hand found your thigh, fingers slipping between your legs to give a single, quiet squeeze. 

You’d lost track of how many bars you’d hit—or how quickly you’d veered from the original plan. 

You remembered making it to Güero’s Oak Garden, where Tim played guitar and everyone screamed the lyrics to Friends in Low Places, sung live by someone you were only half sure wasn’t actually Garth Brooks. 

Then there was the place strung with patio lights, serving margaritas that seemed bottomless but probably weren’t. The same one where you kept stepping on Glen’s boots as he tried to teach you the two-step—until it all devolved into him dipping you low to a George Strait song you didn’t know the words to but mouthed along with anyway while he hummed them in your ear. 

You remembered the blur of neon. 

The taste of salt on the rim of a glass. 

Glen’s laugh in your ear. 

His hand steady at your waist, always finding an excuse to touch you. 

“Wait,” it came out breathless, halfway between a laugh and a plea, coming out almost as a squeal, your hand pressed to his chest as he bent to murmur something in your ear that never quite landed because the room spun, because you were dizzy on tequila and him. 

Later, you couldn’t remember whose idea it was to leave. Only that his hand found yours as naturally as breathing, that your heels clicked over cracked pavement and his drawl slipped through the hum of traffic, low and sure: C’mon, babe. 

The ride back blurred—neon bleeding into the sweep of headlights, your head tipped against his shoulder. His thumb traced the inside of your wrist, lazy, hypnotic. 

The house was quiet when you got back. A few empty bottles, the faint thrum of bass left behind on the sound bar and in the air. 

He locked the door behind you. 

The hats came off first—one set carefully somewhere by the couch, the other on the counter. Brims up, crowns down, for luck. 

You turned, half a grin on your lips. “We should probably—” 

He cut you off with a kiss that didn’t feel like tequila anymore. It felt like the pressure of every near-miss from earlier finally catching up to both of you at once, stupefying and yet laser focused on the same end. 

The simmering tension at the game. The counter. The interruption. The ache of what almost happened evident between your thighs, strained against the seam of his jeans. The thrumming reminder that this was it, you had him, he had you, alone now. Endzone in sight in the dying seconds of the final quarter. 

Your back hit the hallway wall. His mouth moved to your throat, your responding moan filling the silence between the sound of your breaths and his, coming fast now. 

You didn’t remember the walk to his bedroom—just the way he kicked the door shut, your hands in his shirt, the world tilting. 

Somewhere between the hallway and the bed, your shirt vanished, leaving white lace and the slide of his skin against yours. You were chasing the high of his mouth, the weight of his hands—need crashing over you like a tide. 

“Wait—” It came out on a breath, caught between a laugh and a moan. His mouth found your jaw, teeth grazing. 

“Did you want to stop?” The question was quiet, rough, laced with disbelief. Against your bare thigh, the length of him pulsed in response. 

“No.” You tugged his hand to your breast, catching his lower lip between your teeth until he groaned. “No, I want this, you, I just—” 

His thumb brushed your nipple through the lace and your words caught on a whimper, need blooming fast and hot—an ache begging for the small mercy of release. 

“Sit.” 

You walked him back until he hit the edge of the bed. He dropped onto it, grinning, breathless. 

“Stay?” 

“Stay.” 

You slipped into the ensuite, closed the door. 

In mirror over the counter, you looked at your reflection—cheeks flushed, hair mussed, lips kiss-bitten. Glen’s fingerprints were written into your skin in places you couldn’t see but could still feel: the ghost of his hands on your waist, the ache of wanting him still coiling low and steady. 

Over your shoulder, in the reflection of the closed door, the bright orange Longhorns jersey hung on the back—brash against the room’s neutral calm. 

You took a breath. 

Then you reached for the jersey. 

The fabric slipped over your skin like muscle memory—catching briefly at your ribs before falling loose around your thighs. The number on the back ghosted across your shoulder blades as you tugged at the hem and let it settle. No bra. No panties. Just cotton and your heartbeat. 

When you opened the door, Glen was still sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His hair was a little wild, finger combed, his chest rising and falling in a slow, deliberate rhythm—like he was trying to steady himself. 

When he looked up, it was slow. Deliberate. And the way his gaze dragged over you—up bare legs, focusing on your chest, the peak of your beaded nipples evident under the orange—made your breath hitch. 

“Jesus,” he muttered, a low laugh catching in his throat. “You know how to get a man’s attention, huh? This’s exactly how I pictured it.” 

You grinned as you stepped closer and he reached out, tugging on the hem of the jersey until you stood between his open knees. 

“Powell, your ego could power the entire state of Texas right now.” 

His smile, wide, loud in the way all things him were without having to make a sound, crinkled the corners of his eyes.  

“Maybe,” he said, voice low, hands pushing up under the edge of the material until they framed your bare hips underneath. His Adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow. “But right now? I’m not thinking about Texas.” 

You smiled—soft, dizzy, wrecked. “Good,” you murmured, fingers threading through his hair. “Because neither am I.” 

As he looked up at you from his seat, you watched his eyes darken and his grip tightened, fingers digging into your waist as he stood and turned you. You squeaked, a laugh catching on your lips as your hair fanned out against the sheets and your back came to rest on the bed.  

He hovered over you on one arm, his knee an anchor at your hip, and lifted the orange hem, exposing your lower half up to just under the round of your breasts. 

For a moment, he didn’t move. You could feel his breath against your skin—hot, steady, waiting. The weight of his gaze felt heavier than his body. Your pulse jumped under it. 

Then his mouth began to move. Down your throat. The delicate skin in the center of your chest where the jersey ended. Lower. You tried to catch your breath, failed, fingers twisting in the sheets. 

When he settled between your thighs, your body went still for a single heartbeat—like the world holding its breath with you. The first touch of his tongue sent everything spinning. Slow, careful, coaxing. Every sound that left you seemed to echo, bouncing off the walls, swallowed by the rhythm of his mouth and the scrape of his stubble against your skin. 

Your hands found his hair. His name slipped out before you could stop it. He didn’t stop until you were shaking, the jersey twisted high around your ribs, every nerve lit up. 

You were still catching your breath when he crawled up your body again, catching your mouth in a kiss that tasted like you. The sound you made was half laugh, half moan, swallowed between your teeth as you pulled him closer. 

You didn’t think. You just reached for him, and when he shifted, your whole body went with him. 

Your hands and knees pressed into the mattress, and he was behind you. 

It took him a half beat to line up behind you, to drag himself through your slick, steadying your hips when you tried to push back. The sound that escaped you was half whine, half plea. 

You felt the scrape of his stubble against the back of your neck, the heat of his breath as his mouth found the place where your shoulder met the slope of your nape. He bit—soft, deliberate—then soothed the mark with his tongue. The sound he made was low, rough, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. 

When you felt like you might beg, or combust, or both, he pulled you back, his hands tightening around your hips as he pushed in—slow, steady, patient. The air punched from your lungs. You gasped when he bottomed out, when he hit that deep spot that made every muscle in your body go taut. A helpless sound broke from your throat as he cursed behind you. 

He stayed still for a beat, like he needed the pause as much as you did. You could feel the tremor in his breath, the strain in the way he held himself there. 

And then—he moved. 

The first thrust drew a sound from you you’d never made before—something broken, somewhere between a gasp and a prayer. He found a rhythm, slow and deep, one that pulled the breath from your lungs with every stroke. You met him, hips rolling, chasing that perfect friction, that dizzying edge that always seemed just out of reach until he gave it to you. 

The mattress creaked beneath you, the air thick with sweat and breath and the sound of your name spilling from his mouth. His hands slid up your sides, bunching the jersey higher, until the fabric strained under your arms and your back was bare to the room. 

You braced on your forearms, your forehead against the sheets, and the shift brought the jersey tight across your shoulders—tight enough that you could feel the stitched letters dragging lightly over your skin with every movement. 

You didn’t realize what had caught his attention until his pace faltered for half a heartbeat, the low curse that slipped from him rough enough to make your stomach flip. You felt the change before you heard it—the sound of his breathing deepening, the next thrust sharper, heavier, his grip at your hips turning almost reverent. 

It hit you then—what he was seeing. 

The name stretched across your back. His name. 

A thrill sparked low in your belly, hot and sharp, feeding the coil already building there. You pushed back against him, greedy for it, for the way he filled you, for the low sound he made when you did. 

“Glen—” your voice broke on his name, caught in the space between a plea and a breathless edge. 

He leaned closer, his chest against your back, his mouth brushing your ear. “Right here, sweetheart.” 

The words hit you harder than the rhythm—low, rough, threaded with awe. His lips traced the edge of your jaw, his voice a murmur against your skin. “You wear it so damn well.” 

You pushed back against him, greedy for it—for him—and his answering groan shook through both of you. 

His hands slid up your torso, gathering the hem of the jersey, one palm flattening over your ribs before one trailed lower, between your legs. When his fingers found you there—slick, pulsing, wanting—you came apart fast, your body bowing, the world going white at the edges. 

When you came, his name tore free from your throat, and the sound seemed to pull the last thread of him with it. His hips jerked, burying deep, breath fractured, and then you were both undone together—still tangled, shaking, his chest flush to your back, his hand still cradling your hip like he couldn’t bear to let go. 

He stayed there, chest pressed to your back, one hand still curved around your hip, the other tracing lazy circles against your stomach. The jersey clung to your skin, damp now with sweat, the feeling of the letters on your back another, more than physical reminder you were his. 

You exhaled, shaky, sated. 

For a while, there was only silence as you fell into bed, scooted against him, the curve of him a perfect fit at your back. The hum of the air conditioning. His breath warmed the back of your neck, his stuttering pulse against your spine a mirror drumbeat to your own as he gently touched your hair, tucked it behind your ear, buried his nose in the waves. His thumb, as if by instinct alone, swept idly over your hip, like he couldn’t stop reminding himself that you were real. 

Then, low against your neck, his laugh rumbled through you—quiet, rough, spent. 

 “Told you,” he murmured, sweeping your hair aside, brushing his lips over the slope of your shoulder, voice soft but certain. “Powells don’t change their minds.” 

A/N: Part of me feels compelled to apologize for this absolute filth. 

went back and forth for a bit on the closing line, but i hope you enjoyed it. 

EDIT: another one with glen and this narrator is here: aurora borealis green !

tags bb: 

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@readingislife @qutequeersstuff @shawnsblue @mimi-8793 @mrsevans90  

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@ccoama @jbennsquared

[sparsilees]

Harry is a clever and competent wizard

A recurring theme in fandom I find endlessly tiresome and disappointing is the portrayal of Harry as an academically struggling student who’s lamentably hopeless at Potions and middling in all other subjects aside from DADA, and who, alongside Ron, is in constant need of Hermione’s guidance. It’s present almost everywhere. It’s reinvented canon. And it’s shoved down new readers and non-fans’ throats alike. Please, there’s an HP wiki available for your perusal. Don’t go about consulting popular fics and the Hermione-biased movie director’s visions to draw your ideas of Harry and Ron’s psyche!

It’s doubly aggravating when this depiction is used to highlight Hermione, Draco, or so-and-so classmate’s magical Einstein-levels of genius and reinforce the false narrative that Harry’s singular claim to brilliance lies in Quidditch, and that he’s got nothing more than fluff and snitches between his ears on top of being oblivious to the point of idiocy. That apart from excelling in Defence, he doesn’t have much upstairs... (And even then a minority of the fandom portray DADA as akin to gym class where it’s all honing muscles, muscle memory, and reflexes, with Harry framed as an archetypal gymbro on top of being a himbo. What?!)

So we’re just going to overlook his devastatingly biting wit and clever asides? Or brush aside how he repeatedly demonstrates his ability to perform well under pressure? His keen intuition and how he carefully retains seemingly insignificant, misfit puzzle pieces until the eureka moment strikes and he seamlessly integrates them into the bigger picture?

Take these two examples from Philosopher’s Stone with an intrepid tiny Harry—

Exhibit #1:

Harry was quite sure the unsettled feeling didn’t have anything to do with work, though. He watched an owl flutter toward the school across the bright blue sky, a note clamped in its mouth. Hagrid was the only one who ever sent him letters. Hagrid would never betray Dumbledore. Hagrid would never tell anyone how to get past Fluffy . . . never . . . but — Harry suddenly jumped to his feet. “Where’re you going?” said Ron sleepily. “I’ve just thought of something,” said Harry. He had turned white. “We’ve got to go and see Hagrid, now.” “Why?” panted Hermione, hurrying to keep up. “Don’t you think it’s a bit odd,” said Harry, scrambling up the grassy slope, “that what Hagrid wants more than anything else is a dragon, and a stranger turns up who just happens to have an egg in his pocket? How many people wander around with dragon eggs if it’s against wizard law? Lucky they found Hagrid, don’t you think? Why didn’t I see it before?”

Exhibit #2:

Quirrell cursed under his breath. “I don’t understand . . . is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?” Harry’s mind was racing. What I want more than anything else in the world at the moment, he thought, is to find the Stone before Quirrell does. So if I look in the mirror, I should see myself finding it — which means I’ll see where it’s hidden! But how can I look without Quirrell realizing what I’m up to? He tried to edge to the left, to get in front of the glass without Quirrell noticing, but the ropes around his ankles were too tight: he tripped and fell over. Quirrell ignored him. He was still talking to himself. “What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!” And to Harry’s horror, a voice answered, and the voice seemed to come from Quirrell himself. “Use the boy . . . Use the boy . . .” Quirrell rounded on Harry. “Yes — Potter — come here.” He clapped his hands once, and the ropes binding Harry fell off. Harry got slowly to his feet. “Come here,” Quirrell repeated. “Look in the mirror and tell me what you see.” Harry walked toward him. I must lie, he thought desperately. I must look and lie about what I see, that’s all.

Bravery alone wasn’t enough to overcome his troubled upbringing with the Dursleys, or Quirrelmort, or Diary Tommy, or the final leg of the Horcrux hunt — it required a combination of mental agility, resourcefulness, and cunning to evaluate the situation, outsmart his opponents, and tip the odds in his favour. Harry needed to survive. To survive, he needed something other than mere guts. Harry’s ability to think on his feet and leverage his intelligence to gain the upper hand in challenging scenarios remains a testament to his brilliance and his remarkable presence of mind. He isn’t the foolhardy, impulsive Gryffindor who leaps into danger headlong without prior planning everytime.

(For that matter, Gryffindors are more than their “bravery” which has somehow been twisted into being synonymous with “reckless” — Sirius being a prime example of this, when in GOF he was urging Harry caution in their communications, despite the fandom conveniently only zeroing in on the depressed, cooped up version of him in OOTP, sigh. Bravery is fortitude, pluck, tenacity, strength of moral fibre, resilience, and heart as well.)

Some other less-mentioned examples of his quick mind: Harry wondering about Snape and Karkaroff being on a first-name basis; remembering Nicholas Flamel just from a long-ago glance, and again, Stan Shunpike despite their single encounter; Harry coaxing out Slughorn’s secret (no, it wasn’t all the Felix Felicis); Harry putting himself in Voldemort’s shoes, and Ron and Hermione deferring to his superior, albeit scary, knowledge; and Harry frightening Ollivander with his deductions about the wands. (It wasn’t solely Hermione’s brains that enabled their chances of survival in DH, let’s ditch that false narrative.)

The most laughably contrived bit in fanon is the unfounded notion that Hermione lets the boys cheat off her work to coast by in class. Fanon is wrong on both counts. Hermione would sooner report the boys for cheating than allow them to copy off her, and Harry isn’t anywhere close to scraping the bottom of the barrel in class, and neither is Ron. The handful of instances in canon where she looks over their assignments and helps correct mistakes isn’t cheating. Her input is akin to getting a second pair of eyes or a beta reader to ensure their work is up to snuff — heaven forbid a student help out a friend by suggesting some tips and tweaks. (Or attend tuition or retain a personal tutor or three.)

The ‘that’s why Harry isn’t a Ravenclaw’ jokes get pretty stale once you realise a large portion of the fandom genuinely think he isn’t a smart kid or has never read a book of his own volition/interest in his life. But Harry enjoyed reading his new books late into the night before starting Hogwarts (he found Hedwig’s name in A History of Magic, after all). Admittedly, studying is a feat in and of itself when you have zero access to books, but some cunning can turn around your luck!

Nevertheless, Sirius had been of some help to Harry, even if he couldn’t be with him. It was due to Sirius that Harry now had all his school things in his bedroom with him. The Dursleys had never allowed this before; their general wish of keeping Harry as miserable as possible, coupled with their fear of his powers, had led them to lock his school trunk in the cupboard under the stairs every summer prior to this. But their attitude had changed since they had found out that Harry had a dangerous murderer for a godfather — for Harry had conveniently forgotten to tell them that Sirius was innocent.

‘Oh, Potter can’t differentiate between a salamander and newt’s eyes.’

‘Asking him to skin shrivelfigs is a tall order since he can’t wield a dagger properly.’

‘He used shredded jobberknoll feathers when the recipe called for a fine powder. Poor Hermione will have to take over yet again to save his stupid arse.’

It’s these many variations and renditions of Harry’s alleged, often exaggerated, ineptitude in fandom content and making a monkey out of him, which I come across more often than not, that are an instant turn-off.

The widespread idea that Harry’s success in the subject can be attributed solely to the Prince’s book is misguided and further undermines his intelligence — and this jaundiced belief that’s crystallised itself as canon, of Harry and Ron putting on a double act as stupid slouches in class and therefore deserving of Snape’s derision and the Slytherin’s put-downs, is a far cry from the truth. Snape’s opinion of Harry’s intelligence or ability should be taken with a grain of salt, given that Harry has been described as a bright and talented child since his first year, by the Professors, Dumbledore, and the Sorting Hat. Even the resident megalomaniac described him as “not unintelligent”. You know what’s actually canon?

1) Snape’s biased approach towards Harry and Neville caused them to have an unwarranted fear of failure and reprimands. The Potions classroom was a hostile and unwelcoming learning environment for these two boys.

2) Harry is pretty confident when left to his own devices in class in OoTP before Snape flushed his effort down the gutter.

Exhibit #1:

Snape, meanwhile, seemed to have decided to act as though Harry were invisible. Harry was, of course, well used to this tactic, as it was one of Uncle Vernon’s favourites, and on the whole was grateful he had to suffer nothing worse. In fact, compared to what he usually had to endure from Snape in the way of taunts and snide remarks, he found the new approach something of an improvement and was pleased to find that when left well alone, he was able to concoct an Invigoration Draught quite easily. At the end of the lesson he scooped some of the potion into a flask, corked it, and took it up to Snape’s desk for marking, feeling that he might at last have scraped an E. He had just turned away when he heard a smashing noise; Malfoy gave a gleeful yell of laughter. Harry whipped around again. His potion sample lay in pieces on the floor, and Snape was watching him with a look of gloating pleasure. “Whoops,” he said softly. “Another zero, then, Potter . . .” Harry was too incensed to speak. He strode back to his cauldron, intending to fill another flask and force Snape to mark it, but saw to his horror that the rest of the contents had vanished. “I’m sorry!” said Hermione with her hands over her mouth. “I’m really sorry, Harry, I thought you’d finished, so I cleared up!”

Exhibit #2:

“After this year, of course, many of you will cease studying with me,” Snape went on. “I take only the very best into my N.E.W.T. Potions class, which means that some of us will certainly be saying good-bye.” His eyes rested on Harry and his lip curled. Harry glared back, feeling a grim pleasure at the idea that he would be able to give up Potions after fifth year.

Exhibit #3:

Ron found it quite easy to ignore as they spent most of Saturday and Sunday studying for Potions on Monday, the exam to which Harry was looking forward least and which he was sure would be the one that would be the downfall of his ambitions to become an Auror. Sure enough, he found the written exam difficult, though he thought he might have got full marks on the question about Polyjuice Potion: He could describe its effects extremely accurately, having taken it illegally in his second year. The afternoon practical was not as dreadful as he had expected it to be. With Snape absent from the proceedings he found that he was much more relaxed than he usually was while making potions. Neville, who was sitting very near Harry, also looked happier than Harry had ever seen him during a Potions class. When Professor Marchbanks said, “Step away from your cauldrons, please, the examination is over,” Harry corked his sample flask feeling that he might not have achieved a good grade but that he had, with luck, avoided a fail.

Whereas in Ch 15 of OoTP, Snape had marked Harry’s essay on moonstones as Dreadful and claimed it to be a realistic expectation of OWL grading:

“I have awarded you the grades you would have received if you presented this work in your O.W.L.,” said Snape with a smirk, as he swept among them, passing back their homework. “This should give you a realistic idea of what to expect in your examination.” Snape reached the front of the class and turned to face them. “The general standard of this homework was abysmal. Most of you would have failed had this been your examination. I expect to see a great deal more effort for this week’s essay on the various varieties of venom antidotes, or I shall have to start handing out detentions to those dunces who get D’s.” He smirked as Malfoy sniggered and said in a carrying whisper, “Some people got D’s? Ha!”

And yet, Harry did very well on his OWLs before he even got a whiff of the Prince’s book.

Astronomy A

Care of Magical Creatures EE

Charms EE

Defense Against the Dark Arts O

Divination P

Herbology EE

History of Magic D

Potions EE

Transfiguration EE

Harry and Ron studied (!) both days of the weekend before Potions OWLs (!) without Hermione (!), and still Harry wasn’t sure he’d secure a good grade yet ended up scoring an EE. Exceeds Expectations, which y’know translates to: Surpasses Expectations, So Much Better than Expected, Rather Brilliant.

Unless you believe that anything less than the top percentiles is rubbish, Harry is not a ‘certifiable dunce’. There’s no denying he’s a competent and clever wizard and easily punches above his weight when he’s properly motivated and applies himself. Intelligence is a genetic trait, and Harry comes from nerdstock.

If he could achieve those grades whilst serving 7-hour torture sessions with Umbridge, suffering from Voldemort and Snape tearing into his mind, and putting up with the government slandering him in his second most important school year, running on fumes and sheer will (constantly disruspted sleep routine? Ugh!), then yeah, remove all those crutches, and he’d be raking in straight Os for most of those subjects. (It sort of sounds like ‘excuse our mental health and and anxiety’ for us if we perform poorly in exams, but not for Harry ‘he’s an idiot throwing teen tantrums’. Someone give me a hammer.)

“You’d need top grades for that,” said Professor McGonagall, extracting a small, dark leaflet from under the mass on her desk and opening it. “They ask for a minimum of five N.E.W.T.s, and nothing under ‘Exceeds Expectations’ grade, I see. Then you would be required to undergo a stringent series of character and aptitude tests at the Auror office. It’s a difficult career path, Potter; they only take the best. In fact, I don’t think anybody has been taken on in the last three years.”

Did he earn the grades? Yes. The Auror program ran aptitude tests, too, and only took the best, yes? Not because he’s a hothead with a daredevil streak and impulse issues, yes? Not because his dream was to be an Auror since his third year, or that he was only exceptional at fighting, or some such nonsense. After all, Barty Crouch Jr, he of the impeccable OWLs record, saw something worthy of Auror material in Harry and planted the seed in his mind. (Reminder: Barty also said Hermione should consider joining the Aurors too because her “mind works the right way”.)

And Moody thought he, Harry, ought to be an Auror! Interesting idea . . . but somehow, Harry thought, as he got quietly into his four-poster ten minutes later, the egg and the Cloak now safely back in his trunk, he thought he’d like to check how scarred the rest of them were before he chose it as a career.

If Harry was incapable of telling up from down in Potions, the Prince’s annotations would have been like casting pearls before swine. Worse still, Harry’s supposed lack of know-how would have caused more harm than good. The book only helped to refine the skills and knowledge he had cultivated over five years of study. Having a comfortable learning environment, an encouraging teacher, and superior instructions allowed Harry to maximise his potential and excel in class. (This phenomenon of underachiever-to-star pupil can happen in real life and is not unique to Harry. It happens with neurodivergent students with slightly different needs, students who require a more personal teaching style, and students stunted by an unhealthy learning environment. When their needs are met and supported, they tend to thrive and reach their potential.)

To put it into perspective, imagine taking an average kid whose expertise in cooking extends to making beans on toast and putting them in a professional kitchen. Imagine asking this kid to fillet a salmon and very finely slice lemons for garnish, tasks that require careful hands, finesse, and patience. If the kid can’t distinguish between a paring knife and a boning knife, they don’t stand half a chance. They’re liable to mess up the fish from the get-go. They might use a petty knife for everything and present a terribly executed dish; or they might cleverly choose a smaller knife but misuse it, not knowing that the flexibility and sharpness of a blade vary depending on their purpose, and end up seriously hurting themselves. Either way, filleting a fish is best left to seasoned home cooks and the pros.

In contrast, Harry is identical to a proficient home cook who knows the ropes but lacks some finesse and the fancy carving and plating skills of a trained culinary student. He has a firm grasp of the necessary theory and techniques and knows how to prep ingredients correctly, but may fumble the ideal application of said techniques, lacks an inborn zeal for the craft that lends to creativity, and overlook the finer details, particularly when he’s weighed down by fear of censure and humiliation. His level of success hinges on variables such as his confidence, familiarity with a recipe or method, and the type of environment he’s in. Talent is like a little seed; when nurtured, it will flourish.

Slughorn’s NEWT class was small, admitting twelve students out of a fortyish-student batch. No Gryffindor, apart from the Golden Trio, made the cut, and they were joined by the lone Hufflepuff, four Ravenclaws, and four Slytherins. Essentially, only a dozen students achieved an EE or O to qualify for NEWT Potions. Fanon will tell you most of the Slytherins have been tinkering with cauldrons in their diapers, but canon shows that only two other Slytherins, besides Draco and Blaise, made the grade. So, how are we still perpetuating this incorrect interpretation that Ron and Harry were barely keeping up academically when they’re more adept than half their year?

Harry and Ron aren’t academically inclined or driven by an obsessive urge to pore over books most hours of the day for fun, so what? Let them joke around and play chess and cards and broom race in the rain without bringing their brains and academics into the equation. Let Harry be a proper child/teen when he’s not busy hunting clues and crushing evil plots. Stop making the sum of HJP be “Powerful Himbo” or “Saviour Complex and Running on Luck”, which is pretty disrespectful towards a character who has shown himself to be so, so competent and well-rounded.

It’s such a huge thorn in my side that both Harry and Sirius (of all people, when he’s twinning with James as the insultingly effortless mavens during their time at Hogwarts!) habitually have their intelligence questioned and maliciously devaluated, or blown off entirely. So I had to sit and get this chaotically demonstrative commentary off my chest. Thank you, if you’ve read till the end!

[bambimeadows]

A small reader x Adler thing I whipped up. It’s not my best work, the writing is a bit stripped back, I haven’t put too much effort into it, so it is messy and a bit simple and rushed🙃 But I haven’t posted any writing to tumblr yet, so here you are. Reader is gender neutral (tried my best but let me know of any errors) you’re basically a rookie spy at the BND 🕵️🕵️‍♂️ There is some vague, non explicit sort of smut. Have fun! 💕

Three years ago, when you were a rookie, fresh out the womb of the government’s BND training programme, you had met him while you were shadowing one of the organisations top agents.

He hadn’t even taken the liberty of addressing you directly when the three of you met in the abandoned train tunnels, but he had peered at you from behind his shades, those black, sepia tinged squares of glass and gave you a singular firm nod. It was because he knew your weakness, he could discern your current standings, he smelled it on you like tigers did prey, you might as well have been a tiny, delicate, dainty wobbly legged fawn stumbling along after your handler as if they were mama Deer.

You were a sharper blade now though, sturdier and pluckier in every sense of the word.

Adler needn’t be a source of trepidation, he was an associate and you would be liaising with him for the sake of your job and the free world. You had been trusted to do so, albeit with the less than encouraging words, “Do not embarrass us, agent. You know who he is.”

Indeed you did, in the small inner circles of the BND, the man was a legend. You were privileged just to know he existed.

And here he sat in the Heidelberg, his long limbs sprawled out and propped up leisurely on the small red arm chair. He was slotted into the corner of the joint, at a small round table, another chair sat vacant opposite him. You glance at it with wash and swirl of dread in your belly before you powered forward, penetrating the cloudy hive of collective smoke from the patrons. Adler seemed to be contributing to the smog heartily as he huffed away, letting fluid like clouds billow from his lips with artistic flair and grace.

He did not acknowledge that he had seen you initially, he merely nodded, ever so slightly, to the seat opposite him.

“You’re early,” he comments flippantly, scratching a long, thin hand across his jaw absentmindedly, a hearty earthy sound emitted when he did this due to the faded stubble adorning his visage.

He had been clean shaven last time indeed, you only remembered due to your razor sharp attention to detail, not because you had been particularly fixated on his face and the terrains and markers that pieced it together.

And if you kept telling yourself that you might start to believe it.

You had forgotten however, the exceptional depth and richness of his vocal chords, like an abyss his voice was, bottomless and profound. It sliced through the flesh of any silence with such volition and authority it made your ears flinch.

On cue you glance up at the clock on the wall behind his head and raise an eyebrow at him. “By three minutes, sir?”

“Glad you can read a clock,” he muses, before gathering himself together, sitting up straighter, a rough clear of his throat as he does. “Got what I need then?”

You shouldn’t, but you do feel demoralised by his briskness, his stinging frost. You hadn’t been sure what you had been expecting, but perhaps you should have expected that he’d be a colossal prick after all.

A man like him, why wouldn’t he be? When you’re at the top, wasn’t it the done thing to do? To lord down on people? To stroke and pamper your own ego by wiping your boots with other peoples? You wasn’t entirely certain how you’d behave and move through the world if you were him.

“Yes,” you breath, reaching down into your black leather bag and thumbing around until you find a book, some romance novel you had laying around on your coffee table for months, the documents that laid sandwiched between the pages of said book were the treasure here however, your selection of literature needn’t have mattered. You slide it across the table to him. “Here you are.”

“Thanks,” he scoffs, rubbing his thumb across the cover of the paperback painstakingly slowly. “This will really come in handy for all these lonely nights.”

You search his face for a moment, your eyes straining in an effort to see through the lenses, but there is nothing to be displayed, his face is pristinely still, the glassy mask on his eyes currently impenetrable. He leisurely pulls his hand up to take another ample pull at his cigarette, you take it as your cue, you begin to stand.

“Leaving so soon?” He ponders, tongue laced with feathery and amused surprised. As you are now stood up, looking down at him, you can see the beginnings of his retinas, you could just about make out that they were a startling blue. The man must have seen the ways in which you were trying to peak, so he reaches up and pulls the damned shades down the slopping, robust bridge of his nose.

He makes eye contact with you and it takes a grasp on you you, it squeezes you, the grip firm, sweetly and tenderly painful around your heart, gratifying like the way pressing down on an aged violet bruise is. “You sure you won’t stay for a drink?”

It knocks you for six, and you can’t suppress the gulp that travels down your trachea. It’s no big dramatic gesture, you tell yourself, but your body is not convinced. You begin to buzz, your nerves combust into licks of flames.” Well… I suppose I could have just one. But I have work tomorrow.”

“So does everyone else here,” He throws his hand up, palm towards the ceiling in a disdainful gesture. “Come on, I could use the company.”

Your eyes squint in scepticism at him and he lets out something of a delicate snort and shake of his head. “God damn what are they teaching you kids these days,” you hear him mutter as soft as gently trickling water, you barely hear him. I’m buying,” he says louder, stubbing his cigarette out. “What will you have?”

You felt put on the spot, so you shake your head. “Surprise me, whatever, I don’t mind.”

“Great,” he snaps, a hard breath through his nose as he does.

It’s just as you’re sitting down again, expecting him to be well on his way to the bar by now, you feel his breath right near you ear, and then his voice enters you and it sends lightning sparks up and down your veins. “It looks sketchy,” he murmurs, laying a hand on your arm. “If you sit down, pass me some shitty book and then get back up again. What do you think this is? Amateur hour?”

You let out a breathy little chuckle, ducking you head and shaking it. “The cover is that I give you the book… and that I came here to lend it to you. No one suspects a thing.”

“No one comes to the bar to lend someone a book and then leaves again without even having a drink, without even staying to chat,” he argues back insistently, not missing a beat, there is no malice woven into the seams of his tone, but there’s something testing and almost asking, mocking, like a elegantly arrogant professor egging on and challenging his students. It’s… enticing, alluring, it awakens some dormant yet restless little demon in your ribcage, to say the least.

“So hurry up and go and get me one then, super spy,” you say the last word extremely quietly, turning to him now, and it’s a power move by anyones standards, let alone yours, by your standards you’re staring into the mouth of a tiger. He lingers for a few counts, your noses barely an inch from each other, your breath begins to mix, the smell of his cigs and his alcohol wafts up your nose and you have to give your dizziness a firm push back. Finally, his lips twists into something of a smirk and he bends upwards and walks away.

By the time he is back again, you had grown vindicated in his absence, as if the break from his charm and allure had allowed you to come to your senses. The fireball moment of excitement has faded off into something bitter and icy, because of the insinuation that you were a halfwit, because of the suggestion that you were incompetent.

The man places a pint of beer in front of you and you glance up at him, you cut your eyes at him into mean spirited shards and you know you present indignant.

“No ones paying attention to me it’s you who attracts attention. People look at you, they really look at you. You should get surgery to cover up those scars,” you bite, you feel the snow lacing your tongue as you do and wish vehemently that contrasting hot pricks weren’t travelling up to tingle your cheeks. “They are extremely distinctive.

He raises his eyebrows at you and nods as he pulls a cigarette from his pack. “I’ve considered it. But in truth it doesn’t matter if people notice you, it only matters that you fit in.”

“Well, I reckon you’re playing games with me,” you retort, passive aggressive and snarky, bringing the beer up to take a first sip, and you grimace at his selection. “Trying to size me up. I’ve heard all the stories about you.”

“Is that why you come in here looking like a rabbit caught in headlights?”

That rendered you silent, you felt your jaw set tight and you picked up your drink again, staring into the glistening amber.

“You’re still a rookie,” he has grown quieter now and he has looked away towards the bar, he’s easing up on you. “How long has it been now?”

You look up at him through tired half lidded eyes. “Three years.”

“Yeah… you’re only beginning,” he nods slowly more to himself. “Three years, might as well be three weeks in spy time.”

You glance to the side to see the pair of women, the women in which you were referring to when you mentioned him attracting attention, are still eyeing him up, paying you little mind. You turn back to him, slipping him a sly, devious little quirk of your lips. “Think you’ll be going home with one of them? Or both of them?”

“I really try to avoid it while I’m on the job,” a glimmer of amusement manifests and warms up his face, he brings the tumbler of whiskey up to his lips before slipping the entirety of it past his lips and downing it swiftly. There is no flinch from him, he just presses his lips together hard before he settles into blankness again.

“You’re a rare exception in our line of work then,” you say.

“I’m sure,” he agrees lightly. “If your colleagues were more like me they wouldn’t have to sit around telling tales and spreading rumours like a bunch of stepford wives.”

You glance up at him in momentary astonishment, before you shake your head chidingly, but you ponder briefly that he may have a point, because the way the men spoke, or gossiped, or grumbled, or gushed, about him over at BND was all rather undignified and girlish.

You down the wretched beer and then stand, pushing back the tinges of tipsiness making its way to your senses, you look him square in the face and nod. “Thanks for the drink.”

“My pleasure. I’ll see you Friday. Be ready.”

As you walk out, you feel your mouth start to tug into a small grin and then it spreads across your whole face and you find yourself shaking your head again, involuntarily, as you mutter to yourself, “Asshole, what an asshole.”

-

The days leading to end of the week whizzed by you thick and fast, you anticipation seem to spurn it on, and before you knew it, it was 8pm, chilly and dark and you were making your way on top of a factory rooftop to meet him.

He smoked and peered down at the city, he wore what you wore, a snug black turtle neck, exempt he matched his with grey combat trousers, you wore blue jeans.

“Copying my style I see,” he had quipped, eyes grazing up and down your body when he registered your presence.

“More like you’re copying mine,” comes your quick witted retort, but couldn’t stop the gentle laugh that escaped your throat.

He had smiled earnestly at you, comfortably awaiting the light filled moment to pass before he turned serious, business, steely and professional in the blink of an eye, you had to whip yourself into a similar demeanour.

“There’s an East Berlin spy travelling into the city tonight, he’s been causing a lot of problems, I want him gone.”

“You don’t even want to capture him,” you side eye him warily as you wrap your hands around the icy cold railings. “He could be valu-“

“I know who’s valuable and who isn’t, agent,” he holds a hand up as he cuts in. “Can you follow instructions or not?”

You clench your jaw, your temptation to strike back is fierce and fiery, borderline uncontrollable, but you keep your wounded pride under bandaids and begin to nod slowly. “Yes of course I can, agent Adler.”

“Perfect.”

He checks over his shoulder at the ground below again before turning back to you. “He’ll have armed security. I’ll start taking them out, while I’m doing that, I want you to sneak into his suite and kill him.”

“Wait,” you perk up now, you feel your eyes grow wide and raw as you gaze up at him. “You want me to actually get the kill?”

“What’s your experience with a sniper rifle?”

“…non existent.”

“Exactly,” he replies promptly, still surveying the ground below. “And I already knew that. You’re better on the ground. I’ve heard your stealth is excellent.”

You glance at him, peaking at his side profile, the curved and sharp lines of his nose and jaw illuminated, highlighted, clarified by the murky industrial city lights. His honey wheat hair is different today, it doesn’t bounce and animate with every movement, it isn’t perfectly positioned and curated to suave insufferable perfection, instead it is slightly flatter, yet more fluid, pushed back away from his face to fall in waves and gather and end at the nape of his neck. It suits him, but it renders him quite a new variety of man, a more…more work less play sort of man.

“I get by on it,” you say finally, lowering your gaze as you begrudgingly contemplate the cumbersome and gruesome nature of your attraction, how it flutters against the walls of your stomach.

“Give yourself more credit,” he takes out a pair of binoculars and positions them towards the ground below once, you glance too and see a black car rolling in to the front of the hotel.

“There he is,” he confirms. “You ready, agent?”

You push back your shoulders and raise your chin, swallowing your nerves and doubts and pesky lingering trepidation of impending death, and nod firmly. “Yes I am.”

The man gives your shoulder a clap before turning away from you, beginning to position his sniper rifle to wreck havoc with the men from East Berlin.

Angel of death, slipped across your mind as you walked away from him. So beautiful, but what a dark creature he well and truly was. And you too, you remind yourself. You too were beautiful, and you too were wicked when it was time to be.

That’s why when you managed to more or less silently break into the man’s hotel room, up and over, through the window of the bathroom, you make him suffer.

Yes he had smashed a bottle over your face first, yes he had enraged you, but you could have just shot him with your silenced pistol, instead you take your time with this man and his gargled muffled screams were your solitary reward for it.

“It’s nothing,” Adler murmurs, you are both sat in his safehouse/apartment now. He speaks to you, his voice husky and absent minded due to him concentrating mostly on the cuts on your face, the deepest one being the nasty nick at the top of your lip, he dabs at this one with a wet cloth. You see his face now, his shades had been abandoned on his bed side table, you now get to witness his eyes squint and sharpen to coincide with the tender, effortful care he is showing, even the soft little furrow of his brow is so expressive, “Keep it moist, apply lots of cream to it, all day for the next few days, it won’t scar.”

“Yeah?” You chuckle tiredly. “Okay doctor.”

“Might as well be,” he quips, tilting his head at you and raising his eyebrows nonchalantly.

“Oh bullshit, a fucking doctor please,” you scoffed. “You really love yourself, don’t you?”

“Who else is going to?”

You let the room fall into a gentle silence after that, when he is done with attending to your face, you both sip at beers he had in the mini fridge in his room, but you soon turn to him with a deciding sigh.

“I guess you have a lot of experience with injury,” you resort to. “You must have picked up a few things.”

“My ex wife actually taught me that about the scarring. She thought it could help mine,” he points to his face then. “Bless her heart.”

You watched as his eyes glaze, a transient fleeting few seconds of reminiscing, you wanted to take advantage of the little opening, the little opening of openness.

“How’d you get them?”

“Everyone always asks,” he brings his cigarette to his lips, eyes narrowing into cool consideration. “Everyone’s always so nosy about it. I don’t get it.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“I don’t think so. I’d just put it down to bad shit happening to people and leave it at that.”

“Well we can’t all be as cool as you, Adler.”

You glanced up at his face, and you marvelled, because yes it was handsome, but there was something far more interesting than that, there was the almost immaculate duality. Like the strange and beautiful creature who lurked in the opera house, like Jekyll and Hyde, like hell’s fire and heaven’s celestial. You touched it, his face, you wanted to touch the battle torn half, you wanted to fill the diverse topography, the dents and dips and valleys, but you felt it a step too intimate, so you glided your fingers, as feather soft as you could, across the undamaged side instead.

The man doesn’t flinch, but he does slips his eyes onto you with a manner of frosty suspicion and cynicism, he searches your eyes leisurely, patiently yet intently as you continue your light caress.

You found the insinuation of confusion on his part confusing, because you had been ninety nine percent sure he had discerned your attraction to him by now, yet here he is now, coming across so precarious and untrusting, you felt like you were trying to win favour with a perpetually anti-social, precarious dog.

When you lift your hand away however, he does grab it, and not gently either, it is just outside a death grip and it hitches your breath in your throat. You refuse to look away from him, you hold firm, rooting yourself into the ground beneath you, not tearing your eyes away from his. “You’re still too green.”

“You mean… like, envious?”

“Too fresh, too trusting. I’m terrified for you,” he is muttering to account for how close your faces are. “You are…decent, but this life isn’t for you. I can always tell. Trust me, you’re either meant for this shit or you’re not. It’s not really something you can learn.”

“That’s bullshit,” you whisper back shaking your head, a sickened smile coming to your face. “I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. I couldn’t imagine a life without this, without people like you.”

“Then you’re gonna hurt,” he tells you, his eyes have softened now, something faded and dim and quietly melancholic, like cloudy sapphires. “You’ll have to get chewed up and spat out again, and again, and again, until you’re tough and dead enough inside to be what you need to be.”

You felt your stomach drop, despite yourself, but you do not display it, simply grinning and rolling your eyes instead. “Why would you be worried about me? Spies get killed, we’re all just collateral to the top dogs like you.”

“You don’t know shit about me sweetheart,” he drawls, raising his cigarette up to his mouth.

“You’re right,” you murmur voice suitably honeyed, you lean in, a hand coming to grasp his thigh firmly to balance yourself. “I’m sorry.”

It is you who’s made the first move by doing this, the first negotiation into whatever transgression was going to transpire, but it is he who actually bites the bullet and kisses you.

A hand snakes around your waist, his thumb presses irregular shapes into your hip. The kiss is not what anyone could have anticipated from a man like him, it is substantial, but then it is also slow and delicate and feathery, his lips soft and patient and forgiving and almost somehow non intrusive against your own.

“I’d be pretty fucked off if you got killed actually,” he mumbles after he’s broken away from you, he’s talking into your ear now, before he presses a firm, deep kiss to your lobe which starts a wildfire internally and a heaviness and electricity darts straight between your legs.

“Why?” You breath as he starts to litter more kisses down your face, beneath your ear and across the bones of your jaw and flesh of your cheek, as gentle and tickling as water droplets landing and splashing onto you, when he reaches your neck you can’t stifle the little whine that travels up your throat, especially when he begins to nibble on the taunt, excruciatingly sensitive skin.

He has you. You hadn’t even realised how much he did, but he has you. You had melted into his hands, your body was subdued and limp and supple, your head was light, airy and drifting off somewhere as rapidly as a ballon set free into the skies.

You ached and throbbed for him, your heart nearly burst at the sneaking reminders that there wouldn’t be much more of this to come because he’d be long gone by morning. Tomorrow you’d lose him. It could be forever, you could very well never see him again and you’d never get to feel this ever again, you didn’t know.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs after a while, hand snaking between your legs to stroke the plush flesh, albeit through your clothes. “You’re different, and you’re so beautiful. I wanted you the moment I saw you, those few years ago. I’ve often times thought about you since then. I bet you didn’t know that.”

“Bet you didn’t know it’s all mutual,” you quipped back, almost aggressive, desperate and breathy as he caresses travel up higher, with no sign of stopping.

“Oh no,” he brought his head down, you felt his hair brush your temple, he chuckled, unabashed and right into your ear again. “Don’t worry, /I/ knew. I always know.”

“Well chances are you’ll probably never see me again,” you say, catching your breath and placing your hand on his wrist to still him, to catch your breath. You look up into his eyes, through your lashes, you feel sordid and dirty yet so powerful, so powerful over such a powerful human being

. “So are you going to make the most of me this time, or not?”

With his face gradually shifting into a slow, hazy smile, he takes the glass from your hand and physically moves you up to the headboard of the bed.

He takes his time with you, really takes his time. He kisses you for what felt like hours, pulling your body so it curves and moulds into his own so securely, you click together like puzzle pieces. When he enters you it feels like what he said, it makes you muse the reality that you both knew this would have to happen eventually. Mutual lust. To be able to express and display every iota of feelings left unsaid, finally. It was ripping off the bandaid, it was releasing dangerously built up pressure.

He growls sweet praises into your ear and strokes your face and even tells you that you’re his, and with that you wonder if he is acting out his fantasies, if that is what he truly desires, someone to be well and truly his and only his. Did he mean it in a wholesome, domestic sense? Did he mean it in hedonistic manner, did he truly want to own someone? You didn’t know. You didn’t know this man, and you didn’t dare allow yourself to believe that, for whatever it was that his heart desired with every pump, it inherently involved you.

He just craves the intimacy, you decided. He craves passion and adoration, you were sure. In fact, this is what he needs, you consider as he flips you onto your stomach and you bury your face into the plushy cool, snowy pillows that smell of his woody, spiced cologne rendering them an aphrodisiac, who cared about the world that waited for you outside of this room, for now, you consider as he enters you and you moan out deeply, sweetly, this is all you both need.

And then after a couple of hours, you are both done, you lay in the amber glow of the lamplight and his vastly long arms, and this time you do touch his scars.

“It was Vietnam, they got me, pinned me down, pulled out some silly little knife,” he recounts, voice hoarse and low and deliciously thick, rumbling against your temple as you rested your head on his chest. “Luckily there was a squadron not too far behind, they saved me before they my throat got slit.”

He inhales deeply on his cigarette as his eyes pierce the wall opposite him. “It’s nothing more interesting than that.”

“Can you remember how much it hurt?”

“Every day,” he stressed, and then he pauses before chuckling easily, lazily, the sex had mellowed him out, softened and blunted his rough, razor sharp edges. “Fuck did that shit hurt. Really really fucking hurt. Those God damn bastards.”

You laugh as well, his sudden display of humbleness endearing and lovely, it was a moment that you could be likened to the rarest of gemstone.

“I like you, Adler.”

“…Yeah,” he mused, gradually contrite and melancholic as he ran a rough, jagged skinned hand down your arm. “I like you too.”

You shut your eyes, fall in tune with his smooth rise and fall. “I’ll be alright, you shouldn’t worry.”

You fall into the most blissful sleep you’ve had since your were small, and then the daylight is creeping through the curtains and nudging your body awake, and as predictable and inevitable as death, he is coldly absent and you quietly fall apart.

[mxchellesworld]

Discuss!

Spencer Reid x Reader

Synopsis; Where the team discusses the question ‘do you kiss after head’, you find out Spencer has too little experience to answer the question so you help him out

Warnings; smut, oral (male receiving), sub!spencer, praise, slight degradation 

a/n; LMAO im so sorry for disappearing again life has been actually kicking my ass but anyways lately i’ve been thinking about subby early season spence so here we go,, hope you enjoy!

***

Another Friday night and the team was out bar crawling after an easy case. But this time all members were there as it reached 11pm which was rare. Usually Hotch and JJ would have been home by 10:30 and Spencer wouldn’t have been there at all. But there was something light in the air which had all parties concerned sitting packed in a booth, laughing after each sip of their drinks. 

Since it wasn’t your first rodeo together you knew how the night went. It started off with Rossi offering to buy the first few rounds, always whiskey but he made an exception for Penelope. Then again who would deny her anything. 

Once the drinks were flowing and lips got a little loose, the questions would start popping in at the top of your heads. However these were not your run of the mill, ‘hows so and so doing?’ ‘done your taxes yet?’ oh no. The name of the game was discuss where you would all think of a question which would help you dig just a tiny bit deeper into your coworkers sex lives. 

Maybe if you were all sober then you’d avoid thinking of each other in such positions, pun intended, yet in this state your prying minds were open and your stomachs were ready to grow abs from bending over in laughter. 

You raised the margarita glass up clinking it with a fork to get the tables attention. Everyone including Aaron had a smile on their face, ready to hear the intrusive question for the night. 

“Ok my fellow profilers, doctor, and tech genius,” you added pointing at Spencer then Pen, “Do you kiss your partner after they give you head? Discuss!” you finished in your most formal voice. 

Right as you took a swig of your drink the mixed responses of yes and no filled your small space. 

“Why wouldn’t you? You guys especially, if someones willingly trying to swallow then you damn well owe them a kiss,” Emily finished earning nods and ‘exactly’s from JJ, Pen, and yourself. 

“Ok but thats weird. I just can’t explain it but its a no go for me,” Morgan finished. This only gained him a scoff and raised voices, “Hotch man help me out here,” he said looking over to the man hiding his smirk behind the amber liquid. 

“I have to agree with the ladies here Derek,” he said curtly. 

The girls yelped and hooted at Hotch for siding with them while Morgan sat with his arms crossed being the singular person left out as even Rossi agreed. Meanwhile you noticed the presence next to you had shrunk back and wasn’t too active in the conversation. 

“So Spence do you kiss your partner after they,” you trailed off shaking your fist by your cheek and poking your tongue in the side. 

He coughed as he instantly sat up quicker. Even under the dim lights of the bar you could still see the blush creeping up from his neck to his ears and the slightest tint on his cheeks. 

“Oh I uh- I never-” he said looking anywhere but your eyes. 

“You don’t kiss them?” you said raising your brows. 

“No! I-i mean yes. I would I think b-but I haven’t had the chance to actually partake in such.. activities,” he finished finally taking a look into your eyes. 

You could tell he was waiting for you to laugh in his face for being so inexperienced but you felt far from it. If anything you wished you could be the one to show him things. 

That sweet boy had you wrapped around his finger and he didn’t even know it. Maybe it was his naivety considering how exceptionally smart he was. Or maybe it was the cute sweater vests he wore and now he nervously tucked his hair behind his ears. All you knew was that you wanted Spencer Reid and tonight was your night to make it happen. 

You hummed taking in the information, “Well that’s not a bad thing Spence. Everything takes time,” you said putting your hand on his arm for comfort and giving him a smile. 

Going to turn back to face the table you almost didn’t hear Spencer go to speak again, “Do you?” 

Got him.

“Why don’t you find out pretty boy,” you said with a wink as you downed the rest of your marg. In the corner of your eye you could see Spencer shifting in his seat, subtly moving his bag to cover the slowly growing tent in his slacks. 

As the night went by you couldn’t help but really give him a show. You had popped open a button or two on the long sleeve you had on, since it was getting stuffy in the booth. Though when you leaned forward and jutted your chest out, the soft inhale of a breath from the man next to you was just serving as motivation to get bolder. 

For the last hour you called it quits on the alcohol and drank a few glasses of water before you drove home. Spencer had been uncharacteristically quiet ever since your little interactions. 

The team had all gotten up to say their goodbyes. Rossi going by and giving everyone a kiss on each cheek. Derek having to quite literally rangle Penelope from talking to passing by groups on their way out. Then there were two. 

You turned to the side where Spencer was nursing on his coke, “Hey pretty boy, it’s late, let me give you a ride home,” you said grabbing your belongings. 

“Y-yeah ok. Thanks Y/n,” he said getting up. You’d noticed how he still had the burnt orange bag over his crotch. He couldn’t still be hard could he? Well you’d love to find out. 

As gentlemanly as he was, Spencer opened the door for you to exit the building first. The whip of fresh night air cooling on your exposed chest and legs under your skirt. 

You unlocked your car and stepped in, Spencer waiting to hear the little beep signaling his side was open. As he sat down you heard him let out a little whimper. Your head shot over to look at him, you could tell from the flush on his cheeks he didn’t mean to let the noise out. 

Holding in your chuckle you started the ignition and pulled out of the lot, “Can I put on some music?” 

“Yeah I don’t mind,” he said looking over at you with his lips in a line. If it was anyone else, they’d probably think he was uncomfortable but you loved his tiny awkward smiles. 

The ride to his apartment was mostly silent besides a rare quip from Spencer about paper work or fact about an older building you had passed by. It fascinated you to no end hearing him talk. Spencer was a hand speaker, meaning he always used his hands waving them around and making gestures. The pale digits had you captivated. Probably a driving hazard but you couldn’t help but let your mind wander. 

You pulled up into one of the visitor spots and put the car in park. You looked over to see Spencer almost contemplating something. You’d seen the look on his face before when he was looking over puzzles. 

“Somethin on your mind Doc?” you said with a small smile. As cute as he looked when he was nervous, you’d never want him to feel uncomfortable around you. 

“Would you-,” he cleared his throat, “Wo- Would you maybe want to c-come inside?” 

“Of course Spence I’d love to,” you finished with a reassuring nod. 

As he led you upstairs you were giddy with anticipation. So what if nothing happened. He was your friend first and you were glad he was letting you into his personal space. Even if you wanted nothing more than to have him writhi-

“Y/n?” 

The door closing snapped you out of your thoughts. You didn’t even realize you were in his living room. The dark green walls and shelves bursting with books put a grin on your face, “Sorry Doc, just caught up in my thoughts. What did you say hun?” 

His brows practically raised to his hairline from hearing the pet name. While he was used to the names coming from Garcia they took a whole different light coming from your lips. 

“I was asking if you wanted water or something,” he said fiddling with the keys in his hands. Eyes darting everywhere but your face so you wouldn’t be able to see the flush rising on his cheeks. 

“No I’m fine thanks for asking though,” you said taking a seat on the worn leather couch. 

You reached for the tv remote making a face at Spencer to ask for permission. He nodded and you settled back turning on an old sitcom that played late at night. 

As the episode ended you both sat in silence. Again you didn’t mind but you could practically hear the cogs moving in Spencer’s brain. 

You were about to speak when he cut you off before you could even get a word out, “What did you mean by ‘why don’t you find out’.”

Gaining confidence you moved closer to where he was on the couch, slow enough for him to stop you in case he wanted to back out. 

“Well you have options pretty boy,” you said moving a leg to straddle him. Your hands instinctively going to his brown locks. You could’ve sworn you heard a little moan leave his chapped lips. Noted. 

“W-what are the options,” lust blown eyes looked up to yours. 

“One, you can put that mouth to good use on me,” you said trailing your finger over his bottom lip, “and let me cum over that pretty face.” 

His eyes shut hearing your words and you weren’t having it, “Nuh uh eyes on me honey,” instantly they were back on yours. 

“Or number two. I can suck you off and let you cum down my throat, but,” you paused making sure to roll your hips on his growing length, “ you have to give me a nice big smooch after.” 

The hands on your hips pulled you closer as he bucked his hips into you as you finished the sentence. It was clear which option was preferred. 

You moved to slide down in between his legs. You let your hands trail down his clothed thighs, causing him to jump. 

“Tsk such a needy boy,” you said mockingly, “Am I not going fast enough baby?”

“Please Y/n,” he all but whimpered. It was like music to your ears. 

Your hands went to his belt, looking up in his eyes for a final sign of permission. Once he nodded you quickly undid it and he lifted his hips to help get his pants down. You palmed him over his boxers, feeling the wet patch where he was already leaking pre cum. 

“Is this all for me Spence? Does the thought of my lips around you make you this hard,” you said taking him out of the striped confines. 

“Oh god please just,” he cut himself off. You could see his hands curling fists besides his legs. 

“Please what baby? I can’t give you anything unless you ask.” Your hands continued their task of leisurely stroking his length. 

“Fuck please put your mouth on me,” he rushed out, hips bucking to prove his point. 

The answer was good enough for you so you wasted no time in leaning forward and taking him in your mouth. Both of you let out content sighs as you tried to take him further. 

You looked up to see him with his head leaned back, eyes scrunched closes in pleasure. 

You pulled off with a pop, letting your hand work him over. “Better keep those pretty eyes on me before I decide you can’t finish.”

He looked down with a flash of worry, that was quickly replaced by a loud moan as you spit down on his cock before taking him in your mouth again. 

For a germaphobe, Spencer loved how nasty it was. He was thanking god or whatever higher being there was for giving him his eidetic memory because the sight below him was something he’d never wanna forget. 

Your eyes were teary and you had spit dribbling down your chin but he wanted nothing more than to give you more than just a kiss after you finished. Or well after he finishes. 

You could tell he was close by the way he was throbbing on your tongue. Again taking him out of your mouth you used both hands to jerk him off. 

“You’re doing such a good job baby. So good for me. You wanna cum in my mouth pretty boy?”

“God Y/n I’m so close please please please,” he whimpered out. 

“Cum for me baby, be my good boy Spence,”  you said before taking him down your throat. He was big, not girthy but long and it was a struggle but you’d be damned if you didn’t try to take him all. 

Hollowing your cheeks you bobbed your head quickly, egging on his release further. His hands finally found a place in the back of your head. Pushing you down further as he came. 

“F-fuck Y/n I’m gonna”

His moans and whines were a symphony of sounds you’d have on repeat in your head forever. 

You swallowed the salty release but before you could even wipe your lips you were being pulled up by Spencer placing his lips on yours. You moaned into the kiss, his hands gripped the sides of your face not wanting to let you go. 

The need for air made you both pull back. You looked at one another, chests heaving and looking like you ran a marathon. 

Then a sad look came across his face. 

“Spencer what’s wrong?” 

“You didn’t get any pleasure,” he said looking like a hurt puppy. Oh your sweet boy. 

“It’s ok baby, I can take care of myself,” you tried to shrug off.

He was quick to push you back on the couch, taking the spot you were previously in. His warm lips trailing down your exposed thighs. 

“I wanna do it, but only if you kiss me after.” 

[mctherofdragons]

A Sanctuary Heart | 3 | SR

summary / after her abusive husband lands her in the intensive care unit, y/n changes her identity and moves as far away as possible. upon starting her new life, she meets dr.spencer reid and his son, maddox, when she begins her job as a teacher. but can she keep herself safe and keep up the facade with spencer? can she be safe at all?

pairing / spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings / slowburn romance, fluff, angst, marriage, trauma, domestic violence/abuse, dad!spencer, wheelchair use, paralysis, injury, ptsd flashbacks, car accident/serious injury, bullying, mention of ableism, a singular mention of god.

important links / series masterlist + domestic violence resources

authors note / i absolutely adored writing this chapter, omg. we get more of spencer and maddox's backstory. and things start to get a little more exciting as the rest of the team makes their first appearance! thank you all for the great feedback so far, i'm so glad you're enjoying the series. also my tags are not working, so reblogs on this chapter would be insanely appreciated. Flashbacks are in italics!

Seeing the blood on your hand, Spencer instinctively reached out to grab your wrist gently. You snatched your hand back, bringing yourself up to your feet, wobbling. You grabbed your bag, wrapping your hand in your scarf that you had managed to take off in the cool October night.“Ivy,” he said the moniker one more time and you felt your insides reel once more.

‘I’m a liar, Dr. Reid, I wish you knew,’ you thought to yourself, stumbling to search for your keys under the warm glow of the moon.

“I have to go. Thank you for dinner,” you contended, making your way out of the side gate. Spencer watched in confusion as you made your way out quickly. He figured he ought to chose his battles, not wanting to startle you by following after you.

Once you were safe inside your car, you sat in the driver’s seat, hands gripping onto the steering wheel for dear life. You felt a sharp combination of embarrassment and frustration. You wanted the flit of light that came from the possibility of new love. But instead, the one before had taken everything from you. Even now, all these miles and a new name away, he was pulling you away from those little flickers of brilliance and back into the darkness of yourself.

_____________________________

2 years earlier.

“Maddox,” Spencer whispered, feeling his heavy eyelids open just slightly. He was disoriented, noticing that the once right-side-up roadway was now upside down instead. The loud blaring of the horn was constant. It sent a piercing sound into Spencer’s ears and head, which caused him to wince. “Maddox.”

Spencer tried to turn, but he couldn’t move. Something had him pinned in the driver’s seat. He looked into the review mirror, which by grace alone wasn’t entirely broken. Maddox was slumped in his car seat, blood trickling down onto his Toy Story tee shirt. Spencer let out a weak gasp, trying again with no avail to move.

Spencer noticed how cold it was. It had been snowing all night, and Spencer wasn’t sure how long they had been where they are now. The snow had fallen through the shattered glass, tiny flakes gathering anywhere they could.

Using all of his strength, he turned his head to his wife. Her eyes were half shut, a trickle of crimson come from her mouth.

“Baby,” Spencer whispered. “Are you alright?”

She began to speak, but began to sputter, her lungs sounding flooded. Her hand curled and uncurled, and Spencer could barely reach it. He was able to hold onto her fingertips with his. They felt ice-cold like she was already three steps into Eternity. Spencer knew that type of frigid touch. He had come in content with it a million times, and the person on the other end was never living.

“D-don’t talk, baby. Okay? The ambulance is coming. Do you hear them? We’re going to be okay.”

Spencer could hear the medics somewhere far off in the distance. The repeated echo of the sirens sounded like a band of angels to him. Spencer Reid admittedly didn’t believe in the Judeo-Christian God. He wasn’t sure what he gave credence to, in fact. But at that moment, inverted in the shattered glass, surrounded by the labored breathing of his dying wife...he prayed.

________________________________

Spencer walked into the Bureau, adjusting the brown satchel on his shoulder. His brow looked furrowed as he sipped from his paper coffee cup. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way you left, trying to profile what exactly had gone wrong between the Merlot and you rushing out of his backyard.

“Penny for your thoughts?,” Emily piqued as Spencer sat down, tossing his bag onto his desk. Spencer let out an exasperating sigh, taking another drink of his coffee.

“Just trying to figure someone out.”

“Oh, oh, oh. Is this a lady someone?,” Derek queried, wiggling his eyebrows. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning onto Spencer’s desk with a sparkling grin.

“Maybe.”

Spencer felt himself smiling despite his best efforts. Emily opened her mouth in surprise, giving Derek a playful shove.

“I told you he would get back out there, Morgan!”

Spencer smiled. “Yeah, she’s sweet. I just...don’t know if I’m ready yet.”

That morning, Spencer had put on his wedding band. He still did it when he was scared, or nervous, or needing to feel close to her. He would feel the cool metal atop his finger and feel less alone. For a brief moment when the metallic touched his skin, he could pretend she was still here.

Derek gave Spencer’s shoulder a supportive squeeze.

“I hope you know me and Prentiss are just messing with you. We care about you, kid. We know these past two years have been hell for you. Just want you to be happy.”

“Yeah…I appreciate that. I just…,” Spencer paused, bringing his hands up as he spoke, as was so akin to him. His lip curled into the smallest smile. “Seeing this girl interact with Maddox. She...loves him for him..already?”

“Maddox is a great kid, Reid.”

“I know. I just don’t want her to find out---”

Spencer’s sentence was cut off by Hotch appeared, letting everyone know they had a case and to meet for Round Table. Spencer quickly shot a text to Maddox’s home health nurse, letting her know he’d need coverage for a few days.

________________________________

You sat in the front of your classroom, your eyes scanning from the test in front of you to the answer key. The students were working on a Social Studies project in small groups. Their task was to read a short story about colonial times and fill out a short worksheet. If they finished early they were permitted to color, which most of the children thoroughly enjoyed.

“Maddox can’t use crayons,” you heard a small voice snicker. You raised your eyebrow, hoping it wasn’t harmful, and rather just an observation.

You heard another child sling a slur at Maddox, who was sitting quietly with his aide, trying to ignore them. But as you looked up, you saw Maddox’s tiny bottom lip begin to wobble. One of the children picked up a crayon and threw it at Maddox, hitting him in the shoulder.

“He can’t even feel that! My dad said that’s why he’s in a wheelchair,” the bully jeered again, high-fiving his friend.

You stood up with a loud squeak of your chair against the linoleum floor.

“You two. Principals office. Now.”

The rest of the class erupted in a chorus of childish ‘ooo’s. You clapped your hands together - your universal signal to quiet down.

“I did not ask for comments from the audience,” you scolded. The children settled down, going back to their work, whispering amongst one another.

“Maddox, come talk to me in the hallway,” you offered. Tears were rolling down Maddox’s cheeks. His aide reached over with a tissue to wipe them, but he turned his face away, one of the only ways he could physically set a boundary.

Maddox’s aide helped him into the hallway and then left the two of you alone. You sat down on one of the small, metal benches in the hallway. At this angle, you were about Maddox’s height. He was blubbering, trying to take deep breaths as more tears came. You pulled a small, clean, cloth handkerchief from your pocket. He let you dab his cheeks, giving him a gentle click of the tongue.

“Buddy, do you want to talk about it?”

“T-they’re so m..m..mean to me,” he whimpered, closing his eyes as more tears fell. “And, and, and I can’t play with them even, that’s why. I can’t do anything!”

You nodded empathetically, gently catching more of Maddox’s tears.

“I hate school! My daddy wants me to like school. It’s all he talks about. I hate him!”

“Maddox,” you softly redirected. “That’s not very nice. You don’t hate your dad.”

Maddox looked a deep breath. You smiled, knowing Spencer must have taught him to do that when he was upset.

“You’re right. But I’m sad, and I wanna go home.”

You sighed, reaching up to blot the little bit of redness still present on Maddox’s cheeks. You adjusted his glasses, moving some of his curly brown hair from underneath the metal.

“Just a few more hours, okay? We have library at the end of the day.”

Maddox’s face lit up, his apple cheeks glowing beneath the rims of his glasses. “Library!”

“Yes, and just for this week, you can take home two books.”

______________________________

Spencer felt distracted the entire flight to Vermont. He knew he was going to be far away for a while, and that Maddox wouldn’t know until he got out of school for the day. The agent detested when he had to leave without Maddox knowing in advance, but it was usually impossible given the nature of things. Thankfully, Reid had a good setup of support through healthcare and respite so Maddox never went without someone to care for him.

Then, there was you. He couldn’t stop thinking about your reaction. He had seen it before in abuse victims. The way you flinched when he moved too fast, the apologizing like your life depended on it, even the way you looked at him with pleading eyes, desperate to avoid a blow. He bridged his fingers together, thinking to himself for a moment.

With that, he stood up, making his way to the back of the plane. He unlocked his phone while he chewed his fingernail with his free hand. Before he knew it, he was calling Garcia.

“Penelope. Hey, I need a favor. A personal one. If you could keep it between us, that would be great.”

“Anything for you, my precious string bean.”

Spencer laughed. “I need you to get all the information you can on someone. Ivy Porter.”

“Ivy Porter. That’s like a movie star name. What did she do?”

“Um..nothing, I don’t think. Just call me when you’ve got something, and email me everything you find.”

“You got it. Every in and out of Ms. Ivy Porter coming to you soon. Be safe. Talk soon.”

With that, Penelope clicked off of the call. Spencer sat back down, anxiously waiting for whatever information Penelope could find about you.

___________

series/criminal minds taglist: @hufflepuffhaze @omghufflepuff @txtdreamss @rainbows-dreams @bvttercupbby @k-k0129 @rexit-mo @britishspidey @graciehams @manuosorioh @shemarmooresfedora @big-galaxy-chaos @thatoneszesty13 @ssavanessa22 @awritingtree @sweetandsunny​ @rainsong01 @kuolonsyoja @taralewiz @bluelittleblackgirl @asexual-booknerd @the-wolfie

[peakyblinderswhore]

DAY 3 ⇨ MATRESS ANGELS 

GENRE: Christmas!au, Fluff I’m a fucking liar, Smut, 18+ only.

PAIRING: Michael x Reader

SYNOPSIS: Michael and yourself weren’t exclusive but strictly speaking, you did spend an awful amount of time together that certainly suggested that you were. Spending the night at Polly’s on Christmas Eve would only make this assumption more valid. On the assumption that you are exclusive, Polly offers up one of her rooms... with one bed. What are two, young, hormone-filled adults going to do with just one bed?

W/C: 3.4k

WARNINGS: it’s fucking dirty, yo. swearing, oral (m + f receiving), cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), degradation kink(?), hair pulling, spit is used as lubrication (it’s the 1920′s, c’mon), it doesn’t really have anything to do with christmas, pwp, it’s the dirtiest shit i’ve ever written, tiny tiny overstimulation, dom!michael, sub!reader ig, sex, sex, more sex, uh that’s it i think

A/N: to that one anon who always asked me for michael smut. yeah. you know who you are. i’m not sure if i’m writing this out of anger or to please you. bruh i love you fr fr though. in the heat of the moment i actually wrote something. lol hats off to you though.

cross posted onto ao3 here

“Michael, there’s only one bed,” you whisper to him.

He hums, “Mum must’ve had an inkling about us. I can sleep downstairs if you want,” he offers, raising an eyebrow.

The two of you were spending Christmas at Polly’s as per your suggestion in her townhouse out in the countryside. To be fair, you had mentioned it in passing after Polly had mentioned that she would have more than enough room for Michael to stay for the eve of Christmas and to be there the morning of to save journey time. He had winced and his hand that rested on your lower back firmed, he didn’t know how to reply and you could sense that through the thin material of your dress. 

“I don’t know, Mum, I was going to do my rounds with Y/N.”

Polly’s eyes had lingered over Michael’s hand that rested on your back but only momentarily, you had noticed this but pretended not to when you said, “Well, I was only going to visit Michael... if you don’t mind me staying the night too I’d be more than happy to make up for the burden.”

That was two weeks ago. And here you were, staring at the bed. The singular bed. The only bed in the room. At least it was a double.

“It’s okay,” you say, referring to his offer of sleeping elsewhere, “we’re adults. We can share one bed.”

Michael perches on the end of the bed and takes off his shoes, opting for something more comfortable, while you lay down on the other side, arms spread out wide, trying to think of something to say to keep the conversation going and to stop your mind from wandering.

“Let’s make snow angels!”

“Pardon?”

“I said,” you reiterate, pushing yourself up on an elbow to look at Michael peering over his shoulder at you, “let’s make snow angels!”

“How old are you?” although his comment doesn’t hurt as his grin widens on his face as he shifts his body to face you properly, “plus,” he begins, “It’s a mattress, much less, er, snow than what we would need.”

“...Mattress angels?”

Michael’s eyes suddenly darken and he makes his way to crawl towards you, I know what we could do...” his voice trails off and his fingers circle the skin where your dress finished suggestively.

“Michael!” Your face heats up form the suggestion, mortified that he would want to do something that dirty with Polly just a few doors down, “Polly, your Mother,” you emphasise, “is only a few doors down.”

He shrugs his shoulders and smirks, “Worried she might hear you?”

You snap your legs shut and sit up abruptly, startling him and forcing him to sit back again, “She’s not going to hear us because it’s not happening.”

Michael pulls back, not one to push you into somehting that you didn’t want to do, “Alright,” he moves on with the conversation, “Mum said we can go down for a late night snack or join her for a drink in a few.”

“Sounds good,” you say, thankful for Michael respecting your wishes, “I’ll slip something a little more comfortable on, then.”

Downstairs, Polly was passed out on the settee, a glass resting on the arm of her chair, her head resting on the back of her chair, lightly snoring. She had mentioned something earlier about being busy last night and the morning following it on. You smile and Michael chuckles, “We wouldn’t have had anything to worry about.”

You press a soft kiss to his lips, “This is nice though.”

“It is,” he presses a kiss back, kissing you slowly like he’s trying to savour every second he can to the fullest. His hands are resting on your hips, mindlessly rubbing circles with his thumbs whilst yours hang loosely around his neck, fingers scratching at the bottom of his hairline.

The fire crackled in the background as you and Michael continued to deepen the kiss, devouring each other as you began licking into the other’s mouth, tasting the wine that Michael had with his dinner earlier on. It gave him an intoxicating feel, making you want to taste this forever, his musk filling your senses and his fingers trailing your waist, contemplating whether or not to go much further. When Michael pulled away and rested his forehead against yours, he looked down to where his hands rested before flitting up to meet your gaze. His mouth was hung open, drinking in all the air that he couldn’t get moments ago.

“We should stop, you didn’t want to earlier and I’m afraid that if we continue I won’t be able to stop.”

Your eyes fill with lust, he notices but waits for you to say the word, “She is asleep,” you manage to whisper, still praying that she’s fast asleep adn far from waking up anytime soon.

“You can’t take it back if you say it.”

“I know...” you bring your lower lip between your teeth and bring your fingers to face, cupping his cheeks, you say, “take me upstairs, Michael.”

His mouth finds yours and he pushes your mouth open with a swipe of his tongue, moulding your mouths together as his hands wrap underneath your thighs. You obediently jump, locking your ankles behind his back and he holds you up by your ass. He doesn’t open his eyes as he walks up the stairs, sure you should’ve been worried but his mouth was much more captivating at this precise moment in time.

Before you knew it, you were being laid out on the singular bed in your room that you were staying in. Michael let go, kicking off his slippers and unbuttoning the top of his shirt. When he connects your mouths again, it’s a clash of teeth and tongues and your hands instantly reach for the warmth underneath his shirt. His hand reaches behind your head and pulls at the pins holding your hair together before throwing them in the vague direction of the dresser that had become home to your limited luggage.

You had locked your legs around his waist again, aching for the feeling of his hard cock against your heated core, praying for some kind of friction that would relieve your need for him. His hands rested either side of your head, slowly crawling onto the bed to meet you level with him.

At this, you arched up, pulling your hand from his shoulder and slipping off your robe and pushing it to fall off of the bed and then reach to unbutton his shirt all the way and throw it on the floor with your robe. This meant Michael was half naked but you still had a slip on. He lifted a hand and wrapped his fingers around your throat, pulling you up to meet his tongue and to see how far he could get his tongue before you whined, like you usually did.

Whimpering, Michael smiled at your vocal plead to move on, unravelling his fingers from your throat and connecting his lips to your neck, wanting to see how far he could get you without touching you.

He bites and licks at your neck, enough to make your eyes roll and your nerves to tingle, making your fingers curl in his hair, tugging from the pleasure. You breathe heavily against his ear and push him away from your neck, unbuckling his belt with eager fingers, but as you were about to push his trousers down to his thighs, he stops you and presses a firm kiss to your lips.

“Let me,” he whispers against your mouth, “just...” his voice fades away as he lowers his head to your perk nipples, showing evidently through the incredibly thin slip you were wearing. Without a second to spare, he latches his teeth to your nipple, lightly pulling them, making you fidget from the sensitivity you were currently experiencing. Then, he circles his tongue on your areola thorugh the fabric, leaving a wet patch before capturing your breast in his mouth.

“Oh, sweet Jesus, Michael...” your head rolls, “I’m begging you to fuck me... like you mean it.”

Grunting, he pushes his trousers down and kicks them off, obediently, not wanting to miss this moment, either, “I fucking love you so much right now.”

You lift your head to view his figure. His eyes were ravaging your body as he thought about what to do next. You grasped the bottom of your slip and pulled it over your body and reached a hand down to acknowledge your throbbing pussy.

“Oh fuck, that’s hot.”

You giggle, “Do something about it then, won’t you,” you pout and put on the best puppy eyes you can, “please?”

Immediately, his tongue swirls over each of your taut nipples and down your stomach, loops your belly button and nudges through your pubic hair to your clitoris. His lips attach and suck for dear life, making you let out the girthiest moan you’d ever heard from your own body, making you slap you hand over your mouth as Michael continued, refusing to let up. He reaches a hand below your leg, hooking it over his shoulder and bringing his hand around it to rest on your inner thigh to hold it in place. His other hand runs along your folds, teasing you. He halts briefly to push his fingers past your soft lips, lubricating them with your saliva before bringing them back down and pushes one slowly into your hole. 

“Tell me... use your words with me,” he growls against your clit.

His tongue doesn’t leave your clit, swiping his tongue from your hole to your clit and mimics the tongue twister you had joking taught him one time.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you breathe out in breathy moans just as he pushes a second finger into your pussy, meaning that you were now barely able to string together a coherent sentence. It was more than enough feedback for him, what with your fingers tightening around the strands of hair you had in your fists, he responded to everything your body was telling him. “You like that, baby? Huh?” His eyes flick up to watch as you begin to fall apart, breathing heavy and eyes unfocused.

“Y-yes.”

Still pushing his fingers in and out of you, he continues feeling around for the spot that he knew was nearby -- he was no stranger to your body this intimately.

“How about this, then?”

He lifts his head from your throbbing pussy and lets his hand that was locked around your thigh move to rub calculated circles over your clit. He spits onto his fingers as they continue to move in and out to allow an easier slide.

At this point, his fingers hit the spot and your body arches, lifting away from the bed, “Th-there, don’t... s-stop.”

Now knowing where he was aiming for, he allows his fingers to move at a faster pace and lets his thumb rub harder circles into your clit. He bends his head down to lick stripes into your pussy wherever he could, occasionally lifting his thumb to switch for his tongue and vice versa, pushing you to the edge.

“Yes, Michael, yes!”

He  switches his fingers for his tongue, pushing in and out of your entrance, wanting to taste you.

“Wanna taste you,” he says, “can you do that for me, baby?”

You bite your lip and nod, “Mhmm.”

His thumb continues its attack on your clitoris and within seconds your coming apart on his face. Micahel laps up your release on his tongue and helps you ride out your high.

When your body relaxes and your fingers uncench his hair his lifts his head, lips glistening from your arousal, “You taste so fucking sweet.”

Ignoring him, you pull his face up to yours and begin to kiss him sloppily, mind still foggy from your orgasm only moments ago. You smile at the taste of yourself still fresh on his lips and reach a hand down between the two of you to address the, ahem, third member present in the room.

Michael moans as your fingertips brush lightly across the strained material of his underwear, over his erect cock.

“Your turn,” you mumble, “wanna make you cum.”

Tucking your fingers under the band of his underwear, you push them down to his knees and push at his chest lightly, making him lay back so you could pull them off all the way. The soon got lost in the jumble of clothes piling up on the floor.

Swinging your hair over your shoulder, you thumb lightly at the head of his cock, swiping the moisture that had gathered and spreading it before circling your fingers around his rock hard cock and pumping it a couple of times.

Michael bites his lip, holding back a low groan, “Suck,” he demands.

Willingly, you grin and wrap your lips around the head and swirl your tongue around the tip. You begin to gradually push his dick further into your mouth, flattening your tongue on the underside of his dick and humming. Bobbing your head up and down, Michael knots your hair around his fist and helps you maintain your rhythm. “Y/N, just like that,” he groans out. You let your hand travel down to your pussy and to play with your clit, getting off on Michael’s moans dancing through the air like a sweet lullaby to your sinning ears.

“Greedy slut,” he says, grinning, “can’t wait for your second orgasm when I haven’t even had one?”

You stop toying with your clit and decide to see just how far you could take his cock in your throat and hollow your cheeks. At this, you could practically feel it twitch in your mouth. You press your hands onto his thighs to balance yourself as you lower your head until your nose is nudging the hair at the base of his cock. He lets out an almighty growl as he strains himself, not wanting to buck into your mouth but you moan at the feel of him and he fucks into your mouth, cock hitting the back of your throat and tears filling your eyes from the stinging.

“Fucking hell...” he moans out.

You lift your head and bring one hand to the base of his cock, squeezing at different pressures before lifting your lips from his cock and releasing it with a pop. You wipe the tears with the back of your free hand.

Michaels head lifts to meet your eyes. You smile, saliva dribbling down your chin, “Good?”

His eyes darken at the question, “Do that again and I might cum down your throat.”

Your eyes squint at the challenge and you drop your head to lick a stripe from the base of his cokc to the tip, making him shiver from the pleasure but before you could drop your lips to his cock again his hand grips at your neck, “Not today, baby. I need to fuck you.”

He pulls you up and goes to flip you but you quickly blurt, “Can I be on top?”

“Fuck yes, you can.”

He helps you up to hover above his erect penis. You grip it tightly and guide it towards your entrance before sinking down onto it.

“Oh, Michael,” you groan at the girth of his dick, pushing your pussy open.

“Y/N how are you so fucking tight?”

You laugh a little, the sting of the stretch of his dick stopping you halfway and settle on resting your hands on his chest, “Why don’t you fuck me more often?” You counter.

Michael’s eyes darken more — if that’s even possible — and lifts you off his dick almost entirely before slamming into you, making you whine.

“Like that?”

“Yes,” you whimper.

You move forward to rest on your elbows, the sting subsiding from the stretch and begin to move your hips in a swiveling motion, not wanting Michael to abolish your pussy before you’d even started.

“Such a fucking tease.”

You clench your pussy around him, loving the jolt of pleasure that ran through your body at his comment, “Oh, shit.”

“You like that? You dirty little slut, soaking my dick for me.”

Meeting your swivels, Michael sets the pace, thrusting up and everytime you bit back a moan from echoing against the walls.

“Michael,” you whimper out, making him throw his head back and growl at your needy self.

You try to force Michael to go slower but he only ghosts his fingers across your clit, rubbing vicious circles into it. Your head falls forward and you groan as he grunts with every thrust.

He was forcing you to edge quicker than you would’ve liked but the high outweighed any con your fuzzy brain could muster up when the pleasure Micahael was inducing soared through your pussy and to the coil in your stomach, slowly tightening the more he did it.

“Michael, s-so close...”

At this he pulls out and flips you so you’re on your hands and knees and he’s behind you, lining up his cock with your centre and sinking in, once again met with the warmth of your velvety walls.

He slams into you, once again and continues to pound at the same speed, making every thrust harder than the last, somehow reaching further than the last time.

“Hold it for me, baby, can you do that for me?”

You whimper in response, already so close as it is and not sure how much longer you can fend it off.

Michael grips your hair and pulls you back so you arch up and your back meets his chest, “I asked a question, can you do that?”

“Yes. Fuck me, Michael.”

“Good, little slut.”

You clench at that and he lets go of your hair, stabilising himself by gripping your hips hard enough that there would probably be finger-shaped bruises but you didn’t care — not when he was pounding into you, hitting your spot just right, “Right, there, Michael, I’m so fucki—”

He sneaks a hand round to rub circles in your clit and lets the other grab a handful of boob, squeezing and kneading it as much as he wants.

“Good girl, I’m so close, almost there, now.”

You whine, his fingers getting quicker and his thrusts sloppier.

“Oh, fu-fuck..” he groans, “now, you can cum now.”

Crying out his name, you release your hold on your orgasm, feeling the coil snap inside you, now thrilled that you no longer have to stave it off and you fall forward. Michael wraps his arm around your chest, catching you so he can continue to fuck into you.

“That’s it, baby, milk my cock like the good fucking girl you are.”

Michael’s thrusts become erratic as he chases his high. When he reaches it, you feel him releasing his seed deep inside your pulsating pussy. He slows down his thrusts, riding out both of your highs for you. 

When he shudders one final time, he slumps forward, cheek resting on your sweaty back but he didn’t care.

After a few moments, he pulls his softening cock out of your sore pussy, making you wince from the over-stimulation. He presses a soft kiss to your back and goes to fetch a wet soft-cloth to clean you up. Your eyes flutter closed and you only know he’s returned by the soft caress of his hand down one thigh, pushing them apart so he can clean you up. You whimper from the soreness but let him continue as you know it has to happen in order to stay clean.

He hums as he goes about cleaning you up and tosses the cloth to the side where he can address it in the morning.

You pat the bed beside you and he climbs in, hugging you from behind and pressing multiple soft kisses to your back, making you shiver.

“That was...”

You wait for him to continue.

“Can we do that again?”

“Like now?” you reply, alarmed.

“Uh.”

“Jesus Christ, Michael, what are you made of?”

“So I’m guessing that’s a no.”

“You bet your ass it’s a no.”

He waits a beat. 

“Wake me up before Polly gets up in the morning,” you mumble.

Michael grins, “You know I will.”

“I do.”

[astraembers]

Firefly’s Glow - Part 1/?

For @janetm74 and @tsarinatorment and because I am desperate to post something to get my groove going again.

 📦 trapped in a box requested by Janetm74 / How about ⏳ - time’s running out and 📦 - trapped in a box with some Scott&Gordon? – requested by Tsarinatorment

A/N: Author’s Note - Okay, first I hope it’s ok that I combined these asks. Second, I know this is strange. End notes included to explain. Also, I have and by extension Gordon has a potty mouth. I promise I edited most of them out. 

*****

Less than a minute.

Gordon could work miracles in less than a minute. In 51.2 seconds, he went from Gordon Tracy, son of the late Jefferson Tracy, to Gordon Tracy, Olympic Gold Medalist representing the United States of America. He’d let the muscular pull, push, recovery rhythm of the butterfly stroke propel him past world records.

But of course he never really had to think about how to move through water.

Focus.

He had shackles to pick.

“You’re running out of time, Gordon Tracy.”

Damn it all.

Now the Hood was just being rude. It was Virgil’s face and voice that taunted him– though it really wasn’t his voice because Virgil could never speak to Gordon with a tone so laced with malice. Ire, sure. Hatred and malevolence, no way in hell.

Gordon would tear the Hood apart for stealing his brother’s voice, starting with a solid right hook in his snickering mug once he got out this.

Arms crossed, the Hood had a timer in one hand and an unrecognizable gun in the other. Though Gordon knew guns, he couldn’t recognize this one from the quick glance he’d spared. He’d had no time to look.

35 seconds.

He could do this. In that amount of time he’d saved an electrified Thunderbird 2 from a free fall by redocking his pod in the plummeting behemoth and connecting their computer systems to regain control. He hadn’t needed time to think, just react – his brother’s life was dependent on Thunderbird 2’s survival.

His brother whose voice was stolen by a madman.

“My, my, didn’t my niece teach you better than that?”

Leave Kayo out of this, you stupid, greedy, motherf - His survival thus far had been a little bit Kayo, a little bit Parker, and a whole lot of Brains. Parker for the lock picking knowledge, Kayo for the speed and survival tactics, Brains for the lock pick built into the bottom of his boots.

And sure, maybe a little bit of his own survival training helped.

A minute to remove the shackles in exchange for freedom. 60 seconds. Gordon could save lives in 60 seconds. He can, and will, save his own.

15 seconds left.

“Tick tock.”

His hands fumbled with the small pick between his fingers and the awkward angle of a lock he couldn’t even see, only feel.

8

7

6

Click!

The shackles came free and fell to the ground with a clatter. Gordon panted, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Very good. Perhaps, you have some worth to me after all.”

“But-”

“Oh, I was never going to let you go, Gordon Tracy. But thank you for the…” Virgil-that’s-not-really-Virgil waved a hand towards Gordon’s shoes. “Demonstration.”

Rage welled up inside him.

It was Virgil’s face, sure, but Gordon had punched Virgil before. Hell, Virgil had punched him before. And the man in front of him wasn’t really Virgil anyway. So, Gordon launched himself at the Hood, preparing to attack.

In his anger, he’d forgotten about the gun. He wouldn’t have entered a gunfight with his fists if he remembered. Taking out your opponent 101.  His WASP superior officers would have been sorely disappointed in him.

Sans his standard yellow baldric (because the Hood had taken that from him too), Gordon gasped at the sudden impact that hit his chest. Even though the projectile’s force wasn’t enough to drive him back, the gun, intended for mid-range, packed a hell of a punch, and there was a terrifying moment when Gordon looked down at his body and expected to see blood. Instead, the dart protruding from his left pectoral carried a blue liquid, an injection of something. He didn’t know what, and somehow, that thought was even less comforting.

The swift lethargy that flowed through his muscles slowed him as the drug hit.

Gordon crumpled to the dirty cement floor as Virgil cackled in his ear, and all went black.

*****

Gordon’s love of the sea came first from the fact that the sea was so different from the plains of Kansas, secondly that it was a part of the Earth itself he loved so much. and thirdly – and most importantly– because the first time he stepped into the rushing waves of the ocean it had been like finally learning to breathe.

Gordon had learned to appreciate all of Earth’s life at a young age. He was never a rescue scout like Scott, as there was a bit too much focus on badgework for his tastes, but his youth was spent making mud pies, watching bird’s nests, and observing caterpillar chrysalises all the same.

The summer Gordon was six, Scotty had taken him out to the barn late at night and showed him how to make a lantern of fireflies. Their adventure pack (really Scott’s school bag, repurposed) held a flashlight, mason jars, a couple pieces of mesh to put overtop the glass, and two bug nets.  

No brothers were allowed – this was for him and Scotty only.

He’d abandoned the bug net for his hands pretty quickly, and within a few minutes, he’d managed to catch five or so for his lightning bug lantern. Of course, Scott had managed to catch more because he was older and also because he’d shared this memory with all his brothers and this was only Gordon’s first time.

It had been so pretty, the fireflies dancing in the mason jar, their lights slowly dimming and brightening in a mellow cadence that soothed his soul. But then, he realized their little bodies, which were used to flying around in the expanse of the sky, were suddenly confined to the glass container of the jar. And he saw not beauty but pain.  

It was a lovely, bittersweet memory he kept close to his heart because it represented a key moment of his youth: first growing up with Scott as an older brother and also the first time he’d felt a creature’s cry reach him. It was the same wail he felt when he read about oil spills off the coast of Alaska and illegal fishing nets that should not still be in use, and, god, the absolute trash humanity left in the oceans for poor sea turtles to choke over.

Scott hadn’t understood where the tears came from suddenly, but Gordon remembered his brother kneeling in front of him so their eyesight was level, and he recalled him asking what happened and what Gordon needed, completely uncaring that his jeans were getting dirty in the fertilized soil.  And the best thing about Scott was that he was the type of older brother that didn’t laugh or ignore him when Gordon said “they want out” through blubbering tears. He just helped Gordon release their fireflies back into the night, and instead they spent their evening counting their happy flickering until the numbers lulled Gordon to sleep.

The memory faded; the fireflies behind his eyes converged to a fragment on the other side of his lids, and a piercing white struck his brain with each blink as he awoke.

His feet were cold. The Hood had stolen his boots. Of freaking course. His next realization was that the rest of him was not as cold as his feet. In fact, that light coming in through the window was making his face and neck feel quite flushed.

It was the light that told him he was somewhere new. Previously the Hood had kept him locked in the darkness in his cell.

He groaned, shifting to sit up and look around his new abode, which was compact and with no angles to define the walls. But it was all glass, and so the window he thought was present was actually the room itself. And the floor he realized, feeling the material against the pads of his feet as he stood, was also glass.

His investigation was short lived, and Gordon hissed as the attempt to put weight on his left foot shot a laser of pain up through his ankle.

God, the Hood must have really thrown him in here, he thought.

He looked up.

No, not thrown. Dropped.

The ceiling of the room was not a ceiling at all, but the top of a bottle where the glass curved inward and then continued upward.

It was not quite what he imagined…. being the test subject of a madman. Maybe a tube or a cage or the cell where he was before would make sense, but a human-sized glass bottle?  He felt like one of the fireflies he was just dreaming of, and of course, the Hood had to steal that memory too, in addition to his baldric, his boots, and his brother’s face.

As Gordon squinted to peer past the glass, the light that had been penetrating his new home suddenly darkened with a singular brown eye filling the expanse of the vessel, disorienting the shape so that the pupil was huge and the iris round, and the rest was…well, still huge just not as much so.

Fire raced through his ankle as he backed up two steps, stumbling into the back of the bottle.

“Gordon?” The eye said in a deep rumble.

The hell? He knew that voice.

“Fuse?”

“Shit, man, you’re tiny.”

His instinct was to look at his hands, but of course, they were the same from his perspective, though perhaps a bit grimier than they were before he was captured, tossed in a cell, and then forced to pick his way out of his shackles for no reason other than the Hood’s demented sense of pleasure.

The eye was then replaced with Fuse’s hand as he picked up the bottle to clasp it by the neck and pull it off of what was clearly a high shelf, with Gordon still inside.

Everything was not okay.

He was not okay.

It was never a human-sized bottle, and as his world shifted with Fuse raising the glass, Gordon realized he was lucky if he was half a foot tall.

END PART 1

End note:  In effort to think outside the box for in a box my brain went straight to pocket!Gordon, so I went angsty Arrietty/the Borrowers vibes. There’s a more literal box planned later, I promise, and more Scott as requested. But for now, hope this helps do the job. Also don’t skip over the first part, POCKET!GORDON. 😊

Part 2