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moonsugar-and-spice · 2 years

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Azulaang

And for Dragon Age maybe Meredith x Orsino or Morrigan x Alistair for that good ol mage templar dynamic

Or surprise me

I went with the first for Azulaang and I'll save the second for another time (it's a good one; Morristair my beloved).

🌧️24: "We should stop talking, people might start to think I like you."

Send me a prompt and a pairing.

Azula turned the old bronze comb over in her hand, running a thumb along the familiar jade embellishment in the shaft. It was the first time she had stood before this mirror since returning to the palace, its proud gold frame climbing the wall of her chambers. Abstractly it called to mind the gilded trim framing the curtained door of the palanquin that had brought her here not two weeks ago.

“Why?”

The first word that had been spoken as she’d sat in the jostling quiet next to Zuko, the asylum shrinking in the distance. The healers had formally pronounced her fit to be discharged, and Azula had been momentarily stunned when it was he who had arrived to pick her up.

Not a servant sent at the Fire Lord’s command.

Zuko, himself.

Why. What an absurdly small question, she mused now, to hold the tumble of thoughts and feelings and more questions stuffed into it.

“Is there somewhere else you were thinking you’d go?” he had responded, and Azula would have accepted that as answer enough. She would have figured something out — she always would — but it had all happened so fast, and if she were honest, Azula wasn’t sure in that moment where she might have gone.

But then, Zuko had said, “I wanted you to come home. It’s where you belong.”

Home.

The mirror’s face she had shattered on her last night here, a lifetime ago, had been repaired sometime during her absence. Her mother, Ursa, used to sit her down at this mirror with this same comb. If Azula concentrated hard enough, she could almost smell the perfumed oils she used to favor, jasmine and sandalwood and orange blossom. Could almost feel her mother’s gentle touch, combing her hair a hundred times smooth, even as she’d griped and jerked away.

“I love you, Azula.”

Words she had never been able to receive, then. Love was something you had to earn, and she would never manage to compete with Zuko to win it. She wouldn’t even try. He was her perfect child, and she was her father’s.

Azula watched her reflection lift the comb languidly to her hair, but stopped short, her gaze snagging on a deep, brittle crack in the bronze along its once-perfect, polished edge. When had that happened? She didn’t remember it being there before.

The old her would have tossed the thing away with a sneer, ordered it replaced just as quickly with something newer and shinier. Something perfect.

Now, she was struck by the odd sort of beauty in her hand. The imperfections all resolving together to create a piece of art with character and history, unique unto itself, and despite it all, or perhaps even on account of, she found she admired it all the more.

For fourteen years of her life, Azula had believed that if she only tried hard enough, if she could be perfect enough, if she never failed or lost or made a mistake in any way, she could earn her father’s love. The last time she had seen him, Ozai had named her Fire Lord — an honorific she now knew had been as empty as his affection for her, a way to leave her behind — that star-crossed night when he had been power-drunk and endeavored to burn the Earth Kingdom to a cinder.

And for all her years of effort and grueling training and silent desperation, in the end, the worst had come to pass. She had failed. She had lost that fated Agni Kai to Zuko. And there was not a single soul in the royal court, or the city, or her father still in his cold iron cell, who did not know of how she lost and came apart that night.

In the days and weeks after, bitter and numb and stewing in the seclusion of her personal safety room, Azula had sworn she would never let anyone see her cry again. People saw tears and they stopped seeing you, stopped seeing the armor you wore, stopped listening to your words, your expression, or anything you might have to say. It made no difference whether the tears were frightened or frustrated, angry or sad. All they saw was a fragile girl crying.

Tears burned behind her eyes now, threatening to fall. The comb’s teeth scraped gently against her scalp as she ran it through her hair, wincing a little as she hit a tangle and smoothed it out. Azula breathed in slow and deep, watching her chest rise and fall in the mirror, the line between her brows melting away on the exhale.

For perhaps the hundredth time in recent days, Azula found herself turning her brother’s words around in her head, this way and that, like a sculpture, trying to catch every subtle detail, every hidden nuance.

“I wanted you to come home. It’s where you belong.”

Some buried part of her stirred, whispering that she had mistaken his meaning, that he hadn’t really meant it.

But Azula had long since stopped trying to earn anyone’s love or approval. She had already unraveled, had already hit rock bottom, and everyone knew it, so what was the point? Fourteen years of striving, and her father’s love had turned to dust the moment she’d slipped. She was done trying to be anything for anyone other than herself.

The thing with Zuko though, she had come to understand, was that she never had to be any of those things. In spite of all her wrongs and flaws and failures, in spite of having done nothing to deserve it and for reasons she couldn’t understand, Zuko loved her anyway.

It had been Zuko — weak, lucky-to-be-born Zuko — who never gave up on her. The one who saw her through years of therapy and reconditioning and growth to come out the other side, and never once made her feel ashamed or abandoned or not enough.

Something cracked inside her, a soft, hitching breath.

The tears spilled over then, cleansing and hot. She didn’t try to stop them.

What would she say if she were to face her father now, to stand tall and look him in the eyes with tear-stained cheeks? She wanted to tell him that a true phoenix does not rise amid the flames, wild and fierce, but only in the cold, dark nothing that comes after. Born from its own ashes, forged through hellfire and suffering, through its own unmaking, to become something else, something better and stronger and resilient.

She straightened, sniffed, and set the comb down on the table with a tick, giving only a cursory wipe to her eyes and face. There was no such thing as perfect. Only beautiful versions of brokenness.

The halls were still relatively quiet, pale light leaking in through the windows with morning’s muted chorus, drifting just at the edge of hearing. It had become her favorite time of day during her stay in the asylum, that bird-soaked hour before sunrise. She had spent many mornings roaming the gated garden, or seated at its window on drizzly mornings. The flowers always looked a shade brighter in the rain, the birds always singing louder.

Funny, how for so long defeat had echoed like a door slammed shut, a resounding end to her life and all that she was. What might have become of her, if Zuko had never risked treason to do what was right, if Katara hadn’t been at the Agni Kai that night to save him, and without knowing it, Azula, too? If the Avatar had not beaten the odds to bring an end to the Fire Nation’s tyranny and Ozai’s power-hungry ambition?

How she had loathed the Avatar, back then, for his part in the ruin of it all.

Now, gratitude expanded in her chest, filling her near to aching.

“A closed door might be an ending, but it’s also a beginning,” he’d said during their first accidental encounter upon her return, “a different way forward. A death, and a rebirth.”

Azula couldn’t quite say why she had opened up to him in the first place. Her mouth had let the words escape before she could stop them, but she never found herself wishing to take them back. It was comfortable with him. Odd for her to make a connection so quickly, to give her trust so easily, tentative though it was. There was something in the way he smiled, a genuineness, a softness of spirit so unlike her own. When she talked, he listened like he was absorbing her words, as if there was nothing more important in the world at that moment.

“The monks used to say our stories don’t have one beginning or one end, but that each moment is a microcosm of beginnings and endings all knitting together, crossing each other, breaking apart. One closed door, the end of one chapter, is simply the beginning of the next.”

She had watched him, sifting his expressions, and glimpsed the boy in his face, the one who had lost everything and everyone he had loved. The one she had killed that night in the catacombs. The thought still made her wince. Was resilience something he was born with, or had he, too, learned how to nurture it?

Aang, he had been insisting she call him. She hadn’t yet, if only for the reward of his banter and that tenacious smile, the one that carved a dimple into one cheek.

“Well, well…”

Azula’s steps faltered with a soft breath of amusement. Really, it should have come as a surprise. After all, once was an accident; twice, maybe even three times, a coincidence. But four, five? It was almost comical now, which was why it no longer surprised her. Azula had come to expect, maybe even hope for, these unintended rendezvous.

She turned smoothly on her heel and felt a contented tug at the corner of her mouth as he approached.

“Hello, Avatar.”

“Hello, Princess,” he replied, coming to stop in his weightless way before her. Azula’s eyes flicked down.

Thin plumes of steam curled up from a pair of teacups, one in each of his hands. Her eyes returned to Aang’s with an arch of a brow to catch a hint of that dimple showing as his lips quirked.

“Tea?” he offered, holding one out to her.

Reflexively, she accepted it, the porcelain pleasantly warm against her palms. Azula fixed him with a look of wry incredulity. “There is no way you could have known I’d be walking this hall at this very time.”

“Who says I made it for you?” shrugged Aang, the corners of his eyes kissing slightly. “I made two cups in case I ran into someone who looked like they could use one. Just so happens here you are.”

The steam bore an inviting aroma she knew well, fruity and woodsy with honeyed notes.

“Hmm. Well, the day I turn down a cup of oolong is the day the assassins have succeeded and replaced me with an imposter, so…” She took a sip, savoring the velvety smooth richness on her tongue and the sweet-bitter aftertaste. “Thank you.”

They strolled aimlessly together, and for a little while neither spoke, the halls beginning to fill with the rustles of a palace waking.

“They wouldn’t fool me, by the way,” he said at length, and Azula looked up at him. He had grown over the years, nearly a head taller than she was now. “I’d be able to tell.”

“What?”

“The real you from a counterfeit.”

It took her by surprise, his words as much as the color rising softly in his cheeks. Azula ducked her head to take a long sip of the tea, locking eyes fleetingly with a servant passing by. The woman’s gaze skated to the floor, but not fast enough to hide the twinkle still bleeding through her expression.

“You know, we really should stop talking,” said Azula once the servant had gone, dragging Aang’s eyes askance to meet hers. “People might start to think I like you.”

The words rang hollow though, and she made no effort to mask the telling tilt of her lips.

“Oh?” he responded, taking the bait. “Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but…” Aang leaned closer with an exaggerated grimace, mock-whispering the rest as they went. “I’m pretty sure people already suspect that I like you.”

It was her turn to blush, the rush of heat having little to do with the temperature of her drink. Azula feigned solemnity in spite of the butterflies rousing sleepily in her stomach.

“How unfortunate. We should definitely stop talking then. Already halfway there, we can’t have that.”

“Yeah. I hate to say it, but I think we might be fighting an uphill battle around here. Maybe it would all be easier if you just admitted you do like me.”

“You think so?” The gold rim of her teacup winked in a shaft of light as they passed a window. “Maybe you should go first.”

“That seems kind of weird, but, okay…” There was a subtle gleam to his expression as he took a breath, making a show of composing himself, and finally said, “I think you like me, Azula.”

She scoffed, opening her mouth with some retort when he cut in, “Now it’s your turn.”

“Fine. I think you like me, Avatar.”

Shaking his head good-humoredly, he let his gaze wander ahead of them down the hall. “You don’t have to keep calling me that. You’ve had all these years to learn my name—”

“Names are for people you like.”

He glanced back at her, and she bit her lip, a poor attempt to hide her enjoyment, and for the briefest of moments, just an instant, his grey eyes were drawn down, alighting on her lips. One of those butterflies seemed to escape her stomach, fluttering dizzily in her chest, and she looked away.

“Fair,” Aang conceded with a shrug of his head. “And what if I said, hypothetically, that the rumors are true. That maybe I do like you.”

“I suppose, hypothetically, I might respond that for a bald, attention-whoring, goody-goody monk… maybe you’re okay, too.”

The morning’s rays had saturated to a rich amber, igniting the crimson halls wherever it touched, and the lopsided grin that broke across his face rendered it pale by comparison. She couldn’t help the echo of it that dawned on her own face.

“Coming from you that might be the nicest compliment I’ve ever received. I’ll be sure to keep that one right here,” he said, placing a palm flat over his heart.

Their languorous steps eased, and when Aang came to a stop, Azula turned to face him. The oolong in her cup had begun to cool and she warmed it again, watching the feather of steam rise to dance over it.

“So,” was all he said at first, shifting his weight.

“So,” she returned in kind.

“Here we are again.”

“It does seem as if our paths are determined to keep crossing.”

“Some people might call that fate,” ventured Aang.

“I call it living in the same palace.”

Murmurous laughter trickled toward them, quieting to a hush as a trio of servants rounded the corner, bowing humbly before vanishing through an adjacent hall.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” Aang continued. “People already assume the worst, and we keep bumping into each other. Maybe we might as well, I don’t know… hang out. Like, officially. Since, you know, that’s what everyone expects anyway.”

The thought had wandered into her own mind a handful of times, though of course she didn’t say that.

“I suppose there is no sense in trying to dissuade the ones who’ve already made up their minds. What do you imagine two people who don’t like each other might do together?”

“Hmm…” His mouth pulled to the side in thought. “A Kuai ball duel?”

She replied with a soft, flippant snort. “Sure, if losing is your idea of fun. I’m undefeated, you know, Kuai ball reigning champion.”

“Oh, but you’ve never competed against the Avatar.” His voice retained the buoyancy she knew, but there was a spirited edge to it, of someone equally sure of their own skill. “Should we put that record to the test?”

It was the sanest kind of madness, this unlooked-for attraction between them.

Azula straightened, lifted her chin, and smiled with an almost defiant kind of joy.

#prompt ask #azulaang #azula #aang #atla fanfiction #haven't written either of these character much #and never written this pairing #not sure it's my best but it was a fun challenge and change of pace #this ended up being half azulaang and half post-canon #post-years of therapy #making-it-out-of-the-asylum-with-the-support-of-those-who-truly-love-her azula character study #because i think she deserves it #i also just realized there has been mention of a mirror in all three of these prompt fics so far 😅😅#not sure what that means or says about me at the moment #but… probably something #written prompts #thanks for the ask!#writebecauseyoucannotbreathe #moonsugar writes

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wildermouse · 1 year

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vent ii.

#so i guess i went over the tag limit and didn't realize so half of that vent post was cut off #cool cool #basically i said i think next year is gonna be a year of figuring shit out #probably not fixing anything but trying to figure out ways to make my life.. work better #i also really want to travel next year. because travel is the only thing that makes me feel sane and alive and happy #i already have a trip to amsterdam in the works to meet up with a bunch of online friends and i wanna make it work so bad #so i need to make sure i have enough money for that #but i also want to do a trip somewhere pretty that i haven't been like wales or scotland #or even a road trip somewhere in north america #but i cannot drive and so i can't go alone and also i like sharing my adventures with people #but i don't think anybody wants to travel with me so there's that #i need to figure out another way to make income apart from my shop bc i'm barely scraping by #and i WANT to do barn chores again #even tho it take a huge physical toll on my body i would rather do that than another job bc i can do things at my #own pace and i rarely have to interact with anyone and i can be around horses all day #but to do that i would have to move in with my mom and i don't think she wants me living there and idk how much she would charge me rent #it would also cause a lot of problems with my dad. he would be uspet and bitter and probably mad at me.#and would also try and convince me to stay like 'i'll drive you to the barn every week!' which would be 2+ hours of driving and #him driving me to work every day was part of why i had a breakdown and quit my last job bc he would cause so much anxiety #but my mom is literally surrounded by barns where she lives aND is on a bus route so #tbc

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passiveagreeable · 2 years

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i'd really really like to understand the "based on your likes!" algorithm because it's mostly discreet enough that i don't think much of it but then also i get casually anti-trans, anti-abortion, etc catholics spewing nonsense at me every single day like??? i have Questions

#or like entire drarry fanfics. on my dash in the year 2k22. like #what???? leave me alone #i don't interact with harry potter at ALL what do you want from me?????#every time i see something that's like that. so for example i had to read a post about half a dozen times today #before realizing that it was anti sex ed and anti trans because the way it was written was just. stupid #but yeah each time i get that shit. i'm like. what am i liking tumblr? why is this here? i'll stop liking it right tf now but what is it???#haven't as of yet seen a person on here that's overtly catholic that i don't want to personally slap across the face

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basketonthedoorstepofthefbi · 12 days

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Wingwoman (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader

Summary: You take your good friend/coworker, Spencer, out to the bar to find him a girl to hook up with. Things do not go as planned.

Word Count: 5107

Warnings: Romantic/sexual tension! Mentions of drinking / sex

A/N: Hi! I haven't written posted fanfic in like, 8 years, please be nice xD I would love to know your thoughts - if you have any requests or anything, I'm happy to oblige. ALSO -- I have only seen up to Season 7 of Criminal Minds because I'm a fckn loser. Anywayyyyy enjoy! Not my gif btw, all credit to the owner :)

———————————

It was kind of your fault, now that you were thinking back on it.

Actually, it was definitely your fault, now that you were thinking back on it.

It had been your suggestion to go out. It had been your idea to act as Spencer’s wingwoman, some last-ditch effort to try to get him out of your mind. He was your coworker, for Christ’s sake. And your best friend. And you’d thought about him desperately for eight of the nine months that you’d known him.

Emily, Derek, and Penelope had all agreed to tag along, but as the work day went on, each of your coworkers had found some kind of excuse to opt-out. Derek’s niece wanted to Facetime. Penelope forgot Kevin’s birthday was next week and needed to go shopping for a present. Emily had a headache.

Finding Spencer a romantic prospect on your own was certainly not the plan, but, stupidly, thoughtlessly, you’d decided to go along with it. You could do this. Just one night in a bar, chatting up women for the man you’d slowly been falling for the past eight months. As good of an idea as any, right?

You and Spencer took an Uber to the bar the group frequented. Ski-ball and pool in one corner, a vintage jukebox and small space set aside as a makeshift dance floor in the other. But the best part - half-off drinks for federal agents. You’d never been one to abuse the badge before, but…

Three Jack-and-Diet-Cokes later, your moral code had a bit of a crack in it.

Spencer stood next to you - towered over you, actually, because that man was a fucking beanpole - and you felt his eyes on you as you scanned the crowd. “What about her?” you suggested, jerking your chin to the woman at a high-top table against the wall. She had her nose stuck in her phone and an untouched martini on the table in front of her.

“She’s clearly waiting for someone,” Spencer pointed out, and you realized he was right just as the woman looked up from her phone and towards the door for the third time in the past minute. “I also don’t understand why you’re so dead set on finding someone to hog me up with.”

You snorted into your drink. “Hog you up with?” you repeated, turning in your barstool so you faced him. Your knees brushed his thighs.

“Yeah, is that not…” realization dawned on Spencer and he grimaced. “That’s not the phrase, is it?”

“Hook,” you corrected, but not impatiently. You made a little hook with your index finger, like a pirate. A little giggle escaped you. “And I’m not dead set on it,” you argued. “I just didn’t want to be the only one leaving the bar with someone.”

Your eyes flickered up to Spencer’s to gauge his reaction. He seemed surprised by this implication that you planned to leave with someone - someone who was not him.

“Yeah? Who are you leaving with, matey?” Spencer countered, arching a brow and pointedly looking at your index finger, still in its hooked position. You dropped your hand.

“It doesn’t matter right now,” you blushed furiously, desperately trying to drive the conversation back to his romantic conquests. Your thought process was that if you actually saw Spencer with someone else in any sort of romantic capacity - dancing, flirting, kissing - you’d finally hurt yourself enough with the sight for those stupid feelings for him to dissipate. “We’re looking for you.”

Spencer merely hmm-ed in response, an indecisive non-answer, and you noticed he shook his head. Like he was annoyed, but trying not to show it. You swallowed the lump in your throat and polished off your drink before returning to examining the patrons in the bar. You nudged Spencer’s elbow with your own and your gaze landed on the group of three women giggling around one of the tables. “Any of them? The blonde is cute,” you pointed out.

“Not really into blondes,” Spencer muttered, and you glanced back at him. You could have sworn his eyes were locked on your brunette hair. You opened your mouth to say something, but Spencer cut you off. “But, sure, if watching me strike out will amuse you, Y/N.” Before you could protest, Spencer set his glass down on the bar and started towards the trio of women at the table.

You leaned down to sniff his glass, curious as to what he’d been drinking. Clear liquid. No smell. Was he… totally sober?

You watched with narrowed, studious eyes as Spencer approached the women. You could only see the back of his head, but the three women’s faces were perfectly visible. They smiled, friendly, unassuming, and then something came out of Spencer’s mouth that changed their expressions. The blonde in the middle furrowed her brows, and the two women on either side cocked their heads slightly. Spencer’s hand tapped the table and he earned awkward smiles as a goodbye was bid, and when he turned around to head back towards the bar, he just shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, like what are you gonna do?

“What happened?” you asked as he returned to you.

“I blew it,” Spencer said matter-of-factly. Too accepting of his defeat. Further supporting your theory that he’d gone over there and purposefully botched it.

“Right,” you flagged down the bartender to order another drink.

“You’re getting another one?” Spencer asked.

You whirled your face to meet his and didn’t see judgment, but rather, concern. “Why does it matter?” you asked, no, dared.

Spencer shook his head, defeatedly. “It doesn’t,” he grumbled.

“What about that girl you were talking to earlier by the jukebox?” you asked, nudging his shin with your foot. “The grabby one. She seemed really into you.”

Spencer visibly gritted his teeth. “I’m not interested.”

“Are you interested in anyone in this bar tonight?” You asked. The words came too quickly for you to stop them. They were too real. Especially as Spencer’s frown hardened just slightly and you watched him look away from you.

You took in a sharp inhale, the realization hitting you, the possibility that Spencer might actually feel the same way about you. And that you’d dragged him out here tonight to try and set him up with someone else. You were selfish and thoughtless and stupid.

You hopped off the barstool, your feet wavering beneath you. “I’d better go home,” you said suddenly, grabbing your bag. You had to leave. You had to go home before you said something stupid, something irreversible.

You stalked out of the bar and onto the brisk, late-autumn sidewalk. You’d forgotten your coat at the office and insisted you’d be fine. The chill smacked you in the face and you tucked your bag beneath your shoulder so you could cross your arms over your chest and hug yourself for any semblance of warmth.

Thirty seconds hadn’t even passed before the door creaked and Spencer appeared at your side, throwing his coat wordlessly over your shoulders. “What did I do?” he asked. You looked up at him and saw his eyes - hurt, frustrated, confused.

Your lips parted and there was a small shake of your head. “No,” you breathed. He furrowed his brows and you explained further. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Then why the hell have you been so weird around me lately?” Spencer asked, scuffing his shoe against the sidewalk. Like a temperamental first-grader.

“Weird how?” You asked, trying to pretend like you had no idea what he was talking about. Like your stomach didn’t flip every morning when you saw him.

“Like you’re… like you’re mad at me. Like you don’t want to be around me,” Spencer looked at the street ahead of the both of you rather than at you. “You always find an excuse to leave the room when it’s just the two of us. You pull Derek or Emily or Penelope into the conversation so you don’t have to interact with just me. You’re out here trying to find me someone to hook up with?” he phrased the last sentence as a question, shaking his head. Your heart lurched. He let out an incredulous laugh. “It’s either you’re trying to shrug me off as a friend entirely, or -”

He stopped himself. His eyes were fixed on the streetlamp a few feet in front of you. They widened and you felt your heart pound as he slowly met your gaze. The realization hit him, the second half of his sentence lingering, heavy and palpable between the two of you.

“Or,” you repeated, not phrasing it as a question. Your voice was soft as you said it, your tone anything but a question.

“Or?” Spencer asked, and you could see his chest start to rise and fall more slowly.

“Or,” you confirmed, taking in a sharp breath.

Spencer’s throat bobbed as he looked at you, his gaze piercing and soft, studious and lazy, hungry and satiated all at once. “Oh.”

Oh.

“How long?” he asked, turning his feet towards you.

Your face went red and you lifted your chin, refusing to make yourself feel ashamed of it anymore. There wasn’t any point, not when he knew now. “Since March,” you admitted. Your voice was squeaky.

“March?” Spencer repeated, incredulous. It was early October now.

“Yeah,” you exhaled, shrugging his jacket off your shoulders and bunching it up by the middle. You handed it to him. “You don’t have to say anything,” you said. Your body felt like it was on fire. “You don’t have to-”

“I’ve had feelings for you since the day we met.”

You thought maybe you were hallucinating for a second. Your mouth fell open and despite your three drinks, you remembered clearly that Spencer had been drinking water. This was not some drunken confession, not for either of you, because the second he’d asked you why you had been so weird lately, you had instantly sobered up. “Oh,” was all you managed to choke out.

Oh.

“Yeah, oh,” Spencer’s mouth twitched up into a smile. That playful, friendly, teasing little smile you’d learned to love on him. He stepped towards you.

You let out this little half-garbled laugh. Spencer reached for your hand, and you let him. Your fingers spread, allowing his in the spaces between. You looked up at Spencer and little fires shot up your hand. How could merely holding hands feel so monumental?

“What do we… what do we do now?” You asked, your mind in a haze, like a computer awaiting command.

Spencer let his jacket fall to the concrete and used his other hand to slowly, almost hesitantly, cup your cheek. He looked down at you and your entire face reddened. “Well,” his voice was soft, crackling, like a fireplace, and he met your gaze with searching eyes. “I’d like to kiss you now, if that would be okay,” he said finally. Your lips turned up into an idiotic smile.

“I think that would be okay,” you whispered.

His hands were so soft, you realized. His grip on your hand loosened and he was now cupping your face on both sides. And every nerve in your cheeks was firing off signals - Spencer is touching my face, Spencer is touching my face. Like it was some forbidden thing. But then, as if in slow motion, he ducked his head down and his lips touched yours. Gently, at first, tentative and wobbly like a foal taking its first steps. Your hands rested on his torso - taut beneath that stupid little sweater vest.

He pulled back after just a moment. It was really only five or six seconds at the most, but you were red-faced and breathless by the time your eyes fluttered open, into his. Spencer’s smile was now a full-blown grin, and your expression mirrored his. “Yeah?” He asked, the word carrying more meaning. You’re into this, right?

“Yeah,” you exhaled as Spencer dropped his hands from your face, but your hands remained on his torso, not wanting to step away just yet. The syllable meant more coming from you, too. I’m really, very much, super into this. Please, for the love of god, kiss me again.

Spencer arched a brow ever so slightly, and you nodded your head.

Just like a dance, Spencer’s hands moved to your waist, and at the same time, you slid yours around his neck. He backed you up, completely disregarding his jacket on the sidewalk, until you were flush against the brick wall belonging to the bar. The brisk October breeze ruffled through his hair and yours, yet, suddenly, neither of you were terribly concerned about the weather.

He kissed you again, and this time it wasn’t as timid. Slowly, at first, his lips pressed against yours, and then his tongue darted out. It teased your lips in silent invitation, and you opened them to grant him access. His hands were everywhere, your hips, your hair, your face. You had moved your own down to his torso again. He coaxed the tiniest little mewl out of your throat, a completely uncontrollable and inevitable noise.

Spencer’s low, gravelly groan reverberated through your mouth. Your hands gripped the bottom half of his shirt, balling it up in tight, white-knuckled fists. An unmistakable hardness brushed against your thigh. You were perfectly content to stay right there, pinned against the exterior wall of a D.C. bar, but the sound of a car honking its horn peeled Spencer off of you.

His face was flushed and you released his shirt from your grasp. He let out a small grunt, stepping away from you to grab his jacket off the ground, wrinkling it haphazardly in his hand, holding it strategically over his middle.

Oh, he liked you a lot.

“You okay, Spence?” You asked all-knowingly, cocking your head to the side, leaning against the wall, lifting a foot to plant against it.

Spencer shot a set of narrowed eyes at you, as if noting your smirk and storing it for later. “Yeah, I’m great,” he said, obviously struggling a little bit. His eyes quickly left yours and looked everywhere but at you.

You didn’t want to embarrass him too much. So you just crossed your arms over your chest and looked at the sidewalk. But the smirk on your face wasn’t going away quite so easily. You considered briefly trying to talk to him about baseball or something to try and help him out, but you decided pointing it out would just humiliate him. Plus, it was a nice little ego boost, knowing you could get him like that with just a simple touch.

He took a second, but he finally cleared his throat and met your gaze. You sucked your front teeth with your tongue and then bit your lip. “Want me to call an Uber?” You asked.

Spencer just nodded, and you pushed yourself off the wall, stepping over to join him, digging your phone out of your pocket to order the car. “You okay?” You asked him again after submitting the request on your phone. Spencer’s face was still flushed, but he just nodded and reached for your hand. “Careful,” you warned, unable to resist the opportunity to tease him. “Don’t want you having an-“

“Shut up,” Spencer cut you off, and you snickered.

——————————————————

You had never been in Spencer’s apartment before. It was unmistakably his, with stacks upon stacks of books in lieu of furniture.

There was a sofa in his living room, along with a coffee table, a couple of lamps, and a television on a stand. The remaining space, besides a few spots here and there and a clear path with which to maneuver the room, was filled with books.

You had never seen so many books in someone’s possession before. And sure, you were an avid reader yourself. But nothing like this. Your heart fluttered at the sight, not only because books simply just made you happy, but because it was an incredibly endearing detail about Spencer. Your Spencer.

He shut and locked the door after you stepped inside, looking around with a childlike, awestruck grin. The TV had a thin layer of dust over the screen - he clearly didn’t use it often. And as you trailed a finger along the top of the nearest stack of books, you felt a pair of eyes watching your every move.

You and Spencer had both been quiet in the Uber ride here. He had simply held your hand, swiping his thumb across the back of your palm every few seconds. You would occasionally meet his gaze, but then quickly, bashfully, look away, like the two of you were teenagers.

It was so strange to think of what he had said to you - I’ve had feelings for you since the day we met. How had you not figured it out before now?

You supposed you had been hiding your true feelings as well, so he was allowed to, too.

There wasn’t any point in wishing to change the past, you reminded yourself. All you should be focusing on is right now.

And right now, the street lamps peeked in through Spencer’s living room window, glinting off of his endless brown eyes and making them look like he had the moon in his irises.

“So,” you said softly, not nearly as wicked as you had been when you were teasing him on the street by the bar. “This is where you live.”

“Uh-huh,” Spencer bobbed his head, that awkward, straight-line smile crossing his face.

“Lot of books,” you pointed out.

“Yep.”

You arched a brow, a teasing smile crossing your face once again. “What’s with the monosyllabic conversation?”

Spencer clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. “It’s just… really difficult to just stand here and not touch you,” he admitted, a sheepish smile crossing his face.

You grinned. “You can touch me,” your voice dropped an octave, without you even really thinking about it.

Spencer licked a canine with the tip of his tongue. God, that tongue. You remembered how he’d teased you less than an hour ago outside of the bar. “Maybe I will,” he shrugged, and you rolled your eyes.

“You can’t really play it cool, right now, Spencer. Not when I just gave you a-“

“Please stop talking,” Spencer laughed, crossing the room and cupping your cheeks in his hands all in the same movement. You snickered and he kissed you and anything you might have been wanting to make fun of him for was forgotten about.

You pressed your hands against his chest - holy pectorals, Batman - and craned your neck up so you could reach him. Spencer slid his own hands down your arms and to your hips, and you looped your arms around his neck. One palm flattened against the back of his head, holding him in place, fingers curling around pieces of his soft hair.

Your heart was hammering away, and there was this aching, hot feeling that was pooling in your core and you all of a sudden felt hungry. Starving for Spencer, for every piece of him, for fully and finally crossing that line from friend to lover. An insatiable hunger for nearly every moment since you’d known him.

Finally you broke away from him, simply because oxygen was a necessity, and he rested his forehead against yours. Your eyes were still closed and your fingers ground into his scalp. “Look at me,” he requested, his voice low.

Your eyes opened obediently and one of Spencer Reid’s hands curled under your chin. His face moved away from yours but his gaze was locked on yours, a pinpoint, a Northern Star.

And when Spencer spoke again, your knees buckled.

“I want you.”

Your mouth fell open, ever so slightly, and you nodded. “I want you, too,” you whispered.

“Are you still…?” He asked, his eyes searching yours. You’d had three drinks earlier that evening, after all, but you’d polished the last one off nearly an hour ago. Maybe not fully sober, but sober enough to know what you wanted.

“I’m fine,” you assured him.

Spencer inclined his head to the side. “You’re sure? Can you pass a sobriety test?”

You narrowed your eyes at him before you realized he was being sarcastic. You stepped back from him, shrugging off his hands, and extended your arms, touching your nose with your left hand, then your right. Spencer just laughed, and reached out for you, tugging you back to him. “Okay,” he chuckled, planting a kiss on your neck. You let him. “You’re fine, then?”

“I’m fine,” you agreed, shrugging him out of his sweater vest, and then reaching for the buttons on his shirt underneath.

Spencer kissed your neck as you fumbled with the buttons - how were buttons suddenly impossible to undo? Your head craned back just slightly on instinct, wanting - needing - to allow Spencer more access. Your dexterity had become abysmal at this point, and Spencer’s lips were kissing your neck, down your throat, teasing at your collarbone. “Spencer,” you managed to groan out, a wave of annoyance present in your tone.

“What?” he asked, pulling back, concern filling his face.

You realized you had actually worried him. “Oh, no, no,” you waved it away, and he visibly relaxed. “I’m just really frustrated, because… because your shirt,” you stammered, and Spencer’s mouth twitched up into a smirk.

“My shirt,” he stated.

“That one, right here,” You laughed softly, curling your fingers around the buttons. You managed to wiggle one free, then another. Spencer leaned forward to continue kissing your neck, but you held a hand up to stop him. “Hang on,” you murmured, working through another button, and one more. “I’m concentrating.”

“You’re sticking your tongue out,” Spencer snickered. Your eyes met his and your cheeks flushed.

“I’m concentrating!” Your voice rose slightly in self-defense. Spencer’s hands went to your hips.

“It’s adorable,” he told you. “You make the same face at work. When you’re in the middle of filling out a form or trying to open a new bottle of coffee creamer without spilling it,” Spencer rubbed circles in your hips and your fingers stopped working again.

“You noticed that kind of stuff?” You asked softly, looking up at him with doe eyes.

Spencer just nodded. “All the time.”

I’ve had feelings for you since the day we met.

You inhaled sharply, finally undoing the last button.The skin beneath the shirt was pale, smooth, and perfect. And when he slid his arms through the sleeves and the shirt fell to the ground, you bit your lip, unable to help it.

“Y/N?”

You met Spencer’s gaze and let out this awkward little laugh. Embarrassing, really, if you hadn’t been in the company of your best friend. “You okay?” he asked, and you felt a little giddy as you nodded, moving your hands to his neck and standing on your toes to kiss him again.

You didn’t know which direction the bedroom was in, so you just took a guess, pushing him back towards one of the doors. He kept his hands on your hips and his lips pressed against yours as he guided you, walking backwards, to the right door. You entered the bedroom and could not possibly be bothered to look around right now, not when Spencer was guiding you in a circle by merely touching your hips, not when the back of your knees hit what was unmistakably a mattress, not when you fell back against it.

Your eyes were shut, unwilling to take in your surroundings as Spencer guided you onto your back. You toed off your shoes before lifting your legs, and Spencer hovered over you. Your lips were locked with his the entire time. And when you finally opened your eyes and you saw only Spencer, you grinned like a fool.

Spencer’s fingers were like taking a shower. They were all over you - your hips, first, then your stomach, and you had to resist the urge to giggle because they tickled as he teased the bottom hem of your shirt up. You sat up slightly to get the blouse over your head and you watched him discard it onto the floor. And then his hands were over your chest, thumbs teasing under the wire of your bra, outlining the shapes of your breasts.

Your breathing had gone heavy and staccato by this point, your body sinking into the mattress, shipwrecked as Spencer touched you. His eyes wandered over your and that little smile on his face was enough for you to know that he was immensely enjoying himself.

“Can I…?” Spencer’s hands wandered down and gripped your pants as he looked into your eyes, a brow arched.

You swallowed a lump in your throat and your blush appeared over your cheeks at the same time as his. “Yeah,” you whispered, and Spencer helped you wiggle out of your pants - black slacks, since you had gone straight from work to the bar. They were soon tossed to the floor, and you were only in your underwear and your bra. And Spencer’s brown eyes did not make you feel objectified or embarrassed, but safe.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/N,” he told you, seriously, and your breath hitched in your throat.

“You-”

“I’m not done,” Spencer cut you off, lifting a hand to run his thumb down your chin. “You’re so beautiful. And you’re so kind, and smart, and funny. And I’d really like to show you how much I care about you,” he looked into your eyes as a sort of request.

“I’m not on birth control,” You breathed out in response, feeling your cheeks redden for even bringing it up. Way to damper the mood. Still, you wanted to be responsible. “Do you have a c-”

Spencer’s soft smile turned into a wicked grin and he shook his head. “We’re not going to need one,” he promised, and after looking into his eyes for a moment, you understood.

________________________________________

Spencer had thoroughly worshiped you, until you quaked and cried out with absolutely no thought to how thin his apartment walls might be. Usually, you didn’t allow yourself to be the center of attention for too long, but Spencer had insisted, and, well, you couldn’t very well deny him what he wanted, right?

Covered in a thin sheen of sweat, your hair matted to the back of your neck, Spencer finally lay down beside you. Your breathing was just starting to come back to you as you turned on your side to face him. Spencer’s body mirrored yours, the tips of his fingers - those fingers - trailing up the side of your arm. “That was…” his voice was soft, gravelly, and he looked at you like you had anything to do with it. It was literally all him. “Incredible.”

“Yeah,” you managed to breathe out, unable to really focus on anything besides the curve of Spencer’s lips, the way the apples of his cheeks appeared when he smiled like this. Spencer kissed your lips, unlike any way he had before. All the other kisses tonight had been hungry and excited, exploratory and new. This one was lazy and slow and you let his tongue dance across yours, and when he finally pulled away, your nose scrunched up in delight.

Your eyes traveled from his lips, down his neck, his collarbone, then back up, taking him in. The glow of his skin, the tired yet exhilarated look in his eyes. So different now than at the beginning of the night, when he’d looked at you with that slightly annoyed expression as you had tried to set him up with other women. You recalled how he had gone off to that group of three women right before you’d abandoned the bar, how he had struck out on purpose just to satiate your nagging. “What’d you say to those women tonight?” You asked him curiously, furrowing your brows at him.

Spencer, in turn, arched his brows at you. “Why?”

“Because I’m curious,” you said as his fingers continued to trail, feather-light, up and down your arm. You traced your thumb along his jawline, stopping at his chin. “You were obviously blowing it on purpose.”

Spencer rolled his eyes. “I actually do have some game, despite what Morgan might say,” he said, his tone defensive.

You snickered. “Sure you do, Spence. Took you, what, eight months, to get me in your bed?”

Spencer shot a playful glare at you and pinched the skin on your arm. You squeaked in response and he just laughed. “I just asked them how they were doing tonight,” he said finally, and you knew just from the look on his face that he was lying.

“You did not,” you pushed back. “Come on, Reid, spill it.”

“Ok, fine,” Spencer heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes, sitting up in the bed, his back against the headboard. You sat up, too, looking at him with concern. Why was he so embarrassed? “I told them… Jesus.” Spencer rubbed the space between his brows with his thumb and his forefinger. “I told them I was here with a coworker that I had a massive crush on, and that you were trying to set me up with someone else,” he began.

You started to smile.

Spencer continued. “I told them that I had absolutely no interest in going home with anyone tonight, and that I had been purposefully striking out all night long because I couldn’t stand the thought of even trying to look at someone the way I look at you.”

Your smile grew and you moved to sit on your knees, inching closer to Spencer and throwing one leg over him, effectively straddling him against the mattress. “So I asked them,” Spencer continued, his lips turning slowly from an exasperated frown to a small smile. “I asked them if they could just look at me like I had said something stupid, and then I would leave them alone.”

“Did they say anything to that?” You asked as Spencer’s hands found your hips, contouring to match the curves into the small of your back.

Spencer’s voice got slightly lower, more serious, when he said, “The girl in the middle did. She said ‘that girl definitely has feelings for you, too’. And then they did what I asked, and I walked back over to you.”

“She did not say that,” you rolled your eyes, just as Spencer kissed your lips.

“I have an eidetic memory, Y/N,” he reminded you in a low whisper, as his lips lingered against yours. “Would I lie to you about that?”

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfics #spencer reid x you #basketonthedoorstepofthefbi #fanfic #spencer reid x fem!reader

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alltoowelltom · 3 months

Text

ice princess ⛸️

oscar piastri x figure skater!reader (+ toto wolff's daughter!reader)

from this request HERE

skateupdates: Olympic figure skating pair Y/N Wolff and Valeriy Angelopol have called it quits! Despite competing together since they were children and dating for the last year and a half, Valeriy has released a statement that the duo would be 'going [our] separate ways for the upcoming competition season'. He also stated there were 'no hard feelings regarding the separation, [the couple] just turned out to have irreconcilable differences'. Our reps reached out to Y/N Wolff for a statement but she has declined to speak on it at this time.

user1: WHAT

user2: MUM AND DAD SPLIT UP?

↳ user3: and they won't compete together anymore??

user4: wait will they be retiring? or will they compete in separate categories?

user5: 'she has declined to speak on it at this time' I just KNOW mother is LIVID

↳ user6: no hard feelings my ass 💀

liked by oscarpiastri, yourbestie, lewishamilton

yourusername🔹️: 🎧😴

comments on this post have been disabled.

liked by oscarpiastri, susiewolff, yourbestie

yourusername🔹️: back at it ⛸️❄️

user1: DOES THIS MEAN SHE WILL STILL COMPETE

danielricciardo🔹️: That's our girl!

user2: oscar being the first to like as usual

lewishamilton🔹️:🔥🔥🔥

↳ yourusername🔹️: don't you dare send fire to melt my ice??

↳ lewishamilton🔹️: I was being empowering bozo

↳ user3: they're so sibling energy 😭

user4: I'M SO PROUD OF YOU Y/N

oscarpiastri🔹️: 🐧🐧

liked by yourusername

↳ user5: is this him 'making a move' 🥴

liked by yourusername, landonorris, charlesleclerc

oscarpiastri🔹️: Good day, pumped for a p5 finish 👊

yourinstagram🔹️: WOAH

↳ user1: SHE"S SO REAL FOR THIS

↳ oscarpiastri🔹️: What?

↳ yourusername🔹️: jawline sharper than my skates 😳

↳ oscarpiastri🔹️: Why are you always bringing my jawline into things?

↳ yourusername🔹️: OHMYGOD PASTRY ITS CALLED FLIRTING READ SOME SMUT

user2: UHHHHH WHAT WAS THAT INTERACTION WITH Y/N

↳ landonorris🔹️: IDK MATE

liked by oscarpiastri, danielricciardo, susiewolff

yourusername🔹️: thank you for having me @.mclaren!

mclaren🔹️: The pleasure was all ours Y/N 🧡

landonorris🔹️: *oscar's

↳user1: LANDO TELL US WHAT YOU KNOW

landonorris🔹️: I didn't even make it onto the post 😔other priorities i guess

↳yourusername🔹️: I WAS PROUD OF YOU TOO LANDO

oscarpiastri🔹️: I can't believe you'd post my ducks

↳yourusername🔹️: NO ONE IS HAPPY WITH ME POST

user2: soooo...the shoes?

liked by yourusername, maxverstappen1, susiewolff

oscarpiastri🔹️: Proud is an understatement 🧡🩵

user1: OUR GIRL WON THE GOLD 🥇

↳ user2: the way we haven't heard a peep from her ex skating partner too-

user3: IS THIS AN ANNOUNEMENT FINALLY

yourusername🔹️: 🧡🩵

↳ user4: ohmygod do the hearts represent them the papaya for mclaren the ice for y/n

danielricciardo🔹️: Congratulations Y/N!

user5: daniel being y/ns biggest supporter for like a decade😭🥹

user6: LOOK AT THEM TOGETHER

user7:what the hell does toto think of this 😭

↳ yourusername🔹️: believe his exact words were 'will oscar come to mercedes now 🙂'

user8: @.yourusername so you and oscar DID go skating 🥹🥹

↳ yourusername🔹️: was like bambi on ice

↳ user9: been waiting for them to realize for so long...like i knew it

↳ landonorris🔹️: preaching to the choir mate

a/n: thank you for reading! reblogs and feedback help sm <3

i really want to be posting more as I'm so busy with work and also graduating in a few months and that seems to be taking up all my time 😩 but I really appreciate the support I've been receiving and will be working through your requests asap 🤍

#oscar piastri smau #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x y/n #f1 smau #formula one smau #formula one x reader #f1 x reader #mclaren #lando norris #figure skater!reader #oscar piastri fluff #friends to lovers

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meowstix · 2 years

Text

anyway i think it's funny how at the very beginning of 2022 i told myself my new year's resolution was figure out what the Fuck is/was up with my brain and i'm arguably farther from that than i was at the end of 2021

#i still have that vent blog lying around but i haven't posted to it in a good while which is probably for the best #i mean i've hit ONE possible realization this year and that's about it #@ the one time i wrote a long ass vent and after doing that proceeded to. i think the term was either dissociation or derealization.#one of those. but yeah that happened for like i think either 10 minutes or like half an hour #yeah what the fuck was up with that #like i thought it was just a focus thing but clearly it fuckin wasn't cause i tried kicking myself into gear with some Gaming #and well that didn't work #but yeah that sure a thing that happened #rat chat

0 notes

notjoelmiller · 1 month

Text

i cared

MDNI simon "ghost" riley x f!reader summary: three and a half years ago and an ocean away, he tore you apart. now he's turned up at your door. wordcount: 4.1k warnings: smut (fingering), drinking, AFAB reader, possible past dub-con (reader was in a bad mental state and simon knew), simon is a shitty guy in this, talk of hypothetical suicide, talk of past bad mental state (depression), mentioned PTSD, heartbreak on both sides, death mention (MW:III canon) a/n: hey remember when i said that my next fic would be joel and i posted a little insert. that was a lie! instead of working on that (12k word, currently) monster, i wrote something else. if you couldn't tell, i started this before the holidays and then forgot about it.

ao3

The house is much nicer than Simon anticipated. When he saw the New York City address, he had expected you to be crammed into a shitty 6th-floor walk-up. But no, not you. Instead, you have an honest-to-God three-story home with red brick delicately dusted with snow. You certainly couldn’t afford it on the 141 salary. He always suspected you came from means. This just confirms it. It just makes him wonder why the hell you decided to slum it in the services for so long.

It reminds Simon that he shouldn’t be there. You weren't made for that life and left for a reason. Who is he to ruin your peace?

He’s not alone on the street. Well-to-do families of strangers pass by, all watching the masked man observe their neighbor’s home. He can still turn around and leave you to the life you so clearly want.

Something shifts in one of the windows, the curtain being tousled by something. A dog. You got a dog– a golden retriever with sharp eyes and, evidently, an even sharper bark. The canine goes berserk, barking and howling and growling at Simon through the window. It’s Simon’s cue to leave, to leave you be with your semi-rabid, semi-domestic canine.

But before he can move, the curtain shifts again– pulled this time –and you’re there. You squint for a moment, surely wondering what masked freak is standing in your walkway like he owns the damn place. He lets you scrutinize him. It’s now or never. Either you’ll tell him to fuck off once you realize who he is or you’ll call the police on him, though it’s not like they would do anything after he calls Kate.

Instead, you disappear behind the curtain, your loyal steed of a dog following hot on your heels. In a moment’s notice, the large front door, with a gilded knocker and door knob open. You beckon him in. He follows, eyes trailing up and down your body once you’re facing away from him. You’re dressed casually but smartly in a short denim skirt and cashmere sweater. Simon’s never seen you in that getup before, even when going out to the pub.

“Shoes off,” you order, motioning towards the neat shoe rack next to the door. They’re all women's shoes of the same size. Simon’s shoulders relax, and he slips off his boots. It was for the best, he figures. His old boots would have just dragged dirt into your space. He takes off his mask too, hanging it up with his jacket. It’s nothing you haven't seen before.

Simon follows you into the sitting room– at least, that’s what Simon guesses the room is. It’s too neat for your taste, or his memory of what your taste is exactly. The couch and single chair seem untouched, the air still, like Simon’s presence is cutting through some sacred stillness.

You point to a couch and Simon obeys, sitting with his hands on his knees. Your eyes lock with his without granting him any semblance of your thoughts. Simon keeps his gaze soft, neutral. You can scrutinize him all you need.

You sigh, straightening your posture. A smile pulls at your lips. Your smile lines crease deeper than he remembered. Or maybe they always creased that deep.

“Tea?”

***

“He’s quite protective,” you drop two sugar cubes into a cup of tea. The spoon in your hand lets out a delicate tink as it hits the porcelain cup. You hand Simon the teacup, it’s just how he likes it. “Always has his haunches raised, even when he’s not working.”

Ah. A service animal. He’s surprised to not have put that together sooner. Always loyal, the pooch plants himself at your feet, gaze burning into Simon. If looks could kill…

“Your home?” Simon asks. He lifts the teacup to his lips and sips. Simon places the teacup on its saucer impossibly slowly. Simon can’t believe you’d trust him with something so delicate.

“I inherited it.”

A smile creeps on Simon’s face. Teacups and generational wealth. He always knew you were posh. Or whatever Americans call posh.

“You’re on holiday?” You ask.

“‘Tis the season.”

You hum. Your house is the only one on the block without some sort of holiday decor. Simon wonders if it was a pointed decision.

“And you came here.” Why?

He can’t tell you the truth. The fact is that every day since you left– all one thousand two hundred ninety-eight of them since John uttered to his fuming lieutenant that you just weren’t fit to serve any more –he’s ached. One thousand two hundred ninety-eight days of no contact. Of his only proof that you ever existed being a photo and a tear-stained note with one sentence scribbled in ink: John has contact info– emergencies only.

“I wanted to wish you a happy holidays.”

You laugh dryly, though it sends a pang of pain through Simon. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that sound. “Usually people send a card for that.”

You observe Simon with precision, like you never left the force, though the way you scratch Yogi’s belly unconsciously betrays the hardened exterior. It’s a glimpse into the last three and a half years. Of the woman you’ve become– so foreign to Simon. Foreign to your past self. Or not. Maybe this is who you’ve been all along, just hidden behind fatigues. Maybe the woman Simon thought he knew was just a farce. Rich girl playing army for a few years.

Maybe you joined the force just to fuck around for a bit. After a few years, you’d have stories to tell your socialite friends back home. Except, you didn’t get what you wanted, didn’t you? Simon knows well and good that serving, the 141, and him, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, destroyed something in you.

You tap the porcelain of your teacup. It makes a pleasant ding. “Did John tell you where to find me?”

“No. Well–” Simon tries to tell you the truth without throwing his comrade under the bus. The truth was, John had indulged in one too many drinks at the pub one night and hadn’t locked his quarters. An envelope addressed to you sat front in center on his desk. “Not intentionally.”

It’s a satisfying enough answer. Only a small twinge of annoyance crosses your face before you hum. “This isn’t a guilt thing, right Simon?” You ask, “I didn’t do what I did because of what happened.”

“What we did back then, on the field,” Simon traps you under his gaze. His stare is aggressive, but he hopes it conveys the intense feelings he’s struggling with. “I can’t just leave it. That’s why I came.”

Simon doesn’t dare speak. He doesn’t dare breathe while he watches you process his words. It’s a load of crap, he knows it, and he knows you know it. It’s just a matter of whether or not you want to kick him out.

You smize, teeth coming out to tug at your bottom lip. “Have you ever had New York pizza?”

***

You order two pies, hushing Simon when he insists it’s too much. You were right. Two isn’t enough. Simon scarfs down one pie without coming up for air. It’s delicious. It isn’t until he’s four slices deep that he realizes that you, smiling widely at him, haven’t yet picked up your first.

You’re a gracious host– a natural, really. You perch yourself on the kitchen island, legs crossed in a way that makes your skirt ride so sinfully up your thighs. Simon doesn’t look of course, he’s a gentleman. At least, he is for the first bottle of the ungodly expensive red wine you procure. It’s then that you perch your leg on the counter opposite your spot on the island, right next to Simon. Old habits die hard– especially when inebriated –and Simon places a hand on your leg, massaging the skin of your ankle.

You pay no mind to Simon’s ministrations, though, lost in the domestic bliss and mindless conversations you’ve probably been drowning yourself in for the last few years. You wave the glass of wine wildly about, like you wouldn’t give a damn if it spilled all over your expensive clothes. It seems so natural for you. Simon wonders what you were ever doing with the 141 when posh city living fits you like a second skin.

Simon inches his hand higher up your leg as you speak. He doesn’t get very far, but it’s enough so that he can trace patterns into the soft skin of your thigh. It’s too much, though, because your eyes lock onto his. But you’re not mad. You don’t tell him to stop. Rather, you examine him, and in your eyes Simon sees what looks like mirth.

“I missed this,” Simon says. He cringes at the words leaving his mouth. He’s succumbing to the domestic bliss you’ve created, looking at the past through rose-tinted glasses.

You reach for a third bottle of wine and a corkscrew, furrowing your brow in thought while twisting the screw. “I didn't want to abandon you,” you say. Simon, watching you pop the cork off with ease, almost forgets that you’re talking to him until you lock eyes. He watches you sniff the cork, pause, then sniff it again before topping off your glass. You take a heaping swig, like that Pinot Noir worth more than Simon’s monthly pay is unremarkable. “I left for a reason, you know.”

Oh, Simon certainly knows. The rumors had been inescapable in the first weeks of your absence. All around base every soldier had entertained the question of what happened to the American chick in the 141. Simon had only so many threatening looks to give privates before curiosity got the better of him. He abated the desire to ask John for so long, but there was only so much longing he could handle coupled with the cacophony of voices asking the same thing he desperately wanted to know.

John didn’t flounder when Simon finally came to him, demanding to know why you left.

She was discharged.

Why?

For… mental reasons.

Simon lost his shit in Price’s office that morning. He collapsed onto the couch with a gasp, a hand grasping and squeezing his heart. His breath left him, but Simon was too bloody stupid to understand what the hell was going on until Price was handing him a brown paper bag.

Breathe, son.

“Simon,” you breathe, your saccharine voice the most tantalizing sound Simon has ever heard. You lean forward, your finger tracing the scar parallel to the cut of his jaw. You were there for it, saw the knife slice through his mask and the skin underneath. You bandaged it in the helicopter after, making Simon promise to go to medical afterwards. He promised he would. That night he closed the wound with superglue. “Why did you really come?”

Because you disappeared. Because Price said you were on the brink of becoming a statistic. Because I fucked up. Because I said things I didn’t mean and I thought that it killed you.

“Johnny’s dead,” he lies. But it isn’t a lie. It’s true, sure, Johnny’s been reduced to ashes and scattered in the Scottish highlands. But that isn't why he came.

“I know.” You sniffle. Christ, Simon’s made you cry. Nausea washes over him. A voice in his head screams, fix it, idiot! But emotions were never Simon’s strong suit. Instead, Simon reaches for the bottle and tops off your glass of wine, probably a bit more than he should have, but it seems like you need it.

You mutter a thank you and down a bit more than half of the glass. You come up for air and hiccup. “John told me.”

“Price?” He asks, as though there was any other John. Anything to get you talking rather than crying.

You nod. “He dropped by around Thanksgiving. Asked if I wanted to be there when you all…” You wave your hand in the air, “You know.”

Something ugly festers in his chest. Maybe if he actually went to a therapist, Simon could recognize what it is.

“You said no?” He asks.

“I didn’t think I could.”

Simon nods, holding your gaze in a way that he hopes conveys his sense of understanding.

“How’d it happen?” You croak. Your eyes are glassy, a reminder of the ever-looming threat that you could fall apart again. Simon reminds himself that you wouldn’t be crying if he had just kept his distance.

“Bullet in the head.”

You tense, your head flying to Simon. Your eyes are frantic, searching for something in his face. “He…he…?”

Christ.

“No, no,” Simon scrambles to get his next words out, “Makarov. It was-” His voice cracks. Unusual. “-was too fast to stop it. To save himself.”

You hum, slumping down like it’s comforting to you that Johnny had his life torn from his arms. Like it’s comforting that Johnny couldn’t go on his own terms, but on the terms of a Russian terrorist.

“You know,” you say like you know he knows, “Johnny’s the reason I got out.”

Simon shifts. Johnny never talked about your discharge, always responding to speculation like he was none the wiser. “He is?”

“Yeah,” you laugh. It’s deep and watery. “Things were…bad one night. He found me. Talked me through the night. Listened to me.” You throw your head back, eyes tracing imaginary patterns on the ceiling.

“He told Price?”

You nod.

“That was after we…”

You nod again. Simon feels sick.

“It had nothing to do with you, Simon.”

“I never thought it did.”

“Then why,” you ask, “did you bring it up?”

Simon shifts. “Thought it was relevant.”

You smile, though your eyes are still lined with tears. “Guilty conscience?”

“Of course not, love,” Simon laughs, hoping you buy it. It works, he thinks. You seem to deflate, slumping a bit. You take some time to think. Simon, panicking at the thought that your self-reflection could send him out the door, pulls out the one trick he has over you.

He lets your legs fall. They bang against the cabinets with a soft umph from your lips. Simon slides off of the counter and stalks your way. You watch him and put up no fight as he slots his wide body between your knees. You don't even complain as the parting of your legs forces your skirt to ride even higher.

Fingers card through Simon’s hair. He hums.

“Why did you do it?” You ask.

Simon tilts his head, and with the wine in his veins and your hand in his hair, the world spins. Your other hand slips under the hem of Simon’s shirt. Warm fingers graze the skin of his stomach and then side, before your hand settles on his back, palm splaying across scarred flesh.

“I–” Simon croaks, “–I felt something for you.”

You snort. Simon’s chest burns and he takes some deep breaths to calm himself. He imagines Price’s paper bag, inflating and crinkling over and over.

“You knew I would leave. That’s it, isn’t it?” You accuse with a gleam in your eyes. “I was in a bad place and was leaving so it didn’t matter if you hit it and quit it.” You laugh. “You got what you wanted without risking your position.”

“That’s not true.”

Your thighs bracket his legs, trapping him against you. Your words curl around your wine-stained tongue. “‘I don’t love you’. Isn’t that what you said Simon?”

“Love–”

You tense, thighs squeezing him like a vice. “Love,” you coo, the imitation of Simon’s long vowels curtles unnaturally on your tongue. “Love, love, love. You know Simon,” you wrap your hands around the back of his neck and lean into the crook of his neck. Your lips brush against his skin as you speak, ��You say it, but you’ve never meant it.”

“I’m sorry,” Simon utters, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your skirt.

“You’re not.”

He’s not. He doesn’t argue. He could– should, rather –but he can’t think straight with you this close to him. The scent of your perfume itches the deepest part of his brain. You never wore perfume when on duty, rather, always coated in the aroma of base-issued shampoo and sweat.

“I really cared for you, you know,” you whisper, your lips millimeters from his, them parting when his fingers rub you through the fabric of your underwear.

“I know,” Simon closes the distance, capturing your lips with his.

He pushes you back onto the counter, you let him, lets Simon cage your body like he has the right to. You groan into his mouth when he traps your bottom lip between his teeth and melt when his fingers slip past the hem of your panties, his fingers plunging through the wetness into your cunt.

It’s obscene— the noises you make as he thrusts his fingers into you. With his free hand, Simon pushes your skirt up over your hips so he can watch your cunt squeeze around him.

He slides his thumb up to your clit and you gasp. “Simon,” you moan. He nearly stops. It’s been years since he’s heard you say his name, let alone moan it. Fuck, Simon can’t help but grind his cock against the island counter, groaning.

It doesn’t take much to work you into an orgasm. Before he knows it, your moans become softer, higher pitched, and you’re coming apart, clenching hard on Simon’s fingers.

He works you through your orgasm, whispering praise into your ears. Simon gives you no time before pouncing, fisting his hands in your hair and devouring you. You wiggle underneath his weight, uttering something, but the words are lost into Simon’s mouth. He pulls away, his eyes meeting your expectant ones.

“What?”

“Upstairs,” you say, chest heaving. “My room is upstairs.”

***

Simon wakes before dawn. He’s lying on top of you, your strong breath rocking him up and down. Your limbs are impossibly tangled. He’s reminded of an identical morning, years ago, of what he did then, and what that choice led him to. But that was years ago. You were different then, broken. How was he supposed to know that his choice would make you shatter?

He untangles himself slowly. It feels like the process takes hours, though the sun fails to make an appearance by the time he slips out of bed. The clock reads four in the morning. That explains it. It also explains the way the room around him is spinning slightly. He’s still drunk– or at least buzzed –from the night before.

His pants are an easy find, discarded by the door. His shirt though… Simon spins around the room, eyes glazing over the space. He tries not to take anything in too deeply, too personal for this morning.

He spots his shirt on your vanity. Simon yanks it off, but something hard and heavy comes with it. It nearly drops to the floor, but Simon catches it before it can hit and wake you up.

It’s a perfume bottle, heavy and half-filled. Simon can’t suppress the urge of his half-drunk brain to sniff it. The scent— the scent of you —explodes in his synapses. He tosses a glance over his shoulder, ensuring you’re still asleep, before pocketing the bottle.

The dog follows Simon as he walks through the house. Luckily, as he slips on his shoes, the dog disappears into the rest of the house.

Simon lingers with a hand wrapped around the door knob. It warms under his touch.

“Are we doing this again?”

He flinches at the sound of your voice, “I ‘ave to.” Simon stays facing the door, though he doesn’t make a move to turn around. He knows how he must look to you, too cowardly to face you. He’s reminded of the last time he spent the night with you. He got out scot-free. What would have happened if you found him then? Simon can’t say for certain whether or not he would have left then, if you called out for him in the same delicate voice.

“Stay.”

“What?”

“In New York,” you say, voice dry with sleep. “With me. Get out of the SAS, the 141, all that bullshit.”

“‘S not that easy.”

“It is. I left. You can leave. Or you can stay and end up like Johnny–”

“What do you know about Johnny,’ Simon growls, turning on his heels. He straightens his spine, puffing his chest up like you’re a threat. Your dog buys it, growling and worming himself between you and Simon. You don't take the bait though. You honest to God laugh in Simon’s face.

“I know enough.” You step closer to Simon. The pooch gets the memo, clearing the way for you. Simon almost does the same, he wants to. Some instinctual part of his brain needs to cave to you. “You mean something, Simon,” you flick your eyebrows up, letting them drop immediately. It feels like a challenge, like you were asking Simon the silent question. Do you matter?

“You’re more than a soldier– more than a body on a field, waiting to drop.” There are tears in your eyes. You don't let them fall. Simon hopes you’ve finally realized that he isn’t worth your heartbreak. He’s never been, but at least your realization would stop his cruel cycle of him chewing you up and spitting you right back out.

“Come to New York, Simon, please. There– there’s a butcher shop up the block, they’re always looking for help. You said you used to do that stuff, right?”

Fucking hell. He had said it to you, years ago after a mission. Simon went drink for drink with Johnny and Gaz and got positively wasted. It was the night he first set his sight on you, when your tenderness sunk its claws into his heart and refused to let go. You didn’t know then what it would lead to. Simon did. Every love Simon had wilted in his claws. Why would you be different?

“Come here,” you plead, “Take the job with them. I can help you find an apartment or you can live with me but–” You grab Simon’s shoulders, tugging. It isn’t strong enough to turn him around, but he does. Your cheeks are wet and eyes glassy as you stare up at him. “Simon, it’s too late for us, but don’t let it be too late for you.”

Simon lifts his hand to your cheek, fingers grazing the plump skin. It slides to the back of your head and tugs– yanks you into his embrace as he crashes your lips against his own. The morning makes you soft though, as Simon nips your lips with his teeth, you melt, softening and slowing your movements.

It’s you that pulls away first, staring at Simon. You let him swipe his finger across your cheek, caressing you.

“Please,” you beg, kissing the palm of his hand.

Simon lets his hand fall from you. It sits achingly cold at his side.

It would be cowardly to leave you without a goodbye after forcing himself back into your life, even if it was for one night. Simon considers himself to be many things, but never a coward. Yet, standing in front of you, staring into your expectant eyes, words don’t come easy.

You step towards him. Simon steps back. The door knob presses into his back. His heart is pounding, the blood in his eyes deafening him. Your scent wafts his way, your perfume. The one whose bottle he knocked over, nearly let slip through his fingers and shatter. The one which you never got to wear in the 141. The one weighing down his back pocket.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Simon says.

He doesn’t look back. Not when you gasp his name. Not when he opens the door. Not when he walks down the snowy street.

Price and Gaz will ask about his holiday. They’re kind like that. In the cab to the airport, passing the bottle of perfume between his hands, Simon considers his answer. Single word answers are his forté, but won’t suffice with the prying curiosities of his captain and sergeant.

The answer comes to him when he sniffs the perfume once more.

In the coming week, when Gaz claps him on the back, he will ask, “How was the holiday, Ghost?”

Simon will answer, “I had a meal with an old friend.”

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley fanfiction #ghost fanfiction #cod fanfic #ghost x female reader

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gureumz · 8 months

Text

bet? bet!

like a freak, like a g [installment 1]

rating: explicit

member: jake

premise: there's not much secrets to be found out with the director of recruitment. but he does recruit you for one hell of a challenge: fuck your way around his frat house.

notes: fem!reader, greek life!au, university!au, fwb!jake, slightly possessive!jake (but he's also down to share), dirty talk, brief mention of pregnancy, unprotected sex, creampie

a/n: first installment of the 'sleeping around the frat house' series! tried something different here, not sure if it'll work but i like this one~ i'm so excited for this series so i hope you all join along for the ride! *divider by cafekitsune

jake sim is not your boyfriend.

he's a friend. from high school. who happens to go to the same university as you.

for the first few weeks of freshman year, the two of you were each other's default, having moved to this city all on your own for your respective degrees.

orientation, vacant periods, dinner after class. all of these were spent with jake. you clung onto each other like velcro. freshman jake and ______ versus the world.

and then jake decided to rush for a frat and you got roped into your own extracurriculars. the friendship faded into texts here and there about things that reminded you of each other. memes. an occasional selfie update.

until jake invited you to the frat's recruit-organized party for the year.

"i bought all the booze," jake had declared proudly, voice straining over the booming music. you nodded, genuinely impressed by how well the recruits put the party together.

"it's a fun party," you practically yelled into jake's ear. he pulled back and smiled down at you.

the recruits even managed to rent party lights for the night. and under the purple-red glow of the strobes, you realized just how handsome jake is up close. even when he's standing at the top of the stairs and you at the bottom, him beckoning you up, you could readily admit he was hot.

and you kind of did.

"jake," you breathed out quietly, leaning over the banister from the second floor overlooking the party below. jake is right beside you.

he turned to you, eyes blinking slowly from the alcohol he's consumed thus far. jake leans in closer and you can smell the heineken on his breath.

"i'm kinda...bored," you said rather lamely. jake snorted, leaning his head down on your shoulder. you breathe the scent of his shampoo in, nuzzling your face in his soft raven hair.

"what do you wanna do?" jake asked, craning his neck to look at you from where he's still laid down on your shoulder.

jake snaked an arm around your waist and you knew you were done for. a second later, you were kissing, and within another minute, he's pushing you towards the direction of his room at the very end of the hall.

"fuck, you're so hot," you blurted out over the creaking of his bed, his movements messy and frantic but still enough to have you throwing your head back in pleasure.

"so are you," jake had said, grinning down at you. his hands dug into your sides, keeping you pinned in place as he fucked into you with the enthusiasm only a drunk college frat boy could possess.

and the rest was history.

---

it went on like this for the next year and a half. a friendship maintained through quickies in his car and semi-dates in his frat house bedroom, takeout boxes on his desk while he fucked you doggy style on his (still) creaky bed.

it's not to say you kept things exclusive. that wasn't part of the deal.

whatever the deal is. you haven't really talked about it.

there would be times when neither of you would reach out for weeks or months on end. you'd start to wonder why he was gone so long but then you'd see jake post a girl's hand or half of someone's face on his instagram story, complete with an obscure poetic indie love song in the background.

ah. of course.

in your defense, you had your fair share of flings and situationships here and there. one even came close to an actual serious relationship.

yeonjun, a music major senior you went out with last year when you were a sophomore. he took you out to dates and introduced you to his friends and wrote you songs. but he always found an excuse to avoid that conversation.

(you found out without much difficulty that it was just his ex begging for him to come back.)

guess what happens next.

and so by the tail end of last academic year, you and jake somehow were aligned once again. both single. both horny.

three months later and here you are after the first day of classes of your third year, naked on jake's bed. just like the old times.

"i missed you," jake whispers, hands moving frantically over your body, tugging at your clothes while his mouth busied itself on your neck.

"we saw each other back home a few weeks ago," you reply, giggling when you feel jake lick a stripe up to your jaw.

he can be a little excitable sometimes. like a puppy.

"weeks, ________. can't believe you flew off to some island somewhere while i was left alone to jerk off to pictures of you," jake complains, blowing hair out of his eyes as he pulls away. he tugs his shirt off in one graceful swoop and you're greeted with an eyeful of his abs.

"well, if it's any consolation, i touched myself to your pictures, too," you respond, dropping your voice to a seductive lilt. your hand smooths down jake's bare torso as he leans back down over you, a grin spreading on his face.

"yeah?" he asks.

"oh yeah," you affirm, nodding. you reach down to cup jake through his sweats, a quiet hiss escaping him as you do so.

"fuck, baby, need you so bad," jake admits, hurriedly tugging and kicking off his pants. he's bare under the cotton fabric, having foregone boxers. typical jake.

jake spits on his palm, wrapping his hand around his shaft right after, jerking it to full hardness. he bites down on his lip as his other hand grabs at one of your tits, kneading and squeezing.

"wait," you call out, laying a hand on jake's arm. "you haven't fucked anyone while i was gone, right?"

jake rolls his eyes playfully, leaning down to kiss you. your teeth clash for a moment and you gasp slightly, not expecting such passion from jake.

"only wanted to fuck you," jake admits. he quirks an eyebrow, eyeing you curiously. "how about you?"

you shake your head. "couldn't go longer than a day without thinking about you filling me up with that cock."

jake grins, kissing you again. he lines his tip with your entrance, pulling away slightly as he slips in between your slick folds.

"missed this," jake mutters, pushing more and more of himself in. you simultaneously sigh out in relief once he's bottoms out.

"missed you," he adds.

you snake your arms around jake's shoulders, pulling him close as he starts to rut against you. he moans softly next to your ear and you let yourself do the same, your voices mingling and bouncing off the walls of jake's tiny bedroom.

"fuck, _______," jake groans. "how are you always so tight?"

you don't answer, merely wrapping your legs around jake's hips, pulling him closer. you hear him grunt as he leans back to look at you. his eyes are dark but focused on you. you feel fingers snake around your throat and you can't help the way your eyes roll into the back of your head.

"yeah, that's right," jake chuckles. he squeezes at your jugular lightly and you whine, grabbing at jake's wrist.

"such a whore, aren't you? my cockhungry whore," jake declares. you love it when he gets possessive and you know he knows. he uses it to his advantage any time he can.

"yeah," you agree, nodding as best as you can with jake squeezing at your air pipes. your voice is strained, hoarse from the way jake is choking you.

"yours. only yours."

jake curses under his breath, letting go of your neck. you gasp for air but any attempt to breathe is quickly cut short as you feel jake press your legs up against your chest. you cry out in surprise, jake hammering into you with a newfound speed and strength that sends your brain in a frenzy.

you always felt a certain way when jake has you like this, cunt in full view, body folded nearly in half, fucking into you like he was trying to put a baby in you.

"mine." jake sounds nearly animalistic, a primal need taking over him as he forces your legs harder against your chest.

your head is spinning, limbs going limp with how hard jake is fucking you. the feeling in your abdomen snaps tight, threatening to break.

you babble incoherently a barely distinguishable mix of jake's name, curses, and pained pleas of 'more, need more!' or 'feel s'fucking good, jakey! your cock feels so good!'. it doesn't take long for jake to give the last of his frenzied thrusts, pushing in deep when he cums, spurts of himself filling you up just as you'd hoped.

jake continues to fuck into you after a while, knowing you haven't finished just yet. you reach down between your legs to press your fingers onto your clit, hips grinding up to meet jake's. he complains of oversensitivity but he goes on and by mercy, your own orgasm finally takes over, you clenching down on jake's half flaccid dick.

he pulls out after a few moments, finally allowing himself some relief. you're both breathing hard, sweaty and tired from the whole ordeal. you prop yourself up on your elbows, meeting jake's eyes.

"please don't deprive me for that long ever again," jake says with a sleepy smile, slumping over you. you giggle as you fall back against his bed, jake's face cradled in your neck,

you run your fingers through his disheveled hair, lips pressed against his temple.

jake sim is not your boyfriend but it's times like this that it feels like he might be.

a noise jostles you out of your thoughts. a phone notification.

jake lifts his head from your chest, blindly groping around his bed for his phone. he finally locates it after a moment, handing it to you.

"can you read that for me? jake requests, voice muffled as he snuggles closer to you.

you squint as the sudden brightness of the screen practically assaults your eyes. you blink a few times, reading the message displayed on the notification.

from hee: are you done? i had to physically restrain jay from pounding your door down.

"oh shit," you say, throwing your head back in embarrassment.

"your frat bros heard us," you inform jake.

jake merely snorts, winding his arms around you and pulling you closer.

"as they have a million times before," jake points out. "it's not like i'm the only one who fucks loudly in this house."

your ears perk up at that.

"oh? is the rest of the frat a bunch of man whores like you?" you tease, nudging jake lightly with your knee. he lifts his head up, frowning at you.

"i'm not a man whore, thank you very much," jake says with a roll of his eye. "can't speak for the rest of them, though."

"spill," you urge, raising your eyebrows expectantly at jake.

"sorry, babe, the secrets of the frat must be kept with full confidentiality," jake counters with a shrug.

you narrow your eyes at that. you've seen jake's frat brothers around a handful of times. you'd have to be blind to not see their good looks. and you'd have to be a liar not to admit that they are, indeed, good-looking.

"unless you want to find out for yourself," jake adds, giving you a look as if to say, 'i dare you'.

you straighten up, leaning against jake's headboard.

"let's say i do want to find out," you begin, crossing your arms against your chest.

jake's mouth falls open but his expression quickly shifts into a look of mischief. he looks off to the side, as if pondering on what to tell you. after a few seconds, he snaps his fingers and returns his gaze to you. he's practically bouncing with excitement.

"you can always sleep your way around the house," jake suggests, cocking a brow, as if to challenge you.

you pause. a million different questions come tumbling down on you. before you could get a word out, jake holds out his arms.

"or, at least, the executive committee," jake hurriedly adds. "i can guarantee you, all the other members aren't worth your time."

if you weren't interested before, you're definitely intrigued now.

"i got one ticked off so far," you muse, smiling sweetly at jake. "not much secrets to be found with the director of recruitment."

it takes jake a moment to realize you're referring to him. he rolls his eyes, reaching over to tickle your side. you swat his arm away, giggling.

"as if any of the others could fuck you the way i do," jake scoffs. he leans over the side of the bed, reaching for his discarded shirt. he tosses it in your direction.

you catch the fabric in your hands, pulling it over your head. jake stops as he straightens up, the rest of his and your clothes in his hands. he gives you a one-over and smirks.

"make sure to let them fuck you while you wear this, okay?" jake teases, leaning in to kiss you.

"no promises," you taunt back. jake pulls away, a look of confusion on his face.

"you're not actually serious, are you?" jake questions. you nearly laugh at jake's genuinely clueless expression.

"why not? might be fun," you say with a shrug.

"besides, i never back down from a good challenge," you add.

jake studies you for a moment. you briefly think he might be mad or god forbid, disgusted with what you're attempting to do, but after a while, a shit-eating grin takes over his face.

"atta girl," jake says, winking. he kisses you again, hands grabbing at your waist.

jake sim is not your boyfriend because what boyfriend lets you fuck around with his frat brothers? but then again, it's not too late to talk about it. whatever it is with jake.

but for now, you have a task to get to.

#enhypen smut #enhypen scenarios #jake smut #jake scenarios #w: jake

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crljhnn · 1 year

Text

The older Jefferson

Pairing: Rodrick Heffley x fem!Reader

Summary: After Rowley announces that his older (half-)sister, who lives quite far away and has never met the Heffleys, is going to visit him over the break Susan invites his family over for dinner. Her not being what Rodrick expects, he starts crushing, which results in him trying to impress her - failing horribly.

No physical description; No use of y/n

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: None

A/N: Hi, just a quick warning that English isn’t my first language and that this is also the first time I’ve ever written a longer text in English that isn’t a school assignment. I also don’t fully understand Tumblr yet, which makes me honestly a bit anxious to post.

[This and a gender-neutral version are also posted on AO3]

“Why haven't you ever mentioned that you have an older Sister?” Rowley and Greg were sitting on the Heffleys living room floor - Rodrick occupying the whole space on the couch - playing a video game. Well, Greg was. It was a single-player. He promised they would take turns, but by now Rowley had been over for about two and a half hours and hadn’t even had the chance to touch the controller yet. He gave up on asking and settled on just watching about 45 minutes in.

“I talked about her before. Multiple times actually.” That is true. Rowley looks up to his sister a lot “Also, she is technically my Half-Sister. She’s been living with her Dad for longer than I remember. Normally we are the ones flying over to visit during summer break, but she hasn’t visited since she was a little Kid, and after her school schedule finally allowed it, we thought it would be a good idea if she, for a change, came here instead.”

“It sounds like you two get along great!” Mrs. Heffley walked in, holding a laundry basket under one arm while carrying Manny with the other.

“We do! I can’t wait to show her my room and have her around for the entire break! I have so much planned out already, it's gonna be so much fun! Best summer ever!”

“That sounds lovely Rowley, I wish Greg was so excited to hang out with Rodrick, but they just won't get along.” Susan sighed, throwing a pitiful glance at her two oldest, who simultaneously let out a laugh hearing this.”

“Yeah, never gonna happen.” Greg says, “I would rather spend the whole summer in school than voluntarily hang out with this idiot.”

“My Sister is actually around the same age as Rodrick.” Rowley buts in. Greg doesn’t understand how this is relevant, but it probably adds to his mother's yearning for her two oldest sons to get along. Rodrick lets out a laugh hearing that.

“I can’t wait to meet them. Just imagine an older, female version of Rowley. That’s actually fucking hilarious!”.

“Watch your language! Also, I'm sure she is wonderful.” Gregs Mom loosens her lecturing stance, turns around, and smiles at Rowley “I would love to have you and your family over for dinner sometime. It has been a while since I’ve seen your parents and I would love to meet your sister.”

“That sounds great Mrs. Heffley. I will ask my parents as soon as I get home!”

That brings us to about a week later, when the Jefferson family, including their oldest daughter, is standing in front of the Heffleys House, ringing their doorbell.

Rowley has been telling you all about his best friend Greg for years, which made you somewhat excited about finally meeting him. However, you can’t say that the picture your brother painted is entirely positive, finding him rather irritating in many of the stories you were told over time. You aren't too mad though, assuming it is normal for young, teenage boys to act like jerks every once in a while. Not everyone can be such a sweetheart as Rowley. Overall you're glad your brother managed to maintain such a long-lasting friendship.

And then there was Rodrick. You've heard rather interesting stories about him as well. In the beginning, you found those quite amusing, that was until you realized that Rowley was genuinely terrified of him. Not the best first impression someone could make on you. Influenced by seeing your younger sibling grow up to be such a sweet and genuine person you tend to be a bit protective from time to time.

You hear some hushed voices from inside, and you can identify one of them as female, reminding someone to behave. Then the door opens and a woman, who you assume to be Mrs. Heffley, kindly smiles at you. Your suspicion is confirmed a second later when she introduces herself and shoos you into the house, before continuing to greet the rest of your family.

Crossing the threshold you can now see a man standing slightly behind Greg's mother. He introduces himself as Frank, making quite a kind impression on you. Then he leads you into the living room to meet his sons.

The two older ones hardly even notice you at first, too occupied with arguing and rowing with each other.

“Boys!”, their father speaks up, successfully catching their attention. Rather comically their gazes fall from their father to you, their eyes widening and their mouths dropping open. You were not what they expected. While Greg looks just shocked, you would describe Rodricks state as mesmerized.

He recovers fast, pushes Greg off of him, stands up, and puts on what he hopes is a charming smile. Extending his hand he starts to introduce himself.

“Hi, I’m-”

At least he tries to.

“Rodrick. I know. My brother has told me one or two rather interesting stories about you”, your smile is sharp. He gulps, his confident smile turning sheepish, cursing Rowley in his head. You are not what he expected and you are definitely not anywhere close to being a female carbon copy of your, in his eyes, embarrassing younger brother.

He normally wouldn’t consider himself the kind of person who has a type, but from now on, if someone asked, he would probably revert to describing you. You were just ethereal, everything about you was attractive to him. The way you walked, talked, and carried yourself, but also your clothing and hairstyle. Your pretty face just rounds up your whole appearance, making you all the more alluring.

He had to get on your good side. While a family dinner, especially with Greg present, may not be the best opportunity, he could ask Rowley to put in a few good words for him. That kid was easily influenced (or intimidated). Still, making the best possible impression over dinner wouldn’t cause any harm either.

You turn to the other boy who has been silently watching the exchange. Now that your attention is on him he starts feeling nervous as well. Your expression, however, turns a bit more friendly.

“And you must be Greg.” he nods. You introduce yourself and lastly say hello to Manny who is sitting on the floor playing with some figurines. By now the others have entered the room, causing Susan to start leading you all to the dining table.

You’re seated between Rowley and Greg, across from Rodrick, which results in quite frequent eye contact. On one side you really want to intimidate him a bit. This could maybe make your brother's life a bit easier, at least for the time being. On the other side, you do want to make some conversation, maybe throw in a bit of (family dinner appropriate) flirting or at least find out if he’s single.

It’s really hard to hold a grudge against someone who is entirely your type.

While you’re conflicted, Rodrick, on the other hand, is sweating. Nervously fidgeting in his seat. You didn’t seem as irritated with him anymore, if the eye contact was anything to go by. Was this his chance to redeem his shitty first impression? He cursed his brain for failing to come up with something cool to say.

Since when is it so hard to talk to girls? Is it getting hotter in here? What impresses girls? What does he normally brag about? His band! That’s it. Now he just has to bring it up somehow. Maybe he can bribe Greg to ask him about it. No, that’s too risky, he can’t count on Greg to not fuck this up. He is just going to casually bring it up ‘I’m in a band by the way, pretty sick huh?’ ‘Do you like music? Cause I’m in a band’ No that’s stupid everyone likes music… ‘Which kind of music do you listen to?’ That’s good, he should bring up the topic of music first, that’s a normal conversation topic. After that step two is to bring up the band. That’s easy, he got this.

Now he just needs to wait till your attention is on him again and then he can smoothly lead the conversation in the desired direction. He has to calm down, he can do it.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Your eyes meet again.

“I’m in a band!” He speaks way louder than intended, his voice is squeaky, and in the middle of the sentence he has the most embarrassing voice crack imaginable.

Silence.

The sole attention is now on him. All he hears is Greg's snickering which causes him to kick him under the table.

“Ow!” That was not Greg's leg. He looks up to see you looking at him with a questioning expression.

That’s it. He fucked up. His chances were already low, but he still managed to shrink them even more, making them most likely completely vanish. Great. His ears were ringing, all he can hear is Greg's quiet laughter in the background.

“I'm sorry I didn’t mean to kick you, I-” he starts his apology but loses track of what he is trying to say when he sees your expression change. You're clearly trying to suppress a smile, but it's not working at all.

“You’re adorable.” Rowley chokes on his food, and Greg's laughter abruptly stops

“Rodrick? Adorable?” That’s it. Greg gives up on ever trying to understand girls. How can his stupid older brother embarrass himself like that, then kick the poor girl under the table and still be perceived as adorable by her, especially since she is so much out of his league?

Rodrick however, was still not functioning properly.

“So that band, is its name by any chance Löded Diaper?”

“Yeah.” He is proud of himself for speaking at an appropriate volume without stuttering. “How do yo-”

“I saw your creepy white Van in front of the house. What’s up with that, kidnapping little kids as a side hustle?” You are still smiling, and with your stupid joke you somehow manage to relax the atmosphere a bit, the adults going back to their conversation.

Rodrick too is now smiling, looking at you with an expression you could only describe as lovestruck, even though you just insulted him.

He is contemplating making a joke about how the space in the back could be quite useful for more than just trapping kids but decides against it, fearing to make it awkward again. Getting nervous about taking too much time to come up with an answer he instead lands on “No only kidnapping pretty girls like you.”. As soon as the words leave his mouth he regrets it, realizing it's in fact not a funny and flirty thing to say, but honestly rather creepy.

At the end of the evening, Rodrick has messed up flirting with you multiple times, however, it’s his luck that you find his desperate attempts to look cool to impress you weirdly endearing. Not that he realizes that. Calling Rodrick confused, questioning why you were still talking to him, would be an understatement.

He certainly doesn’t know how he can have messed up so many times and still end up finding a little note with your number on it in his pullover hood after you left.

#rodrick heffley x reader #rodrick x reader #rodrick heffley #fem!reader #diary of a wimpy kid #fluff #first meeting #oneshot #x reader #reader insert #fanfic

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