#like why do they have to be words on A PAPER?!
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Would ceo Bucky and his girl attend the met gala? If so, any ideas on dresses perhaps!
They would, nonnie! As far as the dress, it would depend on the theme. Are we talking recent theme, a past theme, or a made up general theme?
Goes With the Theme
Pairing: CEO!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: Bucky thinks his suit goes with a gala theme. You slightly disagree.
Word Count: Over 1.2k
Warnings: Established relationship, banter, flirting, implied sex, implied breeding, brief mention of past insecurities and bad ex, slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?) and he worships you.
A/N: I blame @whisperlullaby and @targaryenvampireslayer. Before our couple has Cupcake and Bean. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Bucky refused to tell you in advance what he was wearing to the upcoming gala. He said something about him wanting to surprise you. Of course, he knew exactly what you were wearing since he wanted the designer to make you a gown fit for a queen. He would’ve thrown in a tiara if you asked. It was too much, really.
But if you asked Bucky, nothing was too much for you.
The amount of money spent was just about worth it when he exited the bathroom and looked ready to drop to his knees when you spotted you in your dress. The colors suited you. The fit was like a glove. It was a work of art, really.
“Fuck,” Bucky whispered, his eyes turning a darker shade of blue as you carefully twirled. It was exactly the reaction you wanted. “How exactly am I supposed to keep my hands off you tonight? A man can only take so much.”
“Because a lot went into this dress and you’re not allowed to tear apart,” you smiled before you took in his appearance.
Bucky Barnes turned head wherever he went and the head to toe black ensemble would be no exception. The slicked back hair was a good look on him and there was no denying that your man knew how to accessorize. He also wore enough custom suits for you to know what did and didn’t suit him. He would never fail to make you stop in your tracks from a single stare.
The man never missed a thing though, regarding you carefully as you stared. “You don’t like what I’m wearing,” he stated.
“No, I love it,” you assured him. And you did. You didn’t want him to think otherwise since the man could turn a paper bag into a thing of art and beauty if he chose to. “It’s just…”
“Just what?” He asked, holding his jacket open so you could get a glimpse of the shirt beneath molded to his torso. “I think I look good.”
You blinked and took a breath so you could answer him. Why did he have to be so distracting? “Not like you need the ego boost, but yes. You do look good,” you said. His smirk almost made you lose your breath again. “But does it really go with the theme?”
“What?” He shrugged. “Isn’t the theme ‘floral’?”
“It is and flowers are usually bright,” you pointed out. “You couldn't have gone with a floral jacket?”
“This is my interpretation of the theme.” He pointed to one of the black flowers. “Besides, this is a flower and it’s on my jacket. Therefore, it's a floral jacket.”
You tried not to smile. It was tough to argue with that logic. “Okay. Yes. There are flowers on your jacket, but-”
He cut you off with a smug smile. “So, I'm right.”
And wasn’t it just like a CEO to argue like this? And wasn’t it just like you to enjoy it? “You’re utterly ridiculous,” you giggled, gesturing to yourself. “Not to mention, I'm pretty much wearing the opposite of you!”
“And people will still know we’re together, Mrs. Barnes,” he winked. You loved being his wife. “Do you know why I wore this?”
“Enlighten me.”
“Because a black suit? Any man can wear one. I’ll blend in with the crowd. But you in your gown? All eyes will be on you, as they should be,” he explained, your cheeks hot as he swept his gaze over you. “And I know I won’t take my eyes off you for a second tonight.”
“Oh,” you breathed, clearing your throat at the unexpected tears that clogged it. Your ex tried to make you feel bad about your body when all Bucky wanted to do was celebrate and worship it. More than that, he saw your beauty beneath the surface. “Thank you.”
Though you wanted to argue that Bucky wouldn’t blend in with the crowd. It wasn’t possible. He was too striking for that with his blue eyes and jawline. Too dominant with his large body. And too well known.
He didn’t care about that kind of attention. He was the kind of man who wanted to show you off. Not as a prize or because you were his, but because he loved you.
His eyes softened before they went dark again. “Fuck, you are so beautiful. A goddess,” he said, his voice rough as he stepped toward you. “We may not even make the gala.”
As much as his compliment warmed your heart, boosted your confidence, and dampened your panties, you shook your head. “Oh, no. Don't you even think about it. Do you know how long it took me to get into this dress? That doesn’t include perfecting my makeup. We are going.”
You nearly lost your nerve when he groaned and took another step toward you. That sound was one of your favorites, especially when it was your mouth, hand, or pussy drawing it out of him. “Cupcake, you’re always a vision. You don’t need a fancy dress or a stitch of makeup to be beautiful,” he said, licking his lips. “And you don’t need to wear a stitch of clothing right now either.”
“No.” You firmly pointed a finger at him. You were lucky he didn’t grab your wrist to kiss it. “You promised we'd make an appearance and the last thing you need to do is tell people we didn't show because you couldn't keep it in your pants for a few hours.”
The kicked puppy dog expression was one you had seen on Steve Rogers before, but it was adorable on Bucky. You held your chin high because you’d fall into his arms if you didn’t. “Fine,” he conceded, gripping your chin with infinite care. “But I make no promises that I'll behave in the limo on the way home.”
You’d enjoy your small victory over your handsome CEO and husband for the time being because he’d make you pay for it in the best way later. “Yes, Boss.”
“My perfect wife,” he whispered, delicately moving his hand along the column of your throat. Did he feel how fast your heart beat? “I may just have to knock you up before the night’s over, Mrs. Barnes.”
Your womb clenched at his words, imagining the filthy things he’d grunt in your ear as he bred you. It was almost enough to make you skip the gala, but why not build up the anticipation? “I’ll be disappointed if you don’t, Mr. Barnes,” you said, moving close enough for your lips to touch his.
The breath that rushed out of his lungs was like a kiss, teasing what would come before the night was over. “Don’t tease me, Cupcake.”
“Who said I was teasing you, Boss?” You murmured, pulling back before he could kiss you properly. “Time to go.”
He swore under his breath as he adjusted his pants. You were the only one who could get under his skin. “I’ll knock you up in the limo. Don’t test me.”
Your smile widened. What Bucky didn’t know was that underneath your dress was one of his favorite lacy floral numbers. A surprise and reward for him going to the gala. It would make him fall a little bit more in love with you once he undressed you.
Plus, it went with the theme.
“Looking forward to it.”
Another out of order AU. I'm so sorry, lovelies. And sorry to the nonnie for not fully answering the question! Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi
#navybrat writes#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes x f!reader#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes x y/n#ceo!bucky barnes#ceo!bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes fic#x reader#bucky x reader#bucky x female reader#bucky fanfic#james buchanan barnes#sebastian stan#sebastian stan x reader#bucky barnes oneshot#boss and cupcake
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what would stray kids' "we shouldn’t be doing this" sex situation be??
MDNI 18+ | step/incest themes (individual warnings), age gap, oral (f!), fem!reader, I prolly missed some tbh
chan! (tw: step)
something about him screams step-dad. you're not home too much cuz you're already older by the time your mom remarries, but whenever you do swing by, your step dad is more than eager to cook, to clean, to show that he's a good husband...for your mom ofc. but the air thickens and you both start growing more bold. you come more often, making sure to bend lower enough for chan to catch a sight of your panties. he never makes a move though, not until the inevitable divorce papers are served. then he's a little more receptive to your advances, but ofc, he has some morals left
"Wait! I know your mom and I are getting a divorce, but that doesn't mean-" Chan shuts up real quick at the feel of your hand lowering, cupping his bugle and kissing his neck. "Shh, weren't you trying so hard to be my daddy before? You can be that now."
minho! (tw: age gap)
dad's best friend. older, hotter, flirty. he honestly has little to no shame when it comes to teasing you. if anything, it's you telling him that you can't do this, that it's wrong, but gosh it just feels so good. your friends tell you about the sexual experience older men have and it only tempts you more to give into Minho's advances. the furthest you've gone is light touching, his gentle kisses to your bare shoulder when you get out of the pool. but honestly, he's just so charming, it's only a matter of time before you're under him
If you don't get his cock soon, you think you'll cum just from his fingers. Minho's got two digits fucking into you, his thumb swirling your clit while he lavishes your nipple with his tongue. You whine, throwing your head back and arching upwards. "Minho! Minho, my dad-" but a harsh bite on your swollen bud makes you yelp. Minho briefly picks up his head, "You're dad's downstairs. You should be quiet before he hears us."
changbin!
he's your ex. you come across him at one the parties your university throws and you swore to yourself that you'd never get involved with frat boys again, but he just looks so good. big arms crossing his chest, black jeans on his thick thighs (and thick cock) with a red solo cup in his hand. you keep reminding yourself that he's not worth it. it would be so stereotypical to hook up in a someone's house you don't know, but once he sees you it's pretty much settled.
"Come on, you know you miss it," his words are like butter, and truthfully you do miss it. You miss how his thick fingers wrapped around your neck, how his fat cock stretched your pussy. But still, you're prideful, "As if. I shouldn't even doing this shit with you." Rather than his little smirk disappearing, it widens. "Who are you tryna convince? Me or you?"
hyunjin!
you're his art teacher. he's super talented, super dedicated to his craft and you constantly praise him for it. as true as that is, you also love seeing his smile and dimples. you have yet to admit that you find your student attractive, but you can at least acknowledge that he makes your job a little bit better. it's when he comes in for your office hours that you finally have to come to terms with your true emotions. you think you can keep professional, but hyunjin's set on letting you know how he feels.
"Hyunjin...you know we can't," but your words fall on deaf ears. Hyunjin pushes a loose strand from your face, cupping your cheek in the process. "Why not? Is there something wrong with me?" He sounds so desperate, so sincere. You have to swallow your desires but you can't push his hand away. "Nothing. Nothing's wrong with you." He leans past you, brushing his plump lips over the shell of your ear. "Then let me touch you one time. Let me show you how much you mean to me just once."
han! (tw:incest)
icky brother for sure. older brother to be specific. you always thought it was normal for siblings to be as close as you are, to kiss when either of you are stressed, to go on outings that usually end in more kissing on the ride back home. but, of course, you realize that his affection is twisted, and you cut off contact with him and the rest of your family. even then...it's really hard to move on, especially when he shows up to your master's graduation.
"I said I never want to see you again." You try to sound strong, but your voice shakes. He's crying too, as if he isn't the reason you guys can't have a normal relationship. More tears fall, more apologies are spoken, but you can't say no when he begs for those little kisses that always make you guys feel better. You can't say no when you finally give your body to your brother like a good little sister.
felix!
brother's best-friends trope. you grew up besides him and you've always had a little thing for him, but he hardly noticed. you guys age, and you've totally given up on your little crush. but when felix is invited to an overnight cabin with your family, it's hard to ignore that reignited flame in your stomach. ignoring him is probably your best plan, but felix is just too friendly to really understand that you don't want to talk to him. you decide you should show him exactly why you should stay away
Felix's eyes are wide, filled with uncertainty, fear, but he can't help the excitement that bubbles in his stomach when you rip your shirt off. "I- I don't think this is a good idea! Your family's upstairs and your brother will kill me." You can practically see his heart jumping from his chest. To calm him, you crawl on the bed to where he is and place a gentle, but firm kiss to his lips. He whines, shaking as he cups your face in his small hands. "And if you don't fuck me," you pull away to look into his eyes. "I'll kill you."
seungmin!
he's your boss, and you're his secretary. since you're pretty much forced to be with him at all times, you know how he handles his anger when the company isn't doing as well as he wants. It usually involves drinking and working overtime, but this particular night has him restless. since your a great worker, you stay overtime with him, helping on what you can and making sure his coffee is always filled. but when the lack of sleep starts to get to his head, he starts acting a little...weird.
Mr. Kim hasn't dismissed you yet. If anything, he beckons you closer with a finger. You obey, following his every instruction until you're bent over his desk, skirt lifted up with your panties to the side as his warm tongue licks up your pussy. "The cameras," you moan out. "We'll get caught. Mr. Kim, you'll get fired." But he doesn't care. He's so stressed, too tired that he needs something to keep him awake. You can't help but feel pity, so you lay pliant on the desk while he laps your cunt.
jeongin!
he's an idol helping out the trainees. he's super professional, a great dancer, and an amazing teacher. really supportive and gives helpful feedback. it's super dumb, but totally expected for a trainee to fall for their instructor, or in this case, an idol. you know better of course, his image matters a lot. you don't want to risk anything for him. but it's hard to not feel anything when he stays extra hours with you to get a routine down. both of you are tired, both of you are exhausted. neither of you are thinking clearly when jeongin grabs your hips as a means to help your posture, but it leads to something totally different
The practice room is filled with wet slapping and messy kisses. Jeongin eyes are hooded, a darkness covering him as he looks down at you. Your breasts bounce at the force of his thrusts and you grab them for support. "Jeongin. Innie, the sun's gonna come up. Your leader-" But he covers your mouth with his large palm. He's chasing his high, coxing an intense orgasm that he can't bother to care about your worries. "Just shut up and let me finish."
my fav's seungmins tbh (and maybe hannie :p)
#smut#skz smut#stray kids smut#stray kids#skz#skz changbin#skz hard thoughts#skz hyunjin#skz hard hours#skz seungmin#skz lee minho#skz lee know#skz chan#han smut#chan smut#skz imagines#skz han jisung#hyunjin smut#changbin smut
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I'm Sorry I Couldn't be Here for You Sooner (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)
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Author Masterlist
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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader.
Summary: You have one of the worst days in a long time at work. When Spencer returns from an assignment to the BAU and sees your current state, he must do something.
Word Count: 2.8k
Warnings: Frustration/Hurt/Comfort. Just a self-indulgent rant. A lot of cuss words. Spencer is the best boyfriend in the world.
A/N: I just need Spencer to hold me now.
-----
The clock ticks and ticks, but the time seems to stand still. Even if you don't know how long you have been looking at that piece of wood, plastic, and metal, it feels like an eternity.
In the distance, a voice keeps throwing out words and sentences to which you should pay attention. However, even if you tried, looking at the clock on the wall is still more interesting than hearing Hotch talking about new protocols for field agents.
Still lost in your head, you don't notice the meeting is over and people are starting to leave the room. Only when someone squeezes your forearm. It's JJ.
"Are you okay?" she asks, eyebrows furrowed. You look at her and blink a few times.
"Uh- yeah," you mumble.
Are you okay? No, you're not. But why bother others with that?
On second thought, this may be a chance to spill what's on your mind. JJ is usually a forthcoming and wise person.
"Well, actually-" you begin, but before saying anything else, JJ cuts you off.
"That's nice. Because I want to ask you if you can babysit Henry tomorrow night. Will invited me to a romantic dinner, and our babysitter is sick. Hope it doesn't make much trouble to you?" the blonde probes.
Okay, you didn't expect that.
Not in the mood to turn the subject back to you, you say yes, and after thanking you, JJ quickly leaves the conference room. Alone with your thoughts for a few seconds, you wonder if the tightness in your chest isn't an exaggeration. You decide to forget about it and go back to your desk.
Opening a folder with the information on the last case, you are ready to write your report. But not too so far on it, Emily approaches you.
"Hey, how are you?"
You have doubts about how to answer the question. A few minutes ago, when JJ asked, you lied to her, and she didn't even notice. Maybe it's good to be honest.
"Actually, not so good," you sigh. And Emily raises an eyebrow.
"Yeah? What happened?"
"I just don't know, I don't feel good," you try to explain. But you're not sure how to do it either.
"I'm sure it's something you can manage," Emily muses. "Look, whatever it is, have a drink when you get home today, relax a little, and I bet you'll be as good as new tomorrow!"
You open and close your mouth several times, trying to get a word out, but nothing comes to mind.
A drink and relax? Is that simple?
You let out a hum, and that's enough for a response to Emily.
After wishing you good luck, she heads down the hallway, presumably to Garcia's office.
It's clear that Emily didn't grasp your actual emotional state, but you don't blame her either.
The last case was hard for everyone, so there is no reason to take it personally.
Focusing on your report again, you expect the sour mood surrounding you to fade eventually.
To finish your paperwork, you need to make copies of the reports. So you get up and head to the copy machine. After carefully placing the papers in the tray, you press the start button. When you think it will start copying, the machine stops mid-scan. You frown, and after a few seconds of nothing, you press the 'start' button again. Nothing. You do it again. And again. It's not working, and you feel your blood running hot.
By pressing the button again and again, anger comes.
"What the fuck is wrong with you stupid fucking machine!"
It's not enough to swat with force the button panel; now you're kicking the machine out of pent-up frustration.
"Whoa, whoa, stop right there, pretty girl."
Morgan steps between you and the machine, putting distance with his palms. And that's when you realize your outburst. Panting and still with the heat of rage on your cheeks, you are not yet satisfied.
"What the fuck, Morgan. Now you're defending a fucking copy machine?!" You hiss. Derek narrows his eyes to assess your current state. He's seen you mad, but it usually goes away easily. You are not a dense person.
"Okay, what's wrong, pretty girl? Since when do you unleash your frustration with pretty boy on inanimate things?"
Pretty boy. Spencer. Your boyfriend. Today, your boyfriend is conducting a cognitive interview with a convict in a DC jail—Hotch's orders. You wish he were here.
Morgan knows you usually laugh at his jokes, and even when you are in a bad temper, they help to light the mood.
Not this time, though.
"Don't talk about Spencer or me like that!" You snarl. "He doesn't have to do with any of this!"
Morgan doesn't like you are talking to him. Folding his arms over his chest, he let out an unamused scoff.
"Come on, don't you think you're overreacting here? Was this whole outburst only for a joke? What, are you four years old?"
You want to keep yelling, but a lump forms in your throat that is making it difficult for you to speak or even breathe. Morgan doesn't even wait for you to say something.
"You know what?" Morgan continues. "If you cannot stand the pressure of this job right now, maybe you should go home."
With that said and shaking his head in disappointment, Dereks leaves you there.
Stumped. Frustrated. Broken.
All the anger from moments before turns into an almost uncontrollable urge to cry. What have you done to these people? They are supposed to be your friends, your family. They are supposed to understand you and support you when you need them. And now that it's the time, they've only ignored you, minimized your problems, and even questioned your worth. Maybe Derek is right, and you should go home.
Defeated, you're strolling to your desk when Hotch peaks out of his office and gestures you to come.
Great, just what you needed now.
When you walk into your boss's office, he is already sitting in his chair, sternly looking at you.
"I won't ask you what's wrong with you today because it's your private life. However, I must remind you we are all professionals on this team. If you need time off, you have the right to get it, but I will not tolerate disrespect, like when you are distracted as I give fundamental instructions. If you don't pay attention, it could affect your work in the field and even put the lives of innocent people at risk."
If you didn't feel trampled before, now you feel like a ton of dirt was dumped on you.
You know Hotch can be sharp with words, but his ultimate goal is always to look after the team. But why does it feel like you're not part of that team right now?
"Do I make myself clear?"
With no more energy left in your body, you just let out a 'yes, sir.' Without waiting for another response, he sends you back to your desk.
It's already noon when you resume your work. Your mind spins at a mile an hour, and although it's hard, you force yourself to concentrate enough to get your job done, so at least the salary they pay you is worth it.
Like a mollusk in its shell, you close yourself in that bubble and stop paying attention to your surroundings. It's your safe place—only you.
In the distance, you feel your coworkers come and go. Never do you look up. Time goes by, and your throat feels dry from not speaking for hours.
Before everyone starts planning lunch, you are already picking up your lunch bag.
Social interaction is out of the table, so you are secluded in the building roof where an improvisated garden has benches. You sit alone, and the breeze helps to steady your breathing. As you open your Tupperware, you tentatively plunge the fork into the almost-cold pasta.
Even so, you're better here than in the bullpen minutes ago.
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Spencer walks through the doors of the BAU. It's 2 in the afternoon, so hopefully, the team is still having lunch in the conference room. Slightly worried that he wouldn't be able to reach you when he wanted to let you know he was on his way, he assumed that you had a lot of work and that your phone was mute.
Arriving at the conference room, Spencer scans the place and immediately catches something odd. You are not there. JJ, Prentiss, Morgan, Rossi, and Hotch are, though.
With an eyebrow furrowed, he asks, "Where is she?"
His teammates perk their heads up.
"Hello to you, pretty boy," Morgan teases.
"How was the interview?" JJ asks.
"Did you eat? You still can sit with us," Prentiss offers.
"Did you get the interview done?" Hotch asks with a raised eyebrow.
Spencer gets an uneasy feeling about what's going on. He knows you weren't feeling so okay this morning, and even if he tried to convince you to take a sick day, you didn't let him.
"Neither of you responded my question," Spencer points, voice harsher than when he asked first.
"(Y/N)? I thought she went home," Morgan muses.
"Why would she do that?" Spencer questions, alarmed. "Something bad happened?"
"She said she was okay when I asked earlier," JJ explains. "Maybe she has an errand to do."
"She was way distracted when we were at the meeting in the morning. She didn't listen a thing of what I said," Hotch adds.
"And you sent her home?" Spencer directs his question to Hotch.
"No, I didn't. She didn't ask it either when I called her to my office."
"You called her to your office? Did you reprimand her?" Spencer asks in disbelief.
"Of course, I did it, Reid. She did something disrespectful to the team," Hotch defends.
"And considering her rage moment directed to the copy machine, maybe it's better if she went home," Morgan supplies.
"Why are you being so dramatic, Reid?" Emily questions, very confused about why Spencer is so upset.
Spencer huffs, frustration running in his veins.
"Are you fucking kidding me right now? Did you ever realize she wasn't doing okay and nobody took her seriously? Yeah, sure, she said she was okay, but did you really check on her? Did you really ask her what was wrong? Did someone listen to her?"
The people in the room go silent after Spencer scolds them.
Did they help in any way?
"You are unbelievable, and you call yourself profilers," Spencer huffs, turning to exit the room in search of you.
"What are you doing, Reid?" Hotch asks. No turning around to face his boss, and halfway out, Spencer replies.
"The thing you should have done in the first place. And I don't care if it doesn't fall protocol, I can give you my resignation letter tomorrow."
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When Spencer reaches the building roof and sees you sitting on one of the benches, he lets out a sigh of relief. He suspected you might be there, considering your things were still on your desk.
You can't see it since your back is turned. Your eyes look at the horizon without focusing on anything in particular.
The breeze is nice despite the November weather in Virginia.
Not wanting to scare you, Spencer slowly approaches you as he clears his throat. You turn around and see him standing a couple of meters away from you, but close enough to see your eyes red from crying.
You know he noticed it, and you avert his gaze.
You don't like the idea of looking vulnerable right now. The morning was already catastrophic enough to explain your current state of mind to Spencer.
Spencer is a man of many words. He is known for his diatribes on any topic at hand. So you expect some kind of rant or even some statistical data about what could be happening to you.
But contradicting his very nature, he just silently approaches, takes your hand to get you up from the bench, and pulls you into a tight, comforting embrace.
And for the first time all day, you feel like you can actually breathe, and your chest isn't tight anymore. Words are not necessary; just being held like that is enough for now.
Spencer kisses the top of your head lovingly.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be here for you sooner. I'm sorry you had such a horrible morning," your boyfriend laments.
You shake your head, still buried in his chest.
Tears fight to come out from the corners of your eyes, and you no longer want to hold them back.
"Let it out, baby. Just let them out."
And that's what you do. For the first time all day, you allow yourself to cry without holding back. Spencer has you the entire time, rubbing your back soothingly.
"I don't know why I feel so bad, Spencer. I don't understand," you muffle your words into his embrace.
"It's okay, love. You don't have to explain to me, or anyone for that matter. There are days when we are not okay, and it's completely valid. Never think you don't have the right to."
Hearing Spencer say that relieves some of the pressure on your head, but you can't help but think about your teammates' words throughout the morning.
Separating yourself from Spencer to look at him, your eyes still denote your inner struggle.
"What if they are right? What if they are right when they say I shouldn't make so much fuzz and rather think about doing my job well?"
Spencer cups your cheeks so you can look at him.
"They are not. Okay? By any means, you are the most professional person I have ever met in my life. Not only that, you are also the most compassionate, selfless, and willing to help to the fullest extent of your capacity. Does JJ need help babysitting Henry? You don't think twice. Does García need assistance organizing a girls' night? You are the first one to be there. Does Hotch need to finish a stack of reports in one night? You offer to help him. Does Derek need a backup to kick his way into a place and catch the unsub? You're the first to watch his back."
You are indeed like that, and you do all that. But you've never seen it as something extraordinary. For you, being part of a team and a family means all that and more.
"And that doesn't even scratch the surface of what you have been to me.
My love, you have been the person who has entitled me to open my heart and love without reservation. You have taught me to trust and that asking for help when you feel bad is okay. You are the light of my life, and I swear I'll do everything in my power so you can see the wonderful person you are and that you deserve all the love and support in the world."
Without a doubt, Spencer has something with his words and eloquence. How can you not believe him? The veil of doubt indeed emerges from time to time, but having someone who is by your side showing you what is really important makes the doubts not cloud your path.
A shy smile appears on your face, your eyes filled with gratitude.
"There she is," Spencer whispers, stroking your cheek with love and never breaking eye contact.
"Maybe I should have listened to you this morning and called in sick," you sigh. Spencer kisses the top of your nose.
"I know you weren't going to do it anyway."
You giggle because he's right. Spencer knows you too well.
"Lunchtime is almost over. We should come back to work," you remind him. Spencer pulls a face, and you raise an eyebrow at him. "What was that?" You inquire.
Spencer laughs nervously. "It's just I may or may not have made a scene in the conference room earlier, and I may or may not have offered my letter of resignation to Hotch if he didn't allow me to come find you."
"You did what? Spencer, oh my God!" you start laughing. "Does that mean there's a chance we'll both get fired today?"
Spencer thinks about that for a second.
"Honestly? I don't think Hotch would risk losing his two best agents," he decides, winking at you.
"Hope you're right, Dr. Reid. Hope you're right," you voice, grabbing his hand in yours and making the way back to the sixth floor.
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Spencer Reid's Taglist: @dreatine @nomajdetective @jayyeahthatsme @rosalinasam2 @averyhotchner @lovelyxtom @princessmiaelicia @pastelbabygirl19 @reidsbookclub @alexxavicry @gspenc @spencerreidisbae123 @calmspencer @pauline5525mgg @anamiad00msday @milivanili99 @laylasbunbunny @leahblackk @miaxx03 @missabsey @taintedstranger @khxna @hiireadstuff @pleasantwitchgarden @dysphoricsanity @levi-of-starz @themoonchildwhofell @silver138 @lovelybaka @shinytinywhispers
#spencer reid#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid x you#spencer reid fanfics#criminal minds#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid hurt/comfort#spencer reid x fem!bau!reader#aperrywilliams#amanda perry williams
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Kisses and Wishes | C. Leclerc
Summary: with the morning beginning with kisses, Charles ensures that your entire birthday is spent filled with love, laughter, and even more kisses.
— part of the Birthday Bash fics
warnings: overload on fluff 🫣
pairing: charles x fem!reader
wc: 1.4k
main masterlist taglist form
© thef1diary 2024. all rights reserved. Do not copy, steal, translate, or repost any of my work
As the first light of dawn filtered through the curtains, you stirred from your sleep to the gentle sensation of kisses peppering your face. Blinking groggily, you opened your eyes to find Charles, your boyfriend, leaning over you with a bright smile showcasing his dimples that you adored.
"Happy birthday, my love," he whispered, his lips brushing against yours tenderly.
You couldn't help but smile, feeling the warmth of his affection enveloping you. "Thank you, baby."
His smile widened as he leaned back slightly, revealing a tray of delicious breakfast delights laid out on the bedside table. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the scent of pancakes and berries, making your stomach growl in anticipation.
"I thought we could start your special day with a breakfast fit for royalty such as a princess like yourself," Charles said, his eyes sparkling with excitement.
You chuckled, “you know, just because you’re called the prince of Monaco, that doesn’t make me the princess.”
He frowned, “a prince is not a prince without his princess, I, of course, cannot live without you.” His words took you by surprise and you wondered just how many more times he would catch you by surprise today.
You looked at him fondly, slightly lost for words. Instead, you sat up in bed to admire the arrangement of various treats spread before you. "You're amazing, Charles. Thank you for this."
"It's my pleasure, darling," he replied before placing a kiss on your forehead. Sliding underneath the covers, he sat beside you and stated "now, let's dig in before it gets cold."
As you both enjoyed the delicious breakfast together, Charles couldn't resist stealing glances at you, his eyes filled with adoration. "I have something else planned for you today," he said, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
"Oh? What is it?" you asked, intrigued.
"It's a surprise," he replied with a grin, "but I promise you'll love it."
While you were eager to discover all the surprises he had planned, you didn’t move a muscle after finishing breakfast since you were quite content laying beside your lover. His back rested against the headboard and you cuddled him; your arm looping with his.
He held your hand, tracing random shapes on your palm and simply just playing with your fingers. It was completely silent except for the birds chirping away outside your window. Hearing those sounds, both of you turned your heads to look out the window.
Moments later, Charles became restless as he wanted to take you towards the next surprise. “Ma cherie, why don’t you go change and then I can show you the surprise?” Humming in response, you began moving away but before you could walk away completely, he pulled you back.
“Don’t go without a kiss.” He closed his eyes as you leaned into him, pressing a brief kiss to his lips before walking away and leaving him wanting more.
He remained seated on the bed until you had finished getting dressed. Then, he stood up and took your hand to lead you on a journey throughout the house. Your eyes widened as you saw the decoration he had done, making you wonder when he left your side to do it all.
Balloons filled with helium had covered the entire ceiling and when you stood in the middle of the room, you noticed something else. Each balloon had a ribbon tied to it, but the end of the ribbon held a little roll of paper.
“What’s this?” you asked, looking at Charles.
“Open it,” he simply instructed.
Unravelling a roll of paper, your jaw dropped as soon as you recognized Charles’ handwriting inside. You glanced at the other ribbons that adorned the love letters at the end, eyes welling up with tears when you realized that Charles had written over twenty letters for you.
“You’re insane,” you couldn’t help but comment, earning a laugh from him. “Only for you, my love.”
You had carefully read each letter, letting each word draw you further into Charles' ever-growing love that he had laid out for you. While reading the letters, a few tears fell down your cheeks. Charles quickly brushed them away, but he was still concerned that he had upset you. You shook your head, telling him that the sentiments he had clearly taken the time to write were what made the tears slide from your eyes.
He replaced each tear mark with kisses to your cheeks, and only stopped once he earned a giggle from you.
“C’mon, there’s more,” he held his hand out for you again and you easily grasped onto it. “There’s more?” you ask, surprised and slightly sad that you have to leave the balloons and letters behind for now.
He didn’t respond, only leading you down the hallway towards the trail of rose petals awaiting you. With a gasp, you glanced at Charles, who was already looking at your expression.
"Go ahead and follow it." Following you, he observed the petals he had previously scattered directing you to a little backyard picnic area where lunch was prepared. Along with other delectable snacks, a bottle of champagne was placed in a basket and a cozy blanket was spread out on the grass.
"This is amazing, Charles," you exclaimed, feeling overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness.
"It's nothing compared to how amazing you are," he replied, wrapping his arms around you from behind and pressing a kiss to your cheek.
As you settled onto the soft blanket, the gentle breeze playing with your hair, Charles disappeared momentarily, his steps light with anticipation. You gazed at him until he ventured inside the house, then shifted your attention to the sweet delicacies inside the picnic basket.
Moments later, he reappeared, cradling a tray but the content of it was out of your sight as you were seated on the floor.
“And for the grand finale…” with a flourish, Charles sat down in front of you to unveil the surprise, revealing a magnificent homemade cake that took your breath away.
The cake was a work of art, each layer meticulously crafted and adorned with swirls of frosting. Your name was written with a birthday message in a different color of icing that contrasted with the swirls on top. A single candle stood proudly atop the cake, its flame dancing gracefully in the breeze, casting a warm glow over the scene.
Your eyes widened in awe at the sight before you, overwhelmed by the beauty and thoughtfulness of Charles' gesture. It was clear that he had poured his heart and soul into creating this masterpiece, just for you. “It’s gorgeous, Charles,” you breathed.
He beamed with pride, setting the cake down before you. “Happy birthday, my love. Make a wish.”
You smiled, “I don’t need to, I already have everything I’ve ever wanted right here.”
It was his turn to feel the love, touched by your words that only made his smile widen, revealing his dimples again as he trapped his bottom lip with his teeth.
As you blew out the candle, Charles leaned in to place a tender kiss on your cheek. “Je t'aime, mon amour.”
By the end of the day you knew that your cheeks would hurt because of how much you’ve smiled, but maybe Charles could shower them in kisses until you felt better. You truly felt blessed to have Charles by your side. “I love you more. Thank you for everything, Charles, this is the best birthday ever.”
With a twinkle in his eye, Charles replied, “Anything for you, my love.”
As the afternoon sun bathed the backyard in a warm golden glow, Charles reached for the bottle of champagne nestled in the picnic basket. With a deft twist, he uncorked the bottle, releasing a satisfying pop that echoed through the air.
Pouring the effervescent liquid into two elegant glasses, he handed one to you with a tender smile. “To you, my birthday girl,” he said, raising his glass in a toast.
“To us,” you corrected, clinking your glass against his.
With a sense of contentment, you took a sip of the crisp champagne, the bubbles dancing playfully on your tongue. As you savored the refreshing taste, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of gratitude for the love and joy that Charles had brought into your life.
He recounted the stories of the whole day's preparation as you sat in the backyard together, enjoying the warmth of the sun and each other's company, occasionally sipping champagne and laughing.
Taglist: @nikfigueiredo @jointhehunt67 @bokutos-babyowl @sya-skies @triorio @charlesleclercsonlywife @cometsrodrigo @dreamingonbed @lochnoch @llando4norris @monsieurbacteria6 @namgification @lilymurphy03 @sargeantdumbass @hiireadstuff @racingheartsposts @d3kstar @xjval @namjoonswaifu @isabellewinchester @thedecalcomania-blog @casperlikej @khaylin27 @mlioravanfleet @landoslutmeout @barcelonaloverf1life @banksxrr @megudaeggu @c-losur3 @thenotoriouserg
#charles leclerc x you#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc fic#charles leclerc imagine#charles leclerc fanfic#f1 fluff#f1 imagines#f1 imagine#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#fluff#thef1diary fic
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Worry.
NOT PROOF READ
Spencer Reid x reader
Spencer finds out you’re struggling with a case whilst he’s away
Warnings: mentions of violence
*****
It was no secret that you were having a particularly hard week, ever since this case landed on Emily’s desk, you’d struggled.
When people ask how it is working with cannibalistic serial killers, they laugh at how casually you confess that it’s gotten to the point where they don’t really phase you, but this was different.
No, it wasn’t some notorious serial killer who had been on your hit list for years. No it wasn’t a mass shooting, no it wasn’t a mutilated body found dumped at the side of a river.
It was a ‘simple’ abduction, simple being the wrong word to use but that’s all it was.
The mum thought the little girl was with the dad, the dad thinking she was with her mum.
That’s it.
But with every second the case continued and another minute being added to the clock without the girl being reunited with her parents, you felt the task of being able to breathe becoming harder and harder.
Of all weeks, of all cases, why did Spencer have to be away for this one?
He knew you.
He knew how these things affected you.
He would notice how you’d take those extra few seconds to stir your coffee as you gazed off, trying to ground yourself before heading back to the group.
The way you would pick at your fingernails as you absentmindedly stared at the board with pictures and maps sprawled across it.
Even the little things of how you’d end up buying more chapstick that week as you hardly ingested any water and constantly licked your lips in concentration.
He knew you.
Better yet, he knew how to make all of those intrusive thoughts disappear, even if it was just for a few seconds as he pulled you into his arms.
But he wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there to rub light circles into the small of your back as he practically had to force you to take a 5 minute breather in Dereks old office.
He wasn’t there to place his hand on your knee as he noticed it bouncing under your desk to settle your anxiety.
He wasn’t there to offer you that reassuring soft smile from across the room, all of your problems seemingly disappearing in those few seconds.
He wasn’t there.
****
It had now been the longest 18 hours of your life, adrenaline still pumping through your veins as you pinned yet another suspects mugshot to the board.
Standing back to analyse the board, you felt as though you’d been doing the exact same thing for hours and was getting no where.
If Spencer was here, he would have this solved and the little girl reunited with her parents by now, was all you could think.
And who was that helping? Oh yeah. No one.
You ran your fingers through your hair, lightly tugging at the roots in frustration as you knew time was running out. You knew the time frames and statistics on missing children and that clock was quickly counting down.
You didn’t have any children, not yet anyway.
But you did have 2 nephews from your mums side of the family and 2 godsons with thanks to JJ, and all you could think was if one of them went missing.
You could feel the tears brimming on your eyes, your vision becoming blurry as you still tried to remain focused on the board in front of you.
You tried to take some deep breaths but your lungs felt as small as peanuts as they failed to let you take one decent breath.
You groaned in annoyance, hanging your hands low on your hips as you threw your head back with a huff to regain some composure.
“You feeling like this, isn’t going to help that little girl” you cursed yourself in a whisper, wiping your eyes before grabbing some papers off the table to take back to your desk.
As you turned, your heart dropped as Emily stood with her arms folded and sympathetic look swept across her face.
She cared for you, of course she cared for the whole team but you were different.
She’d always had a soft spot for you and joked that she insisted that she would take you under her wing when you first joined.
Truth is, she saw you as a daughter, dare she admit, her motherly instincts always kicked in when she saw you like this.
“Wanna talk?”
She broke the silence, still stood in the doorway, blocking you from leaving.
“I’m good Emily, thank you” you lied, still grasping at the papers on the desk and shoving them into a rough pile.
She watched as you continued, papers slowly falling out of your hands as you admitted defeat and returned the stack to the table.
“You miss him, huh?”
Her smile was sincere, her head slightly tilted with her eyes narrowed in a inch of sadness.
“Don’t profile me” You mocked, ushering past her in the doorway and into the corridor, stopping just outside as she shrugs
“Honey, you don’t need to be a profiler to see that. Just need to have eyes” she huffs in amusement “you need to talk to him, tell him how you’re feeling. You know he would want to know”
You leant against the wall, running your hands over your face as your mind flashed to how he would naturally bring his hands to yours to remove them when you did that.
Placing gentle kisses to the palms of your hands as he intertwines your fingers together in distraction.
“He hasn’t even called, Emily” you pull your phone from your pocket, holding it up to her for her to see the black screen
“Is it on?” She innocently questioned, eyebrow raised in suspicion
“Is it on? What kind of qu-“ oh. You tapped the screen and nothing.
It had run out of battery, god knows how many hours ago and you didn’t even realise.
“You wanna know how I know it wasn’t on?” she taunts
“Wha-“ she was quick to cut you off
“I don’t think I have ever received so many messages and calls from him than I have over the past few hours” she confesses “better yet I don’t think I’ve ever received so many messages from anyone. Ever”
“He’s been on at me non stop Y/N, he’s trying to get through to you” Her tone was soft, her gaze on you was sad “He’s worried about you, we all are”
“I’m fine” you shrugged “just tired”
Emily glanced over her shoulder, returning her attention back to you as she threw her hands up in exclamation
“oh! I was just checking if there was someone behind me or that was actually me you thought you could lie to”
“Very funny” you scoffed “just please don’t tell Spencer, he has enough on his plate and I don’t want him to worry”
You pushed yourself off the wall to head back to your desk, stopping in your tracks as you noticed the grimace on her face
“Emily.” You pressed “promise me, you won’t tell Spencer”
All she did was fold her arms, scratching just above her eyebrow as she shrugs “I can promise not to tell him again”
“Wha-“ you were cut off by an all too familiar cough from behind you, your eyes widening as Emily offers you a weak smile
“sorry” was all she could mouth as you shut your eyes in anticipation
Before you could stop yourself, your body had turned to now face a disheveled looking Spencer stood before you.
“Spence!” You exclaimed, pushing down your anxieties and worries as you walked towards him, arms open, ready to pull him into you when you noticed the furrow between his brows
“You don’t think I worry about you?” He questioned, hands shoved into his pockets as his glare down on you was enough to stun you
“Spencer I ju-“ you tried to explain.
Was he annoyed with you?
“Have you eaten?” His tone was sharp
“Yes!” You hit back
“Garcia actually bought in some cupcakes this morning so I had one with sprinkles for breakfast”
He stared over the top of your head, glancing behind you with a shrug on his lips
“the one that’s still on your desk, a small bite taken out of the side? Probably stale and crusted on the edges. That one?”
You swallowed, folding your arms to try and distance yourself
“Have you had any water?”
You rolled your eyes at his questioning, confused if he was stood in front of you because he actually cared or was just trying to make a point
“yes, next question”
His brows were raised, clearly not expecting you to answer so soon or so bluntly
“Baby, I’m not trying to be difficult”
You watched as his whole demeanour changed in a split second, his shoulders dropped as his eyes softened, his hand reaching to cup your chin, forcing you to look at him.
“I just need to know you’re taking care of yourself when I’m not here”
“Spence, I don’t need you to look after me” you hissed “I’m not a child”
The hand that was lightly hooked under your chin dropped to your waist, a slight pull to bring you into him as his other hand reached run along your jawline.
“How do you feel about your plants when you go away?”
You furrowed your brows in confusion, scanning his face, expecting him to crack a smile but he remained serious.
“Spence, wh-“ you tried to interject but he was quick to cut you off
“Just answer the question”
You huffed “I worry they won’t get the proper care and attention they need and won’t grow”
You realised his point as the words fell from your lips, the corners of his mouth pulling into a soft smile as he knew you were understanding his methods
“That isn’t the same thing” you chuckled, lightly pushing your hands on his chest as you left them there to rest against him “I’m not a plant Spence, I’m an adult”
“Right, but when I’m away, all I do is think about you” he rambled.
Fighting your mind from focusing on the feeling of his thumbs padding into the now slightly exposed skin at the bottom of your shirt
“We spoke on the phone this morning and you said you were fine, so imagine my surprise when Emily tells me you’re struggling”
You had to take a second to look away, unable to face the disappointed glare he was shooting you.
“You didn’t even think to tell me?”
“If Dr Spencer Reid couldn’t detect it in my voice through a phone, he’s a terrible profiler” you tried to crack a joke, falling very heavily on an unamused Spencer.
Silence fell over the pair of you as you sighed
“You were busy”
“Baby, please look at me” his hand returned to the side of your face, a light nudge to return your attention to him.
“I am never too busy when it comes to you”
You could hear the hurt in his voice, followed with his puppy dog eyes in full affect as he stares down at you.
“You got that?”
You nodded, allowing your head to fall and rest into his chest, Inhaling the scent you called home.
“I’m sorry” was all you could muster, unsure if he even heard you as his jacket probably drowned out the sorry attempt of your voice
You felt him drop a kiss to the top of your head, confirming he did in fact hear you.
“I don’t need you to be sorry pretty girl, I just want you to tell me when you’re struggling so I can help”
You retracted from his chest, eyes roaming over his features that were filled with such adoration for you with a soft smile.
“Promise you’ll do that for me?”
You nodded “I promise”
You lightly chuckled as he held up his little finger “if there’s one thing I was taught, it was that you can never break a pinky promise”
You hooked your finger into his, watching as his lips planted a soft kiss to your intertwined grip
“Come here” he grinned, bringing his hand to the back of your head to pull you into him, finally pressing his lips onto yours.
“Now” he stuttered between peppering kisses over your face “show me where these cupcakes are”.
#spencer reid one shot#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid angst#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid thoughts#spencer reid fanfic#dr spencer reid#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x self insert#spencer reid x fanfiction#spencer reid x fem!readr
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Can u do early seasons spencer x reader who has a lot of problems and they let people walk all over them and they dont set boundaries and they struggle with their emotions. Reader likes spencer a lot but doesn't seek him out bc they feel like he deserves better! And u can decide what happens but make it happy ending :)
Oh my word, I literally spent like 2 hours writing this because I wrote something and then my internet cut out when I posted and now it's lost, so I had to rewrite it. Hope you enjoy!
Cw: gn reader, people dumping work on reader, Spencer being cute
Enjoy!
You were a doormat. You knew it, your friends knew it, everyone knew it. You tried to set boundaries, to say no, but it never seemed to stick. Saying no made you feel guilty, it made you feel like a bad person even though you knew you weren't.
Being a doormat, people tended to walk all over you, requesting ridiculous things of you. That is how it came to be that you were sitting alone in the bullpen, the clock ticking away, showing you that it was around midnight and you still had a whole stack of papers to go through. You felt yourself about to fall asleep, and truly, you were too tired to fight it off when a ding signaled the arrival of someone.
Without even turning to look who it was you knew it was Spencer Reid. You recognized his footsteps, and even if you didn't, the smell he brought with him would have alerted you. It was the smell of coffee mixed sweet undertones, almost as if he had spent his whole day in a café. It was intoxicating. "What are you still doing here?" "Working, I have a lot of stuff to finish before tomorrow" "you mean today" looking back at the clock you could see he was right, it was now officially the next day.
"Do you need some help?" without even waiting for you to decline Spencer took half of the pile you were working on. He moved fast, knowing you well enough to know that you hated asking for help, especially from him, he just could never figure out why.
"Spencer, you really don't need to, I've got this" reaching your hands to take the files back only to be swatted away by the doctor was something you did not expect. "I'm not saying you don't have it, I'm just going to help you so you can go home earlier"
Sighing you admitted defeat and went to go make coffee for the two of you. With Spencer's help you managed to make it through the massive stack of papers on your desk in less that an hour, something you would never have been able to do on your own.
"You, doctor Spencer Reid, are amazing, what can I do to thank you?" it was a slight tease on your part. You didn't expect him to ask you anything return, it wasn't like him, he was too nice . That was one of the things you loved about him, and one of the reasons you willed the crush growing in your heart to shrivel up and die. He deserved so much better than you. Someone with a mind as amazing as his own, someone with kindness rivaling his and someone who knew how to say no. You were none of those. At least not in your own eyes.
"You could go on a date with me" Spencer surprised himself with those words, he really hadn't meant to say them out loud, but he really liked you, and in a moment of confidence inspired by sleep deprevation, he decided to take a chance.
"Really? You mean it?" the both of you were blushing hard at this point, him thinking about how he could have possibly screwed this up and you thinking about how this could possibly get any better.
"I-I mean, only if you want to, you really don't have to feel pressured, I know I said I would take it as paiment, but honestly spending time with you was enough of a payme-" grabbing his face in your hands you turned him to look at you, shutting off his ramblings with the movement and shutting off his brain with your words
"I would love to"
#dr spencer reid#spencer reid x reader#doctor spencer reid#bau#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds fic#criminal minds#criminal minds fluff
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Walking in on You - Matt Sturniolo Smut (request)
Matt Sturniolo x reader
Word count: 1.6k
Warnings: eating out, riding, profanities, and more...
A/N: Uhm... yeah, this one got away from me. I did not plan for it to be this long, but here we are lmaooo Thanks for the love recently, hope you enjoy this one!!
***
You laughed as you and Matt entered the backstage room.
“Why did you have to mention my biggest fear? You know they’re going to use that against me now.”
Your boyfriend chuckled. “You don’t know that, babe.”
“But you do.” You shot him a look, both eyebrows raised and your lips pressed in a firm line. “They’re going to pull a prank on me.”
His blue eyes looked deeply into yours as a smirk set on his lips and he rested his hands on your shoulders. “They’re not going to, (y/n).”
You rolled your eyes with a small scoff. You turned the TV on and put on HULU, then grabbed your laptop out of your backpack by the couch. Was it an item you should’ve left lying around here? Probably not, but you only left to go eat food after the three did a soundcheck and rehearsal.
“What should we watch?” You asked as you signed into your account.
Matt narrowed his eyes at you and sat down on the couch. “Don’t you have writing to do?”
You thought about it, then shook your head. “Nope.”
“I think you do,” he replied, a little knowingly. “Look, I’ve never been, like, good at getting work done, but you should do it.”
You shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Now Matt shoots you a look, similar to yours earlier, but way more sassy. It was sexy the way he crooked one brow and slightly scrunched up his nose.
Once again, you rolled your eyes at him, and removed your shoes. Basically your way of doubling down on the fact you didn’t have work to do. (But you did, definitely did. That paper was due at the end of the week, and it was Tuesday.)
“Matt, watching one episode won’t kill me. How about Rick and Morty?” You clicked on the resume button for Rick and Morty and it began to play the next episode from where you left off.
Matt sighs heavily, being dramatic, and glides a hand through his hair, failing to keep it out of his face. “Yeah, yeah… But after, okay? The agreement was you’d keep up with classes if you came on tour, babe.”
You put your hands up in defense. “Okay.” You smiled and cuddled up next to him to watch your thirty minutes of freedom before homework.
***
You groaned as you saw the ending credits roll and the next episode got ready to play. It was writing time, or maybe not. You had your mind on naughty things since he made that sexy expression.
Matt looked down at you. “Homework time.”
“Or…” You moved to straddle him and lazily draped your arms on his shoulders. “We could make out a little. That always gets the juices flowing.”
He giggled under his breath. “You really don’t want to do it?”
“Hell no. It’s too much thinking, but this isn’t.” You leaned in, closing your eyes, and kissed his lips softly. As your kisses continued, you tangled your fingers in his fluffy collocks and brushed against his covered cock. You released your hair out of its pulled back style as you repeated your slow, pressure intensifying movements.
Your hair slightly fell in your face, but instinctively, Matt brushed it back with his hot hands. You loved his hands. You’d love him to touch every square inch of your body with them.
“I want you,” you breathed, twirling your tongue with his.
In one fairly swift movement, Matt had you lying on your back and he was on top. Your lips smashed together, more feverishly now. His throb rested against your covered heat. You couldn’t stop the small moan from escaping. Fuck, he made you go crazy.
Suddenly, Matt pulled back and he attempted to catch his breath as he shook his head. “You need t- to do homework.”
You scoffed a little. “Matt, for fuck sakes. You’d rather watch me write an essay than fuck me?” You tugged him back down by his sweater and kissed him. “I’d rather fuck first,” you whispered into his ear.
The two of you tug his sweater and tee combo off and brushed your lips together again. Fuck, they melted with yours so easily and tasted so sweet. It helped that he had ice cream for dessert.
Matt’s lips curled into a small smile against yours and, without notice, his hand rested on your heat beneath your jeans. Soft circles from his hand caused your insides to burn. You still wanted skin contact though. When you were going to reach down to take his hand and slip it underneath your lace, he pulled back.
“Matt,” you whined.
He chuckled as he made hot butterfly kisses down your neck. His slight facial hair tickled and you tried not to giggle. He stopped short because of your sweatshirt. He pushed it up and you took the liberty to tug it off from there. Now, Matt continued his kisses as he played with the straps of your tank, revealing the straps to your bra. He placed kisses on your mostly exposed chest.
“Matt, I love your lips, but I’d rather have your hands.”
“You sure about that?” he asked, eyeing your lower area and licked his lips.
You let out a slow, low breath and swallowed hard. “I feel like my answer is irrelevant either way.”
He smirked and his hands found their way to remove your jeans. His face disappeared between your legs, all you could see was his hair. It wasn’t long before there was the sensation of his tongue and lips. Every little flick, lick, and kiss caused your body to shake, and you tried to control your breathing. You didn’t want to come too early and give him that satisfaction. But fuck he was so good and knew exactly how to play with your pussy.
“I… I want you… inside. Not thi- Fuck. Yes… Yes… Matthew!” You reached down to grip his hand that held your hip as your toes curled. You grunted to suppress the urge to moan loudly. All the aches rolled into pleasures.
Matt reappeared, wiping his mouth, and a cocky grin was placed on his face. He moved back up to kiss you on the lips.
“Fuck you.”
He laughed under his breath as he unbuttoned and unzipped his baggy jeans, and then he pushed them down. Your kisses were getting sloppy, but that didn’t matter as you felt him push his tip in. You grabbed his shoulders and pushed him in deeper.
A sweet groan escaped Matt’s lips. “Fuck, baby.”
His skin against yours riveted as your motions worked together. Matt started to speed up, but you shook your head. You breathed, “Keep it slow, baby… Oh, god, keep it slow.”
You moved to sit up so you could ride him and control the grinds more. You whipped your hair back as you kept the pulses going. Your body screamed in the hot flesh. Matt’s hands found their way to your back and unclipped your bra. You let it fall and he pulled you in to place kisses everywhere on your chest; taking more focus on your sensitive nipples. His tongue flicked them and it caused your body to shudder.
It suddenly occurred to you that anyone out in the hallway passing would most likely hear you. At least the sound of the TV drowned you out a little.
You could feel yourself ready to come. You were so close. “Babe, come with me.”
“I’m fucking trying, babe.” Matt laughed under his breath. He seemed to focus more and he lightly moaned as he tilted his head back with his hands on your divots. His rings were going to leave imprints on your sides for sure.
For his benefit, you made your thrust pace a little faster and, instantly, he picked back up. You gripped onto anything you could as pants barely escaped your lips.
“Fuck, (y/n),” he whimpered.
You giggled breathlessly and it was then you both reached your heights. You enclosed him as he stiffened. You felt the lower half of your body shake as aching moans left your hot lips. Your eyes studied each other before you kissed again, and danced your tongues together slowly.
You cradled into him as you sat on his lap, enjoying some small silence and you lightly tangled your fingertips in his messy hair. His fingertips brushed on your shoulders and drew designs.
“I love you, Matt,” you sighed contently, snuggling your head into the crook of his neck. You closed your eyes and hugged your arms. Matt’s arms instinctively wrapped around you and he kissed your forehead.
“I love you too, (y/n).”
The door to the backroom swung open and your eyes cracked wide open. “Don’t come in!”
“Don’t look, bro!” Matt exclaimed, his voice cracking a little. “Get the fuck out!”
“What? Why?” Nick questioned, not pleading to your warning. He took one glance, an immediate disgusted look crossing his face, and yelled, “No. Absolutely not. What the actual FUCK is wrong with you two?” Then he slammed the door shut.
There was another yell, “THE BACKROOM HAS BEEN TAINTED. NO ONE GO IN THERE. I REPEAT, DO NOT GO IN THERE. UNLESS YOU WANT YOUR EYES TO MELT INTO YOUR SOCKETS.”
The two of you gave each other nervous looks and then laughed.
“Should we, like, go after him?” you asked.
Matt kissed the side of your head, then your nose, and then your lips. “No, that was a sign. Homework, babe.”
You made a long, dragged out huff. “Fine.” You got up to put your sweatshirt and panties back on as he also got slightly more decent. Then you pulled your laptop closer to you. “Can I sit on your lap and write?”
Matt giggled and waved you over. “Always, babe.”
#matt sturniolo#matt sturniolo smut#matt sturniolo x reader#matt sturniolo request#request#smut#a little fluff#nick sturniolo#sturniolo triplets#sturniolo triplets request#imagine
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VISCERA. floyd leech
Held in Floyd’s hand is a single fish fork. It incandesces like a lamp, and when you blink, the contour is burnt on your inner eyelids. “Can I taste you?”
OR; Floyd is trying and failing to confess to Mostro Lounge's new line-cook.
tags: cooking, not actually unrequited love, courting rituals, cannibalistic thoughts, developing relationships, food as a metaphor for love, blood kink, first kiss, wingman jade, underage smoking, culinary crucible (twst), they're sooo in love ur honor
word count: 17,686
You do not like the look in Azul’s eyes. To be frank, you do not think you have once seen a favorable expression on the roulette wheel of masks Azul Ashengrotto wears. So, backtracking, you have never liked the look in Azul’s eyes (even more so now).
This one you have seen before: right at the point where the words ‘I heard if someone makes a deal with you, you’ll grant any wish’ fell from your mouth when you wanted to snip anemones off Grim, Deuce, and Ace’s heads.
Originally, you did not have the drive to save all two hundred and twenty-five students. Only those three. Even with the title Prefect, you could have cared less about NRC’s student body until Azul sought to amp up the risk and reward. You accepted his offer for thrill and entertainment, loving the taste of it.
Now, you stand in the VIP room with that similar atmosphere perfuming the air. Old paper and pen ink, the scent of an odious deal about to be struck. You challenge Azul’s self-assured look with an equally authoritative simmer. Your expressions size each other up like claymores on a battlefield. Azul is the first one to break first. He raises a hand and says, “Jade. Floyd. You are dismissed.” He even sends away his reinforcements in this warfare.
Leaving himself vulnerable like that? … No, backtrack again, Azul is far from a vulnerable student.
“Aw, but I wanna hear her answer!”
“Come now, Floyd. We shall be made aware of their decision at a later time.”
“No fun Azul.” Still, the door closes behind the twins. Now, it is just you and Azul alone. Like two shipwrecked survivors in a rowing boat. You are sure he knows you will go for the jugular upon the sight or scent of blood.
He gestures towards the space between you two, two sofas and a table. “Prefect, why don’t –”
“I’ll stand.”
Ah, Azul thinks fondly, that callousness that managed to ensnare one of Octavinelle’s slipperiest and mischievous fish. Still. A knot forms in Azul’s cheek in vexation. Your audacity and Azul’s are matched up so evenly that he almost wonders if you two share the same Zodiac sign.
“So be it.”
You cross your arms as Azul continues. “A talent of yours has been brought to my attention. I was hoping that we could discuss it peacefully,” his blue eyes narrow, taking your stone-like stature, “without any hostility … But, no matter, it is still worth discussing.”
“I thought the Ramshackle dorm is the only asset of mine that has value.” Your posture shifts, straightening. “If it has to Aduece or Grim, you can forget it.”
“Aduece …? Um, no, nothing of the sort. It is strictly something brought to my attention during –”
There is this thing about Octavinelle. More like Octavinelle’s atmosphere. It clings in the air like a heavy candle scent, suctioning itself to the wallpaper, aquarium tank glass panels, and each stitch of the Octavinelle uniform. Something that stalks like a shark. It is a presence you label: viscera.
A stomach and intestines is a viscera and a viscera is a stomach and intestines. You feel if you ever drop your armor around Octavinelle, gastrointestinal acid will come to consume you. The jaws tunneling down to the belly of Jonah’s whale is just a show of weakness away. It is why you act so callous now.
You always try to keep yourself schooled in the trio’s presence. “--During the Culinary Crucible.” And with that, viscera returns to you when those words leave Azul’s mouth. You feel like you just drank spoiled milk. Before he can accuse you of anything, you speak.
“You were one of my judges. I hope you aren’t going to make a baseless acquisition like food-poisoning. Remember, two other people ate what I served you.”
“I also remember, quite clearly, that you were one of the four students able to get a perfect score of thirty.”
Spoiled milk is too weak of a rotten flavor. You feel like you have just dug into a garbage bin and picked the last mold-crusted food item, all the way at the bottom of the barrel, sponging up all other rotten seasonings. To have something of yours peak Azul's interest again … it is not a nice taste. You are quick to shut down what you know has probably already been formulating in Azul’s head.
“Dumb luck. Floyd also got a perfect score.” Him, Trey, Jamil, and yourself.
“You seem to forget I was one of your judges too. I thought you had a more effective memory than that, Prefect.”
Floyd getting a perfect score could be more closely aligned to dumb luck than you. Which is not to say it was dumb luck. Nonetheless, stars and planets happened to align as Floyd was in a good mood while cooking and Jade was a judge out of three others; it just happened. Your food though? Azul runs a restaurant. He can taste experience and talent on the edge of a fork.
Coupled with your experience and talent, you are not an ignorant individual either. Which is why you sit down, imaging that this conversation is going to drag. You ignore Azul’s smile.
Elbows on knees, you drill in, “So, what? You want me to replicate a meal for you? Getting the twins to drag me here is a bit excessive for another bite of lamb and oysters.”
“I would rather monopolize that talent beyond just one simple meal. You’re thinking too small, Prefect.”
“You’re thinking too big.”
You really wish you had magic, just to reverse time. Even if you were a mage, you doubt you would even have the skill to master such a complex spell. But, you would master it. To reverse time and find a way to get a different judge not named Azul Ashengrotto. The line-up for your judges at the Culinary Crucible was three housewardens: Riddle Rosehearts, Kalim Al-Asim, and Azul Ashengrotto. Grim had panicked at the trio, thinking both of you would be losing your elective credit. As always, you took the reins and got you both out of the whale’s stomach before digestion.
“I was thinking: the fruits of your talents are quite wasted. Who do you cook for? That ungrateful cat-beast has no refined palate; he would eat table scraps if presented to him. Ace and Deuce, neither of them are grateful for the meals you must provide. You are surely underappreciated.”
“Wow, you clearly don’t think at all.” You eye a section of the VIP room in exasperation, close enough to the eye-roll you desperately want to do. “You think – what? – I don’t get enough thank you’s and I’m suddenly going to do what exactly?”
Azul almost deflates. It is surprising how easy you can sometimes manage to get him that way. He chooses to straighten a few pencils on his desk as a means to straighten and iron out the imperfections of his approach. Glasses tilted down, Azul answers, “I mean no offense to your friends. But, I think you are not getting proper payment. No, that I know.”
“Unbelievable.” You tsk, falling into the embrace of the seat. “You think the world runs on money.”
“Does it not?”
“...”
“Your silence tells me all I need to know.”
“You want me to work at the Lounge, don’t you?”
“Yes. A much better use of your talents, don’t you think?”
In your head, you imagine the taste of umami takoyaki. A cleaver is raised with the vindication of a French guillotine; when judgment falls, it hits the thick part of Azul’s upper arm. Which would be more ironic: selling Azul’s body parts or eating them?
Below you, your foot taps on the wooden floor. A restless rabbit pittering that gives the housewarden some insight into your otherwise stone expression. Azul must be so certain that you are thinking of throwing in the towel right then and there. Really, you are thinking of Ruggie. Ruggie and the Intra-school Competition. For that time briefly, he had worked in Mostro Lounge, wearing his ceremony robes.
You and Ruggie are very close, lesser than the trio you had dubbed your own, but still more than your other first-years. So one day, he regaled you with the story of working for Azul Ashengrotto just to fill up talking space.
The situation of the broken glass and Floyd’s moodiness. The situation of the kitchen lacking people and Azul having to send servers into the back to help cook. Those are two factors you really have to roll around in your head. You do not like to be rushed and you are wary of Floyd’s penduluming moods.
Though Ruggie has a positive outlook of the rewards he reaps from that time, you do not think you can handle working in Mostro Lounge. You squeeze by with the money you make. However, “You pay well?”
“I assure you will have proper compensation for your labor.”
“Could you stop being scummy and just tell me the hourly rate?”
“For your skills – if they aren’t dumb luck – you’re looking at twenty-eight per hour.”
You know what? The world really does run on money.
While not an expert at mental math, even you know that with just a twenty hour work week, that kind of money would shift the motion of your boat, put more wind under your sails. Monetary motivation is perhaps the most powerful thing in the world.
Expression still schooled, you contemplate it. Accepting this … you imagine yourself tiny, using a tongue as a diving-board into a devilish pit of gnashing teeth and churning tentacles. Right into the belly of the beast. The conjured up image makes you want to shudder. Instead, your soft enamels move and your tongue articulates, “I’m gonna need smoke breaks every two hours.”
Oddly enough, out of all the times you pressed him, this one catches Azul by visible surprise. “Sm-Smoke breaks? … why, I suppose that is acceptable.” That is far from unreasonable, surprising but not unreasonable. “I’m glad that we could come to –”
“And I’m going to need more time to even consider it. That isn’t a yes. I’m outlining terms.”
“Perfectly fine. I was actually going to outline this,” you and Azul lock eyes. “Just in case what I tasted was dumb luck, in a week, I wanted you to return to Mostro Lounge during closing hours. You’ll cook a meal for three judges again, myself included. Then, this conversation will become serious.”
“I will not sign a contract.”
“This is employment; no contract is required. You labor – cook. I pay. Such is the usual transaction of jobs.”
Despite the feeling of a tongue slimming itself across your spine and teeth nibbling on your toes like garra rufa, you think that does not sound too devastating.
A week passes; you decide to keep your discussion with Azul concealed to yourself. There is this epidemic going around NRC called the lost art of keeping a secret. You decide for your mental well-being that you will wait for a week to pass, serve your meal to Azul and two other mysterious persons, and then, spill your guts to Ace, Deuce, and Grim.
You have a close call though, guts almost prematurely ripped from your abdomen. The familiar feeling of teeth on your jugular creeps up onto you in the cafeteria. Fingers agile, you press your plastic fork into another’s jugular and greet him, “Hi Floyd.”
Held hostage by your plastic fork dug into his throat, Floyd smiles and cheers, “Shrimpyyy! Thought I could surprise you this time.”
“Nah, not fast enough. Next time though.” You smile sweetly..
You do not hate Floyd Leech. Though, he is far from your favorite student. The label of friendship does not really fit on him (despite the fact he thinks the opposite). Out of everyone in Octavinelle, the presence of viscera glues itself to him. Carnivorous teeth coupled with his predator adroitness screams belly of the beast to you.
Which is why you fend him off with a plastic fork.
“Hehehe, next time then,” Floyd grins. He leans in, uncaring of how plastic folds on his pallid throat. “Azul-y told me that ya remembered I got a perfect score.”
For a second, you have no idea what he is talking about. You share a grand amount of two classes with Floyd; you do not remember him getting perfect marks in either subjects. Until it dawns on you, that far-off conversation with Azul, the Culinary Crucible. For some reason, your neck feels warm as if you should not have made that observation; like noticing Floyd’s perfect score is a rude thing to do. “Ah. Yeah, I did. Good job again.”
Floyd laughs; you feel the noise through the connection of fork and skin, finally lowering it at the sensation. “Shrimpy did pretty good too. Ya gonna cook me something sometime? Not fair that Azul is the only one who got to taste your cookin’.”
You lower your voice to a suspicious whisper as a thought dawns on you. “... Hey, why does Azul need me working there if you cook so good?”
Unlike Azul, you had not been mystified by food at the Culinary Crucible. During the entire ordeal of being transported to a tropical beach via book, Floyd had cooked at the abandoned cottage. You had been amazed by his skills, gorging yourself on the delicious spread.
His eyes shift up to the left, avoiding your slight interrogation. Almost hiding something. “Eeeh, I don’t know. Azul’s always complainin’ even though he can barely cook. His food is super boring; Shrimpy’s probably tastes better.”
“Talk to Azul about it. I’m sure it can be – Grim, paws off my food.” You brandish your makeshift fork-slash-claymore at your little beast.
“Ah, but I want Shrimpy to cook for me because they wanna.”
“Heh, yeah,” you trail off, unsure of how to respond to that. Mostly failing to come up with a response because you cannot see a possibility of that ever happening. “Like I said, um, Azul.” And that is all you really can articulate because, that’s a cool thought but I can’t see myself cooking for him.
Besides; to you, love is an ingredient stored in the kitchen. And, to you, love is about finding people to be in the kitchen with. Your philosophies do not synchronize with your feelings with Floyd Leech.
“Mmm,” Floyd hums, dissatisfied with your answer. He watches you place your fork down; glances at Baby Seal who has been watching this go down (Ace and Deuce still in the cafeteria line). “Guess I’ll just have to wait to taste Shrimpy’s cookin’ on Sunday, hehe. Caaan’t wait!”
“What’s on Sunday? –”
“I suppose you will. Bye for now, Floyd,” you interrupt Grim.
“See ya, Shrimpy.” He leaves you with a peace-sign.
Slowly, the feeling of being slobbered on like a squeak-toy in a dog’s mouth ebbs. The indent of teeth loosen with each step that Floyd takes, rejoining Jade and Azul outside the cafeteria entrance. When Ace asks what that is all about, you threaten him too with your plastic fork. Sometimes, a girl has business of her own to take care of, your fork emphasizes to the trio. Thus, you manage to keep it secret despite hiccups.
Eventually, Floyd’s statement does come to fruition. Because like you said, a week has passed. On Sunday, he gets to taste your cooking because: “I didn’t know you two were the other judges.”
“Aw, not excited to see us,” Floyd asks with a fake frown. He is leaning over your shoulder, hands in his pockets, and looking far too much like a vulture.
“Did you honestly expect someone else,” Jade asks, following you inside.
Despite the fact they were assigned to guide you in, you take up the front and walk with purpose into the stomach. Mostro Lounge has finally closed and you trudge into it, yawning. Sections of blue lighting twist up the ceiling like a tunneling rib-cage. When blue gleams on Jade’s smile, more importantly on his teeth, you think of viscera.
Rolling your shoulder, you reply, “Guess I didn’t put much thought into it.”
“At least, you came prepared with some strategy. I imagine that must have taken up priority in your mind.”
“Not at all.” The toothpick clenched in your teeth wobbles with your words. Floyd giggles happily; his contagious high-pitched giggle has you fighting back a smile. You manage to knock the mirth away when yours and Azul’s eyes collide. “You two will just have to see if I’m as good as he claims. Isn’t that right, Azul?”
“Seriously, Prefect, did you come here with zero preparation?”
“I was busy with schoolwork. Piss off.”
Azul lets out a tired sigh. You shuffle in front of him, body like the condiments in a sandwich between six-foot-one eel-mer-shaped bread. “So, I’m assuming this is going to be more or less like the Culinary Crucible. I’ll cook, you three will judge. Sounds simple enough.”
“Yes, that is the gist of it. Floyd, if you will.”
“Here ya go, Shrimpy.”
In front of you is Floyd’s hat turned upside down like a beached turtle. Inside lie about twenty or so folded slips of paper. The eel-mer uses the proximity to touch his bicep to yours. So moving that hand off the point of contact, you reach in. “Cioppino with mussels,” you read from the paper. “That’s relatively an easy meal … Give me another slip of paper.”
“But, why?” Azul questions.
“But I’m not going to cook unless I have a challenge,” you say. Over your shoulders, Floyd grins wide at your words almost as if in agreement.
“Now,” Jade pushes your hand back into the hat before you can unfold the second slip of paper. “While I may understand your reasoning, it is quite late. We delegated to write down meals that could be cooked in under an hour. All of them are easy.”
“C’mon, let Shrimpy pick another, Jade.”
“Floyd.”
“Fiiine.”
“Fiiine,” you whine in a matching tone, looking at the Nunito font spelling out the meal you have to make. You frown when realizing you and Floyd accidentally matched up. Before anything can be said, you direct a question at Azul, “Can I listen to music? They didn’t let me at the Culinary Crucible.”
“Of course. However you wish to go about artistic expression, don’t let me stop that.”
“Thanks.”
From the closed door, the sound of guitar that more closely resembles the sound of a chainsaw starts up, horridly grating. Like a surgeon orchestrating with his tools of carnage. Commencing this operatic butchery of a feast. Body and blood.
Loitering, you start to thumb an unheard beat on the bakery box in hand. In your mouth, a toothpick swings up and down and tumbles left to right like a gymnast. Students file past you to enter the classroom you are waiting by and … ugh, why is this taking so long!
Quickly and a bit peeved, you check your phone. You and him agreed upon this time before Defense Magic class could start. The bell should ring in about five minutes and he should have been here five minutes ago.
Glancing into the open doorway where a long fighting platform and multiple seats await, you consider just leaving it on his desk. If you do that then you can still make it to your next class … you are just about to jump in to fluidly join the swimming crowd walking in the class when —
“SHRIMPY!!!”
The toothpick in your mouth breaks into splinters, guillotined by your teeth.
Cradling fallen wooden bits in your hand, you look up at Floyd with an expression that is beyond peeved. It does little to deter him. Hands in his pockets and brother shoulder to shoulder with him, Floyd stalks over to you energetically, grinning wide.
“Hello Prefect.”
“You switchin’ to a second year class, little shrimp? Defense Magic gets a bit rowdy, hehe.”
“Hi Jade. Hi Floyd. No, I’m waiting for someone right now.”
“Aw, Shrimpy, ya miss me that much?”
“If you were so eager to see us before your first day at the Lounge, you only need to say so, Prefect.”
Oh, backtracking, you got the job. Another perfect score of thirty. You start later this afternoon … that is all normal and expected.
There is this odd thing that has been bugging you though. After you had presented the dishes, toweling down your hands and asking for a smoke break, you came back to see: Jade ate the entire meal, scraping the plate clean like a suctioning tube; Azul ate but left a reasonable amount of leftovers that were both alternatively acceptable to trash or save; Floyd took a few careful nibbles then left the rest untouched. Guess I’ll just have to wait to taste Shrimpy’s cookin’ on Sunday, hehe. Caaan’t wait! Such untrue words. Why even say something like that if he would just pick at it like a finicky child?
It seems Floyd never has a long-lasting objective.
Holding the bakery box with one hand, you reach in your pocket to discard your broken toothpick and grab a new one. As you do, Floyd folds cursory arms over your head, leaning over you like a bar-table to talk to his brother.
“Caaan’t believe it; Shrimpy’s big day in the ocean blue starts today.”
“Yes, I’m sure it will be quite interesting.”
“All that delicious food … I should show her how to make takoyaki.”
“Now, Floyd, she must follow along with the orders placed.”
“Aw, boooring.”
“Who's gonna be training me?”
“I believe Azul designated the job to Floyd.”
“Aha ha, hear that Shrimpy? We get to hang out all night tonight~” Floyd leans in a way that you can see his wide, visceral grin.
A human has a set of thirty-two made of enamel and root cementum. Omnivorous with molars in the back for plants along with incisors and canines in the front for meat. Floyd has a set of forty-two teeth. Quite unlike humans, his teeth are made of cartilage – a human body could never adapt to safely chew with cartilage-made teeth. Floyd’s teeth shine in a glass-esque glow.
And: “you got something in your teeth” you say to him, pointing to your own mouth. Because there is a medium-sized piece of something wedged between his glimmering teeth.
“Huh?”
You watch him momentarily jam a fingernail in his mouth, trying to find whatever you are pointing out. And completely missing the mark too. He is so annoying. It is on the bottom row of teeth, not the top, you seethe.
“Ugh, let me.”
Downward, the bakery box finds the floor. Instead of just one, you shake two bamboo toothpicks out of your pack. One flips easily into your mouth and the other pirouettes between middle and index. By the lapel of his incorrectly put on jacket, you pull Floyd down to your height. “It’s not even in your top row of teeth,” you scold. “Open.”
Your command is ignored. It surprisingly seems like Floyd will never open his mouth again. Tight-lipped and staring, his mismatched eyes look at you like you have suddenly grown an extra head. Then, a slow mounting blush grows on his face that peaks at crimson. Hell, the whites of his eyes almost glow when backdropped by the flush on his face.
Did the temperature spike or something? You are at a comfortable temperature. It is certainly odd – your train of thought ends when Jade checks behind you, “My, how scandalous. And right in the middle of the hallway too. I never thought of you as such an audacious person, (Name).”
“Huh?” You raise an unamused eyebrow at Jade. Your own toothpick in mouth tilts down in ire. “You know what, forget it. Look stupid the rest of the day.”
Serves you right for trying to help … stupid twins.
“Wh – Wait! I’ll open my mouth!” Floyd’s tongue lolls out.
Ah, it seems the temperature has spiked. This is why you try not to interact with Octavinelle and all their consuming ways. And because! “Your fucking teeth! Dude, I just need to see your teeth!” Jade’s laughter grows in volume.
Eventually, a bit pissy that this has become a whole ordeal, you manage to get the piece out of Floyd’s teeth. Both of you share a bit of warmth on your faces.
The toothpick is flicked into the trash inside the Defense Magic classroom. You want to forget all about this interaction already.
“Thanks Shrimpy. You’re a lifesaver!” Floyd gives a big, boyish grin, all forty-two of his teeth cleaned. Pink is still a sandstorm dusting on his cheeks.
You look away from Floyd with a twitch in your cheek. Finally – “Ruggie!” The hyena’s ears twitch on the top of his head. You pick up the bakery box of donuts from the ground and meet him halfway. “You’re late,” but you scold Ruggie with a smile rather than a frown.
“Sorry, Leona had me running an impromptu errand. Work never ends.”
“Oh, I know what you mean.”
And you and Ruggie share a bone-deep sigh, despite smiling, that only Leona’s and Crowley’s errand-runner could possibly sympathize with on equal footing.
“Well, payment as arranged,” you say, going to hand Ruggie his payment when – “Jade!”
“Oya, was this the person you were waiting for, Prefect?”
“Yes, now give that back.”
“You said this was payment? What an unusual transaction. I wonder what it could be for.” He opens up the bakery box. Six different types of donuts stare back at him.
You stare right alongside them. You would rather not have him or his brother knowing that you get study guides from Ruggie. In exchange for them, you bake Ruggie donuts and other sweets. Information like that would be valuable to Azul. You remember Deuce, Grim, and Ace taking study guides from Azul in November; you are smart enough to make deals with less odious individuals.
You can even imagine what Jade would say upon learning you require help in your classes, “My brother and I would be happy to tutor you, Prefect.” Why Jade includes his brother when trying to interact with you, you will never know. You doubt Floyd could sit still for one math equation.
“Keep wondering,” then, you retrieve the bakery box from Jade with a huffing puff.
Yet before you can even give Ruggie his payment, an arm hooks around your neck in a chokehold. Gasping startled, you look up to see Floyd’s fluorescent smile hanging above you like the moon on a riverbank. Yet when he speaks, he does not look at you.
“See ya tonight, Shrimpy?”
“Um … yeah.”
“‘Kay Shrimpy! Hehehe!”
As you walk off, you rub your neck wondering what that was all about.
You are prepared like someone might put the finishing touches on a cake. Azul gives you your Octavinelle hat and apron while Jade explains how they go about business. A slip of paper from Jade tells you the connection between abbreviations and meals.
“But if you have any questions on what a certain abbreviation stands for, Floyd will assist you.” You then asked why you would need help; they all personally tasted how capable you were at making meals. Abbreviations are relatively easy to understand too. Jade simply laughed before opening two swinging doors to the kitchen. A tongue lolls out and on the beastly carpet, Floyd stands, dressed up in cooking attire rather than waiter attire.
“Have fun you two,” are the words Jade leaves you with an hour or so ago, standing in the whale’s guts. Fun? You think Floyd is having the most fun out of the two of you because –
Blood hits the floor and soaks into the linoleum. Little stardust sprinkles of red between both of your awestruck bodies. Each droplet holds such a weight that you are almost surprised that the red splatter does not start burning holes through the floor like stomach acid.
Floyd is bent over like he has chronic stomach pain. Teal hair covers his face as he shudders. Backtracking, he was looking at you a minute ago. Pestering you, he had tried to change what you were making. You were not dealing with that. (A knife suddenly falls in the path of Floyd’s hand.
“Please keep your filthy hand to your side of the kitchen.”
“That just makes me wanna touch your side more, Shrimpy.”
“Then, you must also not be fond of your fingers. Unexpected but nothing I cannot work with. A pinch of seasoning and I’m sure even you will be easy to swallow.”
“I have something else you could – FUCK!”)
Now, Floyd is bleeding all over the floor. The metallic stench has you squirming.
Oh, I am getting fired. Or, squeezed. Or, Ace and Deuce are going to find my drowned dead body. The dumpster fire of thought explodes like an atomic bomb when Floyd’s head lifts up. The grin on his face splits from ear to ear. All forty-two teeth catching the light a certain way. Forget all that! I’m going to be eaten alive!! The thought runs a strangely pleasant shiver up your spine.
Is money worth this stress? Because you are dealing with parts of yourself that you do not want to address.
It is the day after and Floyd is staring enraptured at his palm.
Perhaps English language cannot house the absolute devotion that Floyd stares at his palm with; however, Jade believes enraptured is one-fourth close enough given language’s constrictions. His twin brother looks at the innards of his hand with the same expression when he saw fireworks for the first time or experienced the sight of red for the first time. Looking at it like it is the first time he has seen his palm. It is because something new lies on his palm. A new difference between Floyd and himself as identical twins.
Scheming, Jade decides he wants to poke at that wound. So, tearing paper off his notepad, he leaves the pending order with one of the kitchen staff and does not pick up the tray designated for him. Pocketing work, Jade slithers over to the bar.
With his non-dominant right hand, Floyd starts to trace the innard of his palm. That look of enrapturement is so strong now. As if he is only happy when observing that plane of skin. It even changes his eyes, speckles of their natural bioluminescence floating in them. Enraptured so deeply like black-hole is sucking him in.
“Did you happen to forget you have five fingers?” That does not work. Still leaning on the countertop, Floyd glides his hand contently on his palm. “Happen to be missing home?”
That knocks Floyd out of his stupor. “Huh?” On the other side of the countertop, Jade stands at the most empty bar, because customers seem to recognize they aren’t going to get a drink from such a distracted Floyd. Jade smiles politely.
“You are staring at your hand as if you’re trying to will your fins back.”
Jade suspects there is more to it. And he is proven correct when Floyd tights his dominant hand into a fist. The blood-lamp in his eyes dim just a bit, growing timid … no, his brother is acting shy right now? Mumbled into Floyd’s shoulder when he turns away: “I’s nothin’.”
Oh, this is going to be fun. Teeth on display, Jade interrogates, “With that look, I wholeheartedly doubt such a statement. And you are retreating like a pitiful hermit crab right now.”
“Fuck off.”
“(Name) happens to have the day off. I happen to wonder if that has any correlation, with this sudden hand-staring. Did your hands happen to touch, going for the same ingredient?”
“I happen to wonder how many punches it’ll take till ya have a black eye.”
“Fufufufu. To think that all your efforts to get her attention and employed here; and she ends up cutting you on her first day.”
Floyd’s mood lightens. A lovey-dovey sigh escapes him. “I know. Ain’t she perfect~”
You found out only two weeks into your employment that you were getting paid more than ninety percent of the staff.
(One of your fellow line-cooks spit out of his drink when he heard you mumble under your breath during lunch rush, “twenty-eight dollars per hour, twenty-eight dollars per hour, twenty-eight –” like a momentary mantra to convince yourself to not stress too much. Apparently you are getting paid forteen more dollars than the average kitchen staff. You do not get to speculate with him why. Azul comes rushing in, scolding anyone who does not have a hundred and one percent of their attention on their work station.
When you ask Floyd about it, he becomes uncharacteristically less fidgety than normal. How juxtaposing. People that are put-off usually squirm but Floyd goes comatose-like when bothered.) You have decided to drop it since then; why look a gifted horse in the mouth?
The money is such a darling incentive to come into work that you have yet to miss a single shift. At least, it is never boring. Not that you think Floyd would allow you to wilt in the industrial-ness of cooking in a restaurant instead of tender, domestic cooking. You two manage to have this weird mixture of fun and prodding.
And when a customer puts in an order for lobsters, you are not going to waste the opportunity.
“I’ll think I’ll name him Floyd 2,” you say, holding up the crustacean. Twitching antennas wave at you when his rubber-band claws cannot. Floyd glances at you out of the corner of his eye, golden iris like a supernova star. Just as he goes to talk, you drop Floyd 2 into the pot of boiling water. “Whoops.”
“Shrimpyyy.”
“My hand slipped,” you smile.
“Why’s Shrimpy so callous all the time? Ya got a hard shell just like this lobster. Look.” A blackish-orange, uncooked lobster is shoved in your face as you laugh.
“What do you even mean?”
“You’re a real serious type like Azul. But you were all giggles when you and Sea Otter were riding on my back over Winter Break. You danced really funny at the banquet.”
“I dance funny?”
“Yeah, like this,” Floyd starts to shimmy the lobster back and forth. You take it from him with a smile, dropping it into your pot. All four lobsters boiling, you switch your attention to cutting up the appetizer salads by your station. “Ya doing anything after work, Shrimpy?”
“Just going to Ruggie’s Spelldrive practice tonight.”
“You should come to one of my practices, Shrimpy. Way cooler than Spelldrive.”
Your knife falls on the midpoint of five or so slices of washed lettuce. Glancing up, you see as Floyd washes the rest of the vegetables, he is oddly still. His bandaged left hand clenches around the handle. Usually, he taps a rhythm to the side of the sieve.
That is really odd because his voice is so light and carefree. But you can dissect his body language.
“No way, Spelldrive is so cool. You used magic to control the disc but it’s exactly like football.” Your world already had basketball, but Spelldrive is an entirely new thing.
“What’s football?”
“Ah, nevermind,” but Floyd presses for more answers with a smile. “It’s the same as the rules of Spelldrive. Instead of using brooms, you run. And, the control that the players have on their magic plus the second and third years who ride brooms are super impressive. The level of mastery is … on another level!”
Floyd’s face twists at that. “It’s just ridin’ a broom. Ain’t so hard.”
“I thought you, your brother, and Azul were bad at riding brooms. Y’know, sea legs and all that.”
“I’m waaay better than those two.”
“Whatever you say,” you dismiss the conversation just as you slide the cut lettuce into two bowls. You want to drop the conversation and work on the next entree. Floyd does not share that sentiment.
Shaking water out of the sieve, he whines, “Spelldrive’s so boooring. It just a bunch of guys throwin’ around a disk.”
“And basketball is just a bunch of guys passing around a ball.”
“C’mon Shrimpyyy.” You are uncertain as to why, but you kind of don’t like the sight of Floyd frowning.
“I guess I could make the time to attend one practice.” Floyd lights up at that. Evangelical light shines in his mouth. Something boils over in you like the stove’s temperature has been turned up.
You are being eaten alive. It is not so bad.
However, backtracking, it starts with kisses.
Whoever is kissing you – crowding above you like a nebulous night sky and draping each warm star finger on the cold surface of your face, mandible to cheekbone – has never kissed anyone before. And it is surprisingly endearing to you. Having to guide the night to properly understand kissing is not biting. Tentatively having to pinch or pull hair when a tongue ventures too far down your throat or a pair of needle teeth bite too hard on your lips. This is how it starts.
Happiness is like the calcium in your bones. You are awfully pleased to be kissing this pair of midnight lips. Speed of kissing escalates and deescalates in intervals; sometimes, the two of you press into each other like you are afraid one of you will leave come morning before falling into slow pecks like time has suddenly become infinite.
In this anonymous kissing, you lie happy on some hard, uncomfortable surface. But with how elevated you feel, it feels like a cloud is cradling your body. Euphoria is a well-versed painkiller.
Peppermint burns your nostrils as the face above you gasps. Ah, despite how you had been chiding off teeth on your lips, you are the one that actually breaks skin. Three pupils of blood fall on your closed lips. Your sheepish tongue pokes out and licks red rain away. Blood falls into the sizzling grill of your mouth and you gasp in response.
Taste is categorized into five groups. This tastes like a sixth. Suddenly, all other tastes pale in comparison. The revelation makes you shudder, each bone vibrating.
You never want to taste anything else. You will never pick up a cigarette if you get to taste this again.
The taste gradually dims when the face finally pulls away, revealing who you are kissing. “Floyd?” Spherical blood sits, a tiny cherry, on the middle of his bottom lip. He blushes like he is sunburnt by your attentive eyes. Before you can ask why he is kissing you, Floyd leans back, sitting on his haunches.
You two are laid on a table. The table stretches so far out into the distance that it enters a void. Behind Floyd, it shrinks down until it blurs away; when you tilt your head back, it fades due to distance. The range of your eyesight cannot comprehend the length of the surface.
Everything else is swallowed and lost to the chewing void. When you tilt your head left and right, tenebrous ebon greets you like a wall. Your eyes are magnetized to the only light source now that Floyd’s lips are too far away to kiss.
Held in Floyd’s hand is a single fish fork. It incandesces like a lamp, and when you blink, the contour is burnt on your inner eyelids.
Puffy, swollen lips move to speak but Floyd beats you to the punch. Out of his mouth falls an even sweeter palate beyond his blood. Your real name – in his voice, nasally, a bit lightfully high-pitched, a bit annoying and a bit liberating – on his tongue, pronounced and said with a hefty weight.
“(Name).”
“Yeah?” You answer, breathless from kisses and that word.
“Can I taste you?”
You think back to how each of you were feasting on each other in your liplock, a sudden amorous meal.
“Yeah.”
Instead of him leaning down, the fish fork in Floyd’s hand starts to move. Your eyes track it with intrigue. Beyond the valley of your chest, you are caught off guard seeing your button-up undone and open like wings. Into an abyss known as the midline sternotomy, Floyd’s fish fork digs in.
A dog-esque whimper falls from your lips. The toes of your right foot curl behind Floyd when you feel a fork scraping past rib bones. Three prongs pierce convulsing muscle tissue. Lithe fingers twist the utensil. Arousal coats like goosebumps on your flesh as a section of you is taken. Eyelids half mast, you watch Floyd bring the red fork to his lips. A section of still-beating, still-drumming muscle disappears into his mouth.
This is more intense than the kissing, that you wake up on fire.
The fire is metaphorical but the engrossing heat that blankets your entire body is not. In Ramshackle’s bed, you kick awake breathlessly. The pillow you were squeezing gives a wheeze of pain when you hug it to yourself tighter. Propping yourself on your elbows, blinking away a dream, you groan. “Oh fuuuck no.” In your chest, your tell-tale heart pounds.
You fall right back on the embrace of your pillow as it mimics the feel of a lover’s chest. Silk and the fire in your face collide in a burn. As chunks of your dream expand or delete away, you consider the heavy weight of … everything.
Floyd.
Floyd was eating your heart. Your face smolders on your pillow – you refuse to dwell on the implications of that.
You dwell on the implications, almost ruminating. In your quad-'apartment stomach, the rumen and reticulum digests the dream, the omasum allows the dream to filter into your bloodstream, and the abomasum finishes up your dream analysis. You metaphorically puke in your own mouth the entire morning, ruminating.
When the taste becomes too much, you hunt down Jade.
Stalking halls with eyes and nose trained for locating only him. And when you do, you do not busy yourself with the subtlety of a prowl. You launch right in on the attack. Stabbing him with a question even though he has a forkful of something in his mouth, “What’s Floyd’s deal?”
Caught off guard, Jade blinks at you. It is rare for such a blank look to cross his face that you are almost unnerved. Then, he pulls the fork from his mouth, chewing and dabbing his mouth with his napkin. “I’m afraid I don’t quite know what you mean. My brother and Azul are not under contract.”
“Not a real deal – ugh, Jade, you know what I mean.”
Sharpened teeth make a beastly smile. A shiver tiptoes up your spine like a spider.
Turning back to his meal, Jade brushes off your response with, “Vagueness is one step away from misunderstanding. You should clarify for your own sake.”
He lifts up his fork and your eyes fall to the cafeteria table. Right now, you are on a fake bathroom break during astrology. Azul and Floyd have lunch together while Jade has a separate lunch. It is the perfect time to strangle information out of him, and, like a good predator, you should not waste time on prowling or stalking but –
“I don’t understand how you can eat like that and remain that skinny.”
As a cook, you are well-versed in the balancing of meals. To be frank, Jade’s lunch probably has the most optimal nutrition in terms of carbohydrates, protein, and vegetables. However, lunches are standardly medium-sized. In front of him lies a caesar salad stuffed with chicken, BLT sandwich, and an egg salad lettuce wrap. He’s three-fourth done with the caesar salad and sure to dig into the rest.
“Metabolism is a fascinating genetic function.”
“If I can convince Crewel to make a body-swapping potion, how about a quick switch for a day?” You can only imagine how cultured Jade’s tongue is.
“You in my body and I in yours. Floyd would have a field day with that.”
“Oh my god, what does that mean!”
Jade chuckles at your boiling worry. One hundred and one spine-chilling scenarios flash in your head. Backtracking, you vow to never give your autonomy to Jade Leech of all people. It will only end in misfortune for you. Scolding, you seethe, “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it. Your smile’s too creepy.”
“I’m not thinking about anything in particular. I’ll let you ruminate on it however. I’m sure you can think of much more than I can.”
“You’re the worst.”
Jade gives a musical hum and forks the last bit of his salad into his mouth. “You know, I could ask the same question: What’s your deal?” His yellow left eye sharpens, taking in the space where you disrupt the atmosphere. Remembering what that evil star could reel out your throat (truth, awful truths you have not made peace with), you scoot back on the table’s seat.
The mental image is odious. Jade’s hand hovering over your salivating mouth with the other holds your chin skyward; his fist clenches around a fishing line, yanking; he scoops up everything you keep concealed as you cough up blood like a weak geyser. A violent image. Yet, violence absent of any amatory intent. (So unlike your dream with Floyd.)
Putting distance between you two like a panicked crab, you mutter, “What do you mean?”
“You are good friends with Riddle Rosehearts, yes? You should know that he never indulges Floyd’s whims; he would never agree to working in the same Lounge as Floyd either. Yet, the two of you have gotten quite cozy.”
“I never voluntarily approach him. I work there for the cash.”
“Hm, perhaps. However, you do not shy away when he approaches you. Why is that? What is your deal?”
“We’re supposed to be talking about Floyd’s deal.”
“Alright. Then, let us talk about it.”
“Lets!”
“How do you find his disposition? Too wholesome, too loathsome? You two seem to be becoming fast friends … ah, but that is just my humble, little opinion. No need to look so upset.”
“Floyd is … Floyd … he’s viscera.”
“I assure you my brother has other anatomy beyond his stomach.” As Jade says, he unwraps his egg salad lettuce wrap. The smell burns your nose. You get the egg-scented message that such a description could match Jade with his bottomless stomach.
“No, it’s not literal. It’s – Being around him feels like being in the belly of the beast.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why don't you give me an example?”
“You know what? Okay.” You contemplate for a moment, thumbing through the notecards of your memory. Finally getting it, you snap your fingers. “Okay! Okay. Last week, Tuesday, during my shift. He stood behind me the entire four hours of my shift. Like I mean, stood there. Just breathing down my neck, all pissed off. I thought he was going to take a bite out of me, Jade!”
Ah, Jade remembers that day well. It was the day you had a laundry mishap, procrastinating on the chore to the point where you had no clean slacks. Nothing too interesting – so what you forgot to do laundry, that happens in the life of a busy Prefect! The only thing is:
(“Shrimpy’s wearing leggings! Shrimpy’s – fuck!”
Jade looks up from his paperwork, hovering over Azul’s shoulder. Holed up in the VIP room, he and Azul are going over the month’s numbers of hours delegated to the staff. Measuring punchcard times and figuring where to subtract or add hours for each staff member. Numbers on papers become quite boring when Jade sees the state his brother is in.
“Floyd. Do not knock over the table.” Strife laces Azul’s voice.
Sprawled on the ground, Floyd half-sits and half-kneels on the violet carpet. In his excitement, he had bumped into the table set between the two couches. Pushing himself up, the grin on Floyd’s face is mammoth and energized. “Shrimpy’s wearing leggings!”
So it seems you were, Jade would find out later. Skin-tight leggings; black with flared bottoms. You had walked in with your button-up untucked to hide what Floyd cites is the prettiest ass he has ever seen. That particular article of clothing left little to the imagination – snug so tightly on each tantalizing curve of yours.
“Is that so,” Jade asks, having yet to see you during your shift. Looking at the clock, he notices that you have only been clocked in for about three minutes.
“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.” Floyd breathes starstruck, hand clutched to his wrinkled shirt.
With that, an evil thought comes into Jade’s head.
“I am sure today will be an equally blissful day for the staff of Mostro Lounge.”
“Huh? What ya mean?”
“I mean, she is not invisible. Obviously, if she is such a sight to behold, the staff will be looking as well.”
Jade puts his own hand up to his heart, polite smile on his lips, and closes his eyes. He reopens them when the VIP room door slams shut – the wind carrying Floyd’s worsening mood and threats against the entire staff. The clock shows you are only four minutes into your four hour shift. The politeness of his smile morphs into something sinisterly serene as if a cunning plan of his has come to fruition. And it has, in just a few small minutes.
Ah, what an unfortunate start to your shift it seems. Fufufu.)
But it was far from unfortunate for Jade, who chuckled every time he opened the kitchen door to see Floyd standing protectively behind you, crowding around you to cover you up while refusing to let you reach for anything on a high shelf. He would bare his teeth at whoever glanced in your direction for mere seconds.
“I doubt he would have bitten you,” Jade placates, not wanting you to misread Floyd’s intent.
Emphasizing each word, you seethe, “He was breathing down my neck. He sounded one breath away from tearing apart my jugular!” Even though Jade seems to be reminiscing, he is obviously looking back through with a damaged pair of glasses – one temple broken off and one lens cracked.
You remember it much better: the wind-chill of a predator’s breath kissing your cervical; the uneven, spontaneous growls that would bloom behind your ear and have you pressing tighter to the stove; the intimate fear pierced into your spine through the morbid surgery of Floyd’s presence. You still wonder what you did to upset him so badly that he felt the need to monitor you for your entire shift.
“Listen,” your face pulls into a frown as you stare down Jade. “Your brother has life sorted into two categories: fun and boring. I’m in a category I don’t want to be in. Just tell me what I need to do to make myself unappetizing to him.”
So I don’t have another dream like that ever again.
“Ah,” Jade puts on a mask like he is going to tell you devastating news. “I’m afraid you’re quite a delicacy to him. Floyd has always been known to hold on tight to his food and eat in painful little bites. How unfortunate for you~”
You hang your head like the strife of Floyd is a guillotine snapping the cervical bones in your neck. To be so consumed by him like this mentally … it’s tearing you up inside.
“If I may pry, why are you so insistent on knowing about my brother? I sincerely hope it is not for ill intents, dear Prefect.” You are starting to catch onto the theme that most of Jade’s smiles are just threatening.
Insistent? Out of the two of you, Floyd is the insistent one, binding himself tight around you. But – you still Jade’s words linger in your mind. Why were you so insistent … You imagine a fake reality where you answer his question with, ‘because I burnt food for the first time in my entire life this morning. Because this morning, I ate overdone scrambled eggs that crunched in my mouth like pretzels. Because I think I’ve unknowingly developed a crush on him and it hit me so hard this morning that Ramshackle would have gone up in smoke if Grim and the ghosts took a minute longer to notice the burning stove.’
Instead, you answer, “Just want my peace of mind back.”
It is a partial truth that Jade does not have to use hooks to create red, wet aqueducts in your throat to get the answer. No need to use magic like Shock the Heart on you; you have already had your heart-attack this morning!
“I sincerely think there is more to it than that.”
“I promise that is it. I want to know Floyd’s deal to get him off my back.”
“See, but you’re acting in such a contradictory way, Prefect. Perhaps I should use something to loosen your tongue. Holding so many barnacles of thoughts in your head must be tiring.” His left eye starts to fluctuate with pulsing gleams.
“OH! Would you look at the time! My bathroom break – it’s uh! I’m gonna be late for class! Bye Jade!!” You race off mouse-esque.
You have not seen Floyd today … which is admittedly very nice.
At least I only had to put up with one fake eel and one real eel today. Two real eels is too many, you think as you pluck a tender cigarette from the package. Despite having a closing shift, you have yet to see Floyd since he invaded your dreams. A beady eye of red is born as you pocket your lighter. Breathing in, you contemplate on this slight blessing.
Apparently, Floyd has been neglecting schoolwork for the past week.
Whenever he was on his laptop, Jade mistakenly thought Floyd was doing his assignments. Turns out for seven nights he had been browsing GOAT for shoes and organizing each one on documents – so his typing mimicked the sound of doing assignments. Caring in a far too sinister way, Jade has locked Floyd in their room with a spell too advanced for it to be broken by one mage.
(“I don’t quite understand why he even would look at shoes; you see, he’s low on cash at the moment. Oh, but I am truly sorry to have to separate you two tonight.” Jade apologizes as if you are upset over the matter. Your deadpan look is far from mournful.
“However, I told him I would let him out when he has at least completed three-fourths. I believe he should be successful as long as he can find the correct playlist.” Jade’s yellow eye gleams at you, almost winking. “Plus, he has proper motivation to finish up sooner.”
“The hell –? I just asked if I could go on my smoke break.”
“Yes, but your constipated expression told me that you had more on your mind. Besides, isn’t this part of Floyd’s ‘deal’? His day to day – I thought I’d graciously keep you updated.”
You flip him off as you walk out the backroom.) Now here you sit, a wall embracing your back.
Usually, you would stand but you think you might mistakenly pour cement in your shoes. Soreness is like molten lead in your bloodstream, weighing you down. You have never felt such agony in your hamstrings and thighs. Thus, you sit on an awful, treacherous thought.
Would Floyd accept any study-guides you get from Ruggie?
There are multiple faucets to why this is a cretinous thought. Wouldn’t Azul have study-guides for the twins; would Floyd swallow his pride to accept anything; did Ruggie even have the topics that Floyd was struggling with – because you have no idea which schoolwork Floyd is skimping out on! Like you said, it is a cretinous thought. For some reason though, you would really like to help Floyd – paying back nothing yet paying back everything too.
Your blooming cloud of smoke asks Why am I acting so selfless for a selfish eel before it evaporates slowly into the oceanic air. There is not really any sensible answer hidden in your soul.
Twisted Wonderland is without a doubt as senseless as your soul. Even now, where you sit smoking is so world-shatteringly different from the typical ‘go out back and smoke’ area. The Octavinelle dorm is enveloped in water. The night sky outside of Mostro Lounge is a unique pocket that isn’t really a pocket at all. In a bubble, on the edge of a cliff that dips down into black, you sit staring at the swimming stars of fish.
Even the classes are an oddity. The two classes you share with Floyd are Art and History of Magic. As far as you have observed, he does well in both of those subjects. So, you doubt he needs a study-guide for either.
Which subject could it be: Astrology, Magic Analysis, Ancient Curses –
A pair of arms wrap serpentine around your shoulders. The anaconda has bound around his unexpecting prey. As a passenger to your train of thoughts, your mind goes blissfully blank. It is an odd sensation: to have been ruminating the entire day over a dream and when confronted with the only corporal part of the dream, you feel at peace..
You breathe out a dragon’s breath and a greeting, “Hi Floyd.”
Mmmmmmph. Is the response spoken into your right shoulder. Reaching behind, you take the hand still pinching your cigarette and stiffly pat the top of Floyd’s head, sharing his tired-tinted sentiment.
You have been eating your heart out, and puking in your mouth all morning. It is an exhausting activity, anguishing yourself over a silly dream, over your dream. “Did you get all your work done?” You stop petting teal hair to return your cigarette between your lips.
Mmmmmph! Anaconda-esque embrace squeezing tighter and tighter, you are really unsure of how you should take that sentiment. It sounds more frustrated than anything – can you share in Floyd’s frustration? Heartbeat lines of waves fall over you two from the overhanging light. No, you have transferred all your strife out of like the emotion is but a colony of bees smoked out of a hive.
When tobacco and paper wrapping has burnt away to about halfway, you receive a clearer insight to Floyd’s misery. “I’m never lookin’ at stars again.”
“Ah, astrology.”
“Mmmguuuh.”
Throat-held vibrations tickle against your shoulder. Floyd depresses his face on the ledge of your collarbone, weight so crushing like he wants to melt into you. Pinioned up in his grip, you just accept the heat of his cheek and the rhythm of his groans.
Pretending to hold an intelligent conversation: “Totally agree with you there. Stupid scorpion.” Ash is tapped off the side of your steel-toed work boots. “I’m a –” then you tell Floyd which animal/symbol aligns up with your Zodiac.
The weight on your shoulder ebbs slowly as Floyd lifts himself up. Then, his bony chin digs into your shoulder causing you to squirm. Arms tighten to stop your earthworm motions and Floyd remarks sleepily, “Mmm, I like shrimps better.”
“You know I can never wrap my head around that nickname. I get why Grim’s a seal because he’s shaped similarly. I don’t get mine. Eels eat shrimp or something?”
“ – Or something.”
“That’s vague.”
“What? Ya want me to eat ya, Shrimpy?”
In cartoons, when a character is punched in the face, stars start to prance and bounce around their head. Floyd’s words are equivalent to a face-impacting wallop. Words crash into you with all the grace of a burning space-shuttle ripping through air. BANG! Bunny-esque stars start to dance around your head, reeling as if all those letters had condensed into a fist.
Lightning of pain branches across your face, and you only get to save yourself by doing one thing. You turn your head to where Floyd’s chin perches and blow smoke into his face. As he falls back, coughing up a storm, you quickly work to get control of the weather inside you.
The turbulent sea of a crush is something calamitous. Lunar shadow-waves tilt across Floyd’s body as you breathe in more smoke. Still coughing, Floyd grumbles, “Why do - ack - ya do that? Smells funky.”
“No asking questions if you don’t answer questions.”
Elbow protecting his nose and eyes seething, he grumbles again, “I told ya, or something.”
“Not good enough. I don’t like roundabout answers.”
“Shrimpyyy.”
“Hey, no calling me that if you can’t tell me why.”
Floyd avoids eye-contact. Not blushing but with all his grimacing teeth on display, he whines, “But it’s embarrassing.”
“Now you have to tell me.”
And he really does because Floyd being embarrassed is alien. You go to deal your own physical blow on Floyd. Aiming a hit that is intercepted, you gloat, “Or this little shrimp is going to take down a big eel.”
When Floyd interlocks your fingers together, you fight back. You fight back through depressing pressure on it; you do not fight the borderline amatory gesture. His hand feels nice in yours. The lighting-shaped lesion in his inner palm that you created feels so warm.
Your mark, your heart sings. Killing that melody, you start to wrestle slightly with Floyd. Horseplaying, your joint hands press against one another, moving back and forth with each playful jab you throw at one another.
“No waaaay, you’re too weak.”
“Says the person about to be beat.”
“I’m fending you off with one hand!”
“Oh yeah?”
“Ack - ak! That’s – uuk – cheating!”
“Why am I called Shrimpy!”
“Because I’mma squeeze you like a Shrimpy!”
“Oh my God,” you laugh. “That’s an even bullshit-er answer than ‘or something’!”
“It’s true! Come here!”
“Ahahaha!”
Sportive laughter blooms from you. Pouncing like a dog seeing its owner after a week long vacation, Floyd pushes you down onto the ground. You squeal breathlessly, “Oh my God!” The back of your head collides with his other protective palm rather than ground. You two are still entwined at the hands – his left and your right. You slap and wrench your left hand this way and that. Floyd follows with his right, trying to grab that too. A foot scuffles up to his lower stomach, pushing. No way are you going to accept a Leech squeeze without a proper fight. You two twist and squirm on the floor, laughing together.
All the while, the caress between your right hand and his left hand remains an independent variable. Unchangeable in this discord of rapid-moving limbs. A caress of interlocked fingers.
“Shrimpy’s gonna – AH HAHA – Shrimpy’s gonna get squeezed!” A mouthful of sharp piscine teeth gleams over your face. You kick at Floyd’s intestines hard enough where his mouth goes circular instead of being crescent.
“Nuh – hahaha – no way!” Floyd makes another grab at your left arm. You twist on your side, crushing his grip on the cement below you, as your heart pounds in your eardrums. You arch in a giggling shriek when Floyd tickles your side, exposing your left arm.
“Aha!” Floyd shouts victorious when he manages a squeeze to your bicep.
Yet, before a shrimp can be squeezed, a door opens. “(Name), your break has been over – oh.”
Jade drinks in the sight of you and his brother like it is a recherché tea blend he has never seen before. A gloved hand covers the uniform pressed over Jade’s chest. Well, this is his first time seeing his twin have a crush so: “Oh, I am so glad to see Floyd getting along with his little shrimp. Warms my brotherly heart.”
Frozen on the ground, you and Floyd show Jade your teeth in matching, disgruntled, and cringing grimaces. All thirty-two square enamels of yours; all forty-two triangle enamels of Floyd’s.
“My, what sour expressions! Fufufu!”
“Why are you making that face!”
“I’m gonna shove this down your throat so you stop saying such stupid shit,” your fork moves with each word you say.
“All I said was –”
“I heard you. Do not repeat it.”
Oh, how you heard Ace, loud and clear. With all the agonizing clarity of a centipede squirming in your ear, his words made an invasion in your body. Not even a full minute ago, Ace had commented, “you and Floyd seem pretty close now.” Those words got you to instantly drop your waving hand, Floyd’s scarred palm still up and waving buh-bye to you, before you rounded on Ace with your fork.
More frequently, between class breaks, Floyd has been visiting you during the time you and your trio have lunch. It is nothing eccentrically different. Floyd has been a persistent leech on you since Jamil Viper’s overblot … but you never reciprocated in conversation until now. Which is probably why Ace brings up the one basketball practice you attended fourteen days ago:
“You know that one time you came to our practice, I think he played the best he has in – FUCK!”
As Ace nurses the four indents on his throat, you fake a moue, “Oh, what was that? You have to speak clearly Ace.”
The sound of your best friend’s hacking and your other best friends’ laughter is a tranquil balm. Enough to where you can stop stressing over the lack of distance now between (Name) (Last Name) and Floyd Leech.
Okay, maybe you never stop thinking about the lack of distance. You are a person who always backtracks into previous thoughts. Reversing time in your mind and puking in your own mouth is perpetual. Therefore, you end up stewing away in your mind, moving a spoon through a bowl of wet rice. Ah … closeness is such a flimsy concept.
You and Floyd seem pretty close now? Perhaps.
‘Cannibalism Cooking’ is a teaching segment on how to erase the distance between self and other? Perhaps.
You think too much? Yes.
Despite your ire, there has been a shift. It is could be in something small like how instead of cooking alive lobsters you name Floyd 1, Floyd 2, Floyd 3, etcetera; you have taken to making stories up for each lobster with Floyd, humanizing them in jest like one does with Barbie dolls, as Floyd’s lobster mourns the death of your lobster who fell into the boiling pot. It could be something large like how you will look at Floyd at times and think of how you want to devour him down to the bones — cooking him on the very stove in Mostro Lounge that you work, your own lai d'ignaure.
Stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking, you repeat to yourself in threes. You try to focus on the preparation of rice.
For almost three months you have worked at Mostro Lounge and it has gone on without a hitch. Which is odd because backtracking … you think back on Ruggie and the Intra-School Competition. You have yet to see Floyd in a bad mood, and that cannot last forever.
Eventually, the thing Ruggie foretold comes to pass. Three days later. It is like a weatherman reporting a category four hurricane, an inevitable part of the atmosphere that cannot be avoided. Floyd has fallen into one of his bad moods. And it is worse than any natural disaster.
Double swinging doors open like a maw of roaring teeth. One door happens to smack the tray out of an employee’s hand, just about to exit to the dining hall. That is what causes your eyes to flicker up. Calamity comes in the sound of crackling porcelain and squishing food. Two dishes have clattered to the floor, food wasted. Your eyes flicker up from the discord of pasta, seafood, and vegetables to see the criminal of the crime. Floyd Leech who has the meanest maw that would put any apex predator to shame.
That monstrous look? You guarantee that the credit for crafting it belongs to the sauce splattered on Floyd’s slacks and shoes. Shadows settle over the eel-mer’s face. His hand comes up to hold his own shoulder in an iron grip.
Besides you, a line-cook bemoans, “Well, it was nice knowing him.”
Every employee is aware of the rules: if one of the employees is not following the rules, squeezing is permitted. One of the unspoken rules: do not piss off Floyd Leech. Ruining his shoes is a swift way to get his mood down.
You and your fellow line-cook share a grimace. The employee – you think he might be a Scarabia or Savanaclaw student, too far away to tell the color of his arm-band – is shaking in Floyd’s presence. Watching Floyd’s mouth and eyebrows twitch and the student’s hands move in apologetic measures, you consider something heavy on your tongue.
I really don’t have to go out of my way to help that nameless student, you think just as your mouth opens. Really, though, you only think that because you do not want to confront the reality of who you are helping. “Hey!” The kitchen staff switches their attention from the scene to you. Ugh.
“Which table was that for?”
The Scarabia/Savanaclaw student almost looks ready to fall to his knees in gratitude. Shaking, he replies, “It wa-was for Table N-Nuh-Nine.”
“Well, clean up Table Nine’s mess. Mop’s in the supply closet,” you hope the student is sharp enough to pick up the message: stay there until Floyd is calm. “Then, get out on the floor and offer Table Nine complimentary drinks because of the delay. Move it.”
“Yes, right away!” You think he might be Savanaclaw because you have never seen a person run that fast before.
It is like those stare-down between two predators on nature documentaries. You and Floyd size each other, him pissed that you let his punching bag escape and you pissed that he caused perfectly fine food to spoil. Eye contact locks in place; confrontation like a rumbling storm cloud separates you two. Whoever yields is going to have the face and accept the bite of the other. It comes as a surprise to the kitchen staff when you look right into the sun, challenging that mean eye. Lips pulling back to grimace, it comes to an even greater shock to everyone when Floyd looks away first. When his sheepish eyes glance back up, you move a finger in a ‘come here’ motion.
It would be ideal if he could move without kicking a wad of spaghetti across the vinyl floor … but you take what you can get.
“Hand me that stool,” you say. Refusing to take your eyes off Floyd, you hold your open fingers out behind your back towards your fellow line-cook who has a stool by his oven. When Floyd passes some cooks, they press their stomachs up to the burning stove-plates, dangerously leaning inward to avoid the immediate danger of a grumpy eel. Still, you two look daggers at each other.
The stool finds your hand and you set it down in front of you – right by your own designated stove .
“Sit,” you instruct and he wordlessly obeys.
Even while listening, he is glaring at you. A sculptor named Animosity has molded his features; he looks at you like he wants your head to fly off, probably thinking you are going to scold him like Azul and Jade do. Instead, you turn on a third burner (bottom right) and look around for a frying pan.
You were warned by Jade and Azul around the first week of your employment, Azul’s words far-off yet intimately close too: We tell all long-lasting staff but I ask that you heed this more than the others, Prefect. It is better to leave Floyd alone when he is in a bad mood.
Floyd is silent as he watches. His lilac vest and white button-up is wrinkled with his slouched posture. Tie still undone. No hat this time around. Sitting and slouching, he still comes up to about your elbow. On the stool’s footrest, he hooks his shoes on them, just glaring and glaring at you.
No matter, you think, retrieving slices of bread. I can deal with a childish glare. You start to lather up the slices with garlic Parmesan butter as the pan heats up gradually. But – you have to go to the refrigerator to retrieve two ingredients you do not have on hand.
Just as you go to ask your fellow line-cook to fetch those ingredients that you needed, a hand grabs your slacks. Mild surprise seasons your face as you look down. Burying itself into your black slacks is Floyd’s left hand.
“Why aren’t ya yellin’ at me?”
“Would you like me to?”
Floyd shows you all forty-two of his teeth in a disgusted grimace. Like the mere notion of you yelling at him leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
“Don’t ask for it then,” you scold lightheartedly before finally asking yet another favor of your co-worker. Floyd remains silent but keeps his hand attached to you.
You are baking something quick because you need Floyd’s spirits lifted before that student comes back with the mop. Heat kisses on the plain of your forearm skin as you put the bread slices on the pan. Dial up to eight, a perfect temperature for this little meal. When you get the other ingredients you need, you quickly assemble Floyd’s sandwich.
While you cook each side for four minutes, Floyd bounces his left leg in dismay. His eyes trace over your countertop surface where all your preparation lies but you make sure to keep his eyes away from the stove. His hand is content on your pant leg.
“Here,” you say, holding a sea-turtle green plate out to Floyd. You set it down on the countertop. He eyes it with disinterest yet stops slouching. Quickly turning off the third burner, you move the frying pan to the top right to cool off.
“Grilled cheese?”
“Oh, please, I would never make something so boring.”
Foyd’s eyes glow a bit when he is intrigued. Right now, his eyes are pricked with little firefly holes of light because of your words. That sentence motivates Floyd to pick it up.
Which you only really consider a success when he looks at you wide-eyed, chewing on his first bite. “Tis so goe.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full. I can’t understand a word.”
“This is so good.”
Oh.
Why does your chest hurt right now?
“Damn Shrimpy, this is really something!” Floyd praises as he takes another bite, uncaring of the heat.
Oh your bittersweet organ pounds. Maybe – just maybe – because it is Floyd, that praise settles on you a little differently than previous praise. Not that you are unappreciative of those that eat your food. As Grim really thinks anything you make tastes great, as Ace or Deuce did not come from a lineage of highly sophisticated and picky taste-buds, Floyd’s praise is different. Floyd is not as easy to please as he seems. The glaring fact that your food has brought a smile to his face causes your heart to pound in an alternative rhythm that you have never felt before.
Before you can start thinking about that more, you explain what makes the grilled cheese so different: “It’s a combination of grilled cheese, pizza, and garlic bread. The pepperoni and garlic butter add a punch, while it really just looks like a normal grilled cheese. Figured you’d like it.”
He really does like it. It is evident as he takes a gigantic bite, listening to you explain your mixture of three types of bread-based foods combined into one. Stringy cheese connects from his lips to his food. It is a little distracting how fluidly he gathers up the flexible intestines of your grilled pepperoni sandwich. His tongue and teeth are inhuman after all.
Hell, should you turn down one of the burners? Why are you feeling so hot? You watch a slice of pepperoni disappear into Floyd’s chipmunk cheeks before he says:
“Shrimpy’s a real good cook.”
“Of course, it was why I was hired here. But … Thank you. That’s very nice to hear from you.”
“And ya made it especially for little me.”
“Hm?”
“Shrimpy cooked just for me.”
“Uuk –” Caught just like that. You were hoping he would somehow overlook it, either because of his bad mood or his admiration towards the food. Before you can open your mouth to embarrass yourself with pointless retorts, another calamity steals your attention.
You look towards the noise by the double doors, and before you lies the best sight you have ever seen at Night Raven College. Azul. Flat on his ass, having slipped because of where that student mopped. The octo-mer’s glasses are tilted and blue paints his cheeks. “HAHAHAHA!” You quickly slap a hand over your mouth so you do not join Floyd’s laughter. Though, your shoulders shake quite a bit.
It is also the best sight in Night Raven College because it allows you to procrastinate on the philosophy of how love, to you, is finding people to be in the kitchen with.
But, mostly, it is the best because it is Azul having slipped on his ass. “Hehehe.”
Eggs in a carton. That is what they look like. Eyes in a mask of skin. A twin set of eggs, turned sideways and unblemished. Staring up at you, those eggs remain open and bulge from the concave carton made of skin. One yolk is yellow and the other is a plain olive-rust.
There is a third part to your philosophies – the idea of Heaven that I see is a slice of you staring up at me. If love is an ingredient then the body full of love is a banquet hall.
A dish acts as his pillow. His locks are combed back with gravity, teal and black angel hair seasoning the meal. What you have on your plate is Floyd’s upside-down head which unblinkingly stares at you. He looks coherent. You are not sure if that makes it better or worse … because it means he can hear (along with you) the words Azul is saying:
“Unadon is just one of the many delicacies made from eel. The average chef knows about nine ways to prepare eel into different meals – braised or stewed or fried or grilled. Today, the Culinary Crucible asks that you prepare this catch with your heart as the writer of the recipe.”
And what awful words they are.
Timid, you look up at Azul while he walks the length of the room. He is dressed in his Culinary Crucible uniform; hair tucked behind his ear, cotton table cloth on his hip, sleeves of the double-breasted jacket rolled up to his elbows. He is reading off a clipboard. His glasses steal in the limited light, glowing like a kitchen knife, each motion of those lenses keen as a stab. Each step of his is perfumed with the scent of viscera.
It only makes sense because you are in the belly of the beast.
“Cooking eels is particularly challenging. Unlike other finfish, the skin needs to be removed as soon as the eel is dead due to the slippery consistency. On average, a chef invests a number of years into mastering and perfecting the craft of making a mouth-watering meal.”
Reddish-mauve muscle layers drape across the wall like curtains. Hardly noticeable but the walls shudder with digestion. Incurvate muscle layers are connected together by towering bone pillars. In the thinner layers, between this fusion of stomach and rib-cage, reddish-mauve turns a reddish-orange with light.
Food acts as the flooring. A runny egg yolk about the size of pillow nestles into a crimson tomato that is equal to the size of a beanbag chair. Juicy ribs decorate the floor like carpeting. Baguettes underfoot crunchy softly with each step Azul takes. You look down at what is holding yourself and your chair up.
Underneath your feet is a cucumber. Kaleidoscope-esque seeds are arranged in the shape of a sun. Foamy white-green has a moist caress on you, and, when you test it with your toes, white plasma froths up with the pressure.
“Harriet Van Horne was an American newspaper colonist with her career starting in 1940’s. In 1956, she wrote an article titled ‘Not for Jiffy Cooks’ and, in it, she wrote the following words: Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all. Chefs. (Name). The Culinary Crucible asks that you enter with this love. Or never cook again. Please begin.”
Begin?
There is such a momentous weight before starting. Not limited to cooking, there is always a kind of second breath curled up in the first breath before one starts a new task. Breathing with more effort to steady yourself in your resolve.
The breath you take suctions in a perfume, aligned with the floral notes of sweetness found in sugar-peppered churros, sourness found in slobbering grapefruit, saltiness found in prickling flakes on fries, bitterness found in melting dark chocolate, and savoriness found in – you don’t know yet.
Cooking is like love, you reflect amorously. You maneuver with a careful approach, gently moving the plate closer to you. Keeping him upside down, you take the hook of his mandible between your thumb and index. Dentist-like, you open his mouth. Paralyzed with an active consciousness, Floyd’s tongue hangs in his mouth like a stillborn, pink mole rat.
It stretches. Stretching like taffy with cheesy elasticity, you tug it between your dull square enamels. Pulling inch by inch, you hold Floyd’s tongue with tongs made of teeth. When it disconnects from his buccal cavity with a wet, ripping sound – spuuuul-ck! – evangelical light burns from your mouth to your retinas.
My – My bedroom. I’m in my bedroom. Gently, your teeth move off the object you were biting down in a violent grip. Salvia soaken into your pillowcase, you let out a quiet groan. You fall back down on the pillow, finding a dry patch to rest your cheek on, having just woken up.
Not good … Not fucking good at all.
That stupid eel; will you ever get a goodnight sleep again because of him … him and stupid sweet laughter, sour eyes, salty lips, bitter touch, and savory kiss. Kiss? Kiss! You blink and reel yourself from the image your brain was starting to paint.
“No way,” you breathe flustered. “I don’t want to kiss Floyd.” You hold that thought on your tongue like a cough drop. The flavor seeps in and – “Fuck, I want to kiss Floyd.”
Grim, who sleeps belly-up, gives a little kick next to the cradle your left thigh has on him. Quieting down, you think of a conversation you and Floyd had about a month ago. You still need to answer that question – “You know I can never wrap my head around that nickname. I get why Grim’s a seal because he’s shaped similarly. I don’t get mine. Eels eat shrimp or something?” / “ – Or something.” / “That’s vague.” / “What? Ya want me to eat ya, Shrimpy?”
With determination, you reach over your pillow to your bedside table. Hand locked on the phone, your first sight of the morning is a tiny Grim blooming alive on the screen. You coo at the picture of Grim sleeping, tail tucked closed to his body and eyes drawn shut. Cutie, you think, sliding up the screen.
Now back to being a soldier on a mission, you click on Safari and type away. Eels and shrimps. You click search. Not wanting a long hunt, you hit the first website. MORAY EEL and CLEANER SHRIMP writes itself out on a blue webpage. Relief fills you to find the article is only two paragraphs worth of reading.
Okay, Floyd. Time to see what is so embarrassing about a tiny nickname. There is no comprehensible way that his embarrassment could possibly tip your own embarrassment off the scales. Two dreams intimately cannibalistic is much harder to admit than the reason for a silly nickname.
The two paragraphs read:
“There are approximately 200 species of Moray Eel, most of which are exclusively marine although a small number inhabit brackish water and fresh water. Its eyes are small and vision limited, so the eel relies on a sophisticated sense of smell to detect prey, which consists primarily of cephalopods and crustacea. They possess one long dorsal fin that extends from the neck to the anal fin, allowing smooth propulsion through the water. Snake-like in appearance, with wide mouths full of misshapen teeth, the Moray Eel looks ferocious but is in fact a shy, mostly solitary creature living most of its life in burrows and caves.”
Shy? You scoff at the very idea of it. Continuing on, you read the second paragraph.
“For some species, the only regular companions are cleaner shrimp, which live in a symbiotic relationship with the eel. The shrimp congregate in teams called a ‘cleaning station’ and move across the whole body of the eel – including inside the mouth – removing parasites and dead skin, which is their food. This cleaning ensures good health for the eel, so both species benefit.”
Your hands clap over your face as if the pressure can push down the geysering flush that is overriding your skin and hide away all these emotions.
“(Name), could you retrieve something from the walk-in freezer for me?”
It has been a torturous week. Being co-workers with someone you have developed a crush on; you imagine creating a big X with your arms, you do not recommend it. It is such a delicate tight-rope walk across a boiling pot of scalding water.
Even while working without him as a constant leech, he remains there.
On your body and inside your body. Inside your body, it is how he infects your thoughts. On your body though is a bracelet made of teeth (beastman, merman, fae, and human). Floyd made it for in Art; even took the red string and tied it himself around your wrist. (“I don’t have any stuff for an earring so I hadda improvise. I think humans wear shark necklaces sometimes; bracelets are like necklaces for the wrists!”) There might just casually be a tooth from each of the seven dorms on your wrist. You are currently stirring scallops around in an oiled skillet, watching a golden crust form on them and admiring your recently made jewelry.
Floyd’s very odd, you think as you look up from your station. To see who needs you to retrieve something from the walk-in freezer. A pair of heterochromic eyes size you up. “What do you need me to get,” you ask. “I can’t really leave these to burn.”
“It will only be a matter of seconds. Turn the temperature down a bit.”
Lawfully, you decide not to argue against it. Jade is just one ring lower from being your boss. The blue flame lowers slowly. You walk away from the oven, keeping your apron on, and follow after Jade.
“Thank you. I cannot quite carry it all myself.”
“No problem. What are we grabbing?”
“A shipment of veal and fresh beef. Two boxes each.”
You nod your agreement to help. When you two come up upon the steel door, Jade takes the handle in his gloved hand and pulls towards himself to remove it from the first locking mechanism. Cold rushes towards you with a bear-hug-esque strength. You give one hard shiver before falling still. Jade almost seems to smile in the face of frosty air, lips quirked up.
“By the way, have you seen Floyd today? He’s always around on the weekends but I haven’t seen him enter the kitchen yet.”
“Still interested in his day to day?”
“You know what, forget I said anything,” you say, stepping in front of Jade. Like a deflating flower, your toothpick lowers to the ground in disappointment. “I’m sure I’ll see him later.”
“Who knows it might be earlier than expected.”
“Huh?”
Then, Jade gives you a shove hard enough to send you sprawled on the floor inside the walk-in freezer. You almost end up puncturing a hole in your cheek with your toothpick. That bastard!
The thing about freezers is a majority of them have plastic sheeting between the steel door and the inside to keep the temperature below zero. Long, seven inches wide stripes of plastic hang like party streamers from the entrance. Coated in ice, it is extremely difficult to see through, whether in or out.
Which is why you do not notice until you are inside the freezer that Floyd is there too. He looks at you down on your hands and knees, confusion a mere flicker until a flame of rage consumes it. Standing up, Floyd rushes past you. At the hanging plastic and entrance, he screams.
“Jade – you fucking bas – !”
“The human body takes four to six hours to succumb to hypothermia in zero degree weather. So, take however long you need.” And though the difference is not too noticeable, the room grows a bit dimmer. The very noticeable part is the sound of the lock clicking in place.
“Jade!” A fist flies through the icy plastic, banging loud against steel. “Jade, I’m gonna strangle you when I’m out! I’m gonna break your fuckin’ terrariums!” You think you just saw the steel door dent with the force of Floyd’s kick.
A pregnant moment of silence settles between you two. Floyd refuses to turn around. After a few more threats and punches to the door, he still remains spine facing you.
By now, you have picked yourself from the ground, hugging yourself. All you are wearing is a thin unbutton, apron, slacks, and a thin tank top. Your shoes and Octavinelle hat might keep some heat circulating. Four to six hours? That is too generous for what you are wearing; Jade probably got that statistic about people wearing winter gear.
When another shiver races down your vertebrates and Floyd still has not moved, you quietly poke, “Um, Floyd. Do you know what’s up with Jade?”
“Ugh, I told him I had this handled.”
“What handled?”
It seems you were not supposed to hear that because Floyd finally turns around. Droopy eyes give you a fleeting, disinterested once over. Besides his usual fidgeting, he appears unbothered by the cold. Spinning around with a sigh, Floyd aims at his vitriol at you with a glare.
When he stalks toward you like a predator, you straighten up. While not entirely experienced in fights, you are not going to be the squeeze-toy thrown to an angry mongrel to be torn apart until stuffing flies like snow. The fist you were preparing loosens when Floyd simply reclaims his spot on the ground, leaning against the opposite wall. Huh?
“I’mma go to sleep. Wake me up when Jade opens the door.”
Huh!
“Wait, but can’t you get us out with magic?”
“Jade used that spell again; needs two mages to unlock it.”
A curse sizzles under your breath. It grows into a mushroom cloud of air in front of your face, crystalizing. Fuck, it is like a miniature Antartica. Not wanting to display any weakness, you only rub your hand up your left arm instead of rubbing both like you desperately want to. “Well, there’s got to be a reason why. Revenge for slacking off?”
Floyd does not answer you. He just sits with his legs pulled up and chin resting on his knees. “Look, I gotta get out of here. I’ll freeze to death.” At that his eyes grow a bit more alive, flickering up to you. A weak half-smile is aimed at you.
“Well, I don’t want a popsicle Shrimpy.”
“So, you can get the door open? Oh, that’s a relief!”
Turns out Floyd cannot get the door open because all he does is start stripping. HUH! Floyd might be a little too late in stopping you from turning into a popsicle; you remain frozen solid, openly leering with questions. You only unthaw when you see it is just his Octavinelle jacket and scarf he is taking off. Those two items he offers you in an outstretched hold.
“I thought you could get us out of here,” you mourn with a whine.
“Unless you gain magic, I can’t. Here, it’s not going bite –”
You barely let Floyd get out another word before you are throwing on his jacket and mummifying yourself with his scarf. Screw humility, you bet half your salary that this freezer dips into the negatives at times. Oversized, his jacket falls at the midpoint of your thighs. You squeeze yourself in an imaginary embrace, trying to bottle up all your warmth and –
“Why are you holding your hand out still?”
“I don’t really mind the cold. You’re gonna start shiverin’. You should sit.”
“I’m fine.” Your toothpick flies up and down in your mouth, moving to the beat of your full body shivers. “I’ll still be able to move when Jade unlocks the door.”
“C’mon Shrimpy.”
“I’m not going to cuddle up with you for warmth.”
“It’s not cuddlin’, it’s squeezin’.”
“Same thing.”
“Nuh uh.”
“Yuh uh.”
“Nuh uh.”
“Yuh uh!”
“Nuh uh!”
You end up letting Floyd squeeze you to keep you warm; it is not cuddling.
Sitting between his long legs, accepting his arms which wrap around your waist, letting him rest his sleepy head on your shoulder as the black strand tickles your cheek. It is not cuddling because he holds you with cement arms instead of in soft amatory. Despite that, it is helping with fending off hypothermia.
Floyd’s hands are flushed pink, almost frostbitten. When you look down at where his embrace locks, you see the crimson flesh of his phalanges and your own hands ache from just looking at them. Your hands are tucked in Floyd’s jacket sleeves. Only equipped with a button-up now, there isn’t much to keep him protected from the frigid ventilation.
“Pu-Put your hands under my jacket.” You break a silence that has been stretching on seemingly infinitely. Snotty slugs run down your nose and you sniff them back into their home. “You’re going to lose a finger.”
“I’m fiiine,” Floyd mumbles into your shoulder. He has been drifting in and out of sleep for, well, you do not know how long truthfully. He seems to be stewing deep in thought.
It takes only a minute (you counted in your head) to get him to put his hands under your tank-top and all the layers above it. They feel unnaturally hot against your skin. Moderate frostbite. You thank him for listening then go back to counting the number of boxes in the room for a third time.
“There’s got to be some kind of loose screw or like weak area in the magic, right?”
Frustrated, you pat the steel door, nudging the plastic out of your way with your shoulders. After whittling down so many toothpicks, you start to grow fidgety. You need to go outside and take a smoke break; hell, you would forgo the cigarette just to get a breath of fresh air.
Claustrophobia settling in, you press your frostbitten fingers over the seam of the metal door and wall. Maybe you can use something to push the lock open. “Maybe I can knock something into this spot and unlock the door.”
“Jadio sealed it up with magic. It ain’t gonna open.”
“If you’re not gonna help, zip it.”
“You talked to me first.”
“That’s it! Quiet game starting now!”
You lie on Floyd’s side, sharing his jacket like a blanket, when you murmur, “Floyd, I’m sorry about earlier.”
“... Ya lose the quiet game, Shrimpy.”
“Hehe, damn, you’re right.” You two watch your laughter float up in clouds of cold air.
It takes until Floyd gets the start of deep frostbite and you get the start of superficial frostbite when he admits softly, “I think I know something that might work.”
You look up with shiny eyes. Growing really frustrated, unshed tears have started to cling to your eyelashes. Not that they would really vanish if you ended up crying. The image of tears freezing on your face is much more appropriate.
Poking your mouth out of Floyd’s scarf like a timid turtle, you ask, “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinkin’ –” Floyd trails off, oddly shy. He is already flushed from the chill but you watch crimson spread like an infection. He will not look at you.
His red expression reminds you of the time you took a toothpick to pick food out his teeth … wait, a minute: The shrimp congregate in teams called a ‘cleaning station’ and move across the whole body of the eel – including inside the mouth – removing parasites and dead skin. Now you two definitely match on levels of blushing.
Why do I think of that now; you startle when Floyd’s eyes narrow down at you.
He drinks in each atom and molecule of you with his eyes. Snotty nose, flushed face, shivering tremors all ingredients used to make the messy image that is you at this very moment. Floyd could not ask for a better sight. A little apprehensive at his intense staring, you hide your chin in his lilac scarf. He looks like he wants to take a bite of you –
“Shrimpy, I love you.”
“...
“Huh?”
“You don’t needa say it back or anything.
“Just,” Floyd then pronounces his next words like someone speaking to customer service, making sure each syllable is clear. “Shrimpy. I. Love. You.” Your face creases at his odd tone until you hear it – the click of the steel door being unlocked. Your eyes widen in shock. “There we go,” Floyd says, reaching one hand through the plastic hangers to push open the entrance.
“Ya can just forget this – mmh!”
Reviewing and backtracking, a stomach and intestines is viscera and viscera is a stomach and intestines. Each organ of your own viscera is working itself into this violent kiss. Churning and ruminating like lustful waves. You have to digest each part of Floyd Leech in this kiss or you will starve.
This has marinated long enough.
It is even better than your dreams.
When you take his tongue in your mouth, each nerve on your tongue flares up in a sweet vibration. Warmth melts through your bones as you grasp at Floyd’s hair and he pulls you up by your waist. He is a bit inexperienced but he is surely reacting positively to it.
This savory flavor is unlike anything you have ever tasted. Tagging and twisting tongues, you two devour each other like you are each other’s three star michelin feast. With harsh bites, you two switch flavor profiles with which area that is explored.
Like an inmate on death row, you take care and time with making sure each lick and bite is savored. Peppermint and meat. A laugh huffs into Floyd’s mouth, you were not expecting such a weird combination.
You two break apart momentarily, panting breaths beating out in tiny clouds against the cold. Sharing a moment where you both just want to stare at each other. His olive-brown and gold eyes are like heavenly light. There are sand-flickers of a dozen different hues in each one, all shades deliquescing together to make them glow slightly. He has such a tender look in them.
Five seconds is far too long to pause kissing; you and Floyd both agree, throwing yourself back at each other.
Each part that Floyd touches on you ignites with a hellish fire. Not even the negative temperatures of the freezer can subdue such a flaming sensation. He cradles your organ and skeletal system with such care, moving kidney to lung to lymph nodes, moving ilium to scapula to xiphoid process. Every part of you worshiped.
You are never going to come up for air. You both have waited far too long for this.
I’m gonna fucking bite his lips off, you think with untamed carnivorous desire. It seems Floyd agrees to the sentiment. Because he eagerly follows when you move him by a handful of his hair on the right side, black and teal threading through fierce fingers.
“Aah,” Floyd gasps when you pull.
“Mmmm,” you moan when Floyd squeezes.
“Ah,” Jade squeaks surprised.
You pull away first, head snapping towards the open door. Iron hot warmth burns your lips. You look at Floyd’s twin with horror when you realize you definitely have salvia coated generously on your lips. Mourning that it is not blood on your tongue, you listen as Jade says, “I felt the spell break, but it looks like I made an ill-thought-out decision to check. My apologies; please continue.”
But you cannot because – “my fucking scallops, Jade! If those are burnt, I’m going to break your terrariums!”
“My, what flaming anger. Perhaps another hour in the freezer.”
Both you and Floyd run at Jade just as he unclips his magic pen.
This should not be that big of a deal.
You have done this a hundred times over and will continue to do it a hundred times over. So there is absolutely no rational reason for your hands to be shaking on this avalanche level intensity. Still – looking down at them, clutched around a tiny red coffin – there your hands are … at the end of your wrists … shaking.
There is still time to dispose of the evidence. On both hands you can count the number of people who would be more than grateful to receive this little tomb. Two of them happened to have beast features on the top of their heads, and one of the two already expressed interest in it.
(“How does this smell?”
“Shishishi, smells delicious. I didn’t know today was payday.”
“Wait! Aaah, don’t touch it please – this isn’t payment.”
“Hm,” confusion knits Ruggie’s face. “Then why bother asking?”
You cannot meet his eyes at that moment. Shuffling shoes suddenly seem more interesting as you murmur sheepishly under your breath. “It’s a little embarrassing.” Unable to elaborate further, you open up the red box. Aroma and warmth swims through the air. Ruggie’s eyes widen as he takes in the sight.
“Oh. I get it now.”
You ruminate at that moment, vomiting out all your insecurities. You barely even stop between each word. All of it pulled from you by an imaginary fish hook: “It’s so embarrassing; I’m going to throw it out!!”
“Don’t you dare.” Ruggie yells as you rush off to find a trash-can.) Eventually, Ruggie did manage to convince you to keep it in a very cop-talks-down-a-suicide-jumper with the cop being him and the suicide jumper, the bento box.
Floyd will – backtrack, Floyd is going to laugh at it. You are just stuck on predicting if his high-pitched laughter will be mocking or amused. Perhaps, his dominant hand will come to rest on his right shoulder, miffed beyond sensibility. The bento contains a mini-hot-dog-faced bear sleeping under a blanket of rice, dyed to look like a watermelon, with dreams of corn, cucumbers, and meat floating above his head. Is that amusing or aggravating?
Waking up so early in the morning to make another lunch on top of the ones prepared for yourself and Grim … what illness have you caught, fever turning your hands into fretful shaking limbs … what happens if he hates the bear and would prefer a bunny or panda … you even stressed over picking an aquatic themed bento, but decided it against it because it was too on-the-nose for your tastes.
If a heart is made of meaty worries and anxieties, you put your heart into this meal. Head down, roaming Night Raven’s halls, you blush hard at the thought.
Things have been escalating fast between you two. Floyd’s shyness melted away when you two stumbled out of the walk-in freezer. His body and blood eagerly reveal his own matching hunger. You still remember last night kneading dough at Ramshackle, him nestling you from behind and pressing more and more kisses to your pulse point. Both of you devour each other in lip to lip kisses.
Love, an ingredient in the kitchen.
By the time you have arrived at your destination, your face has thankfully cooled down. There he stands. He is caught up in a conversation with Jade as Azul patiently waits off to the side. I shouldn’t interrupt them, you think and gladly grab onto that detour. If you turn down the left hallway, you can avoid this and pass Ruggie’s D period class. This vulnerability is worse than the vulnerability of being magicless. I should go. They seem busy –
“Shrimpy!” Your heart knocks hard on the muscles of your throat at that nickname. How does he always know when you are around?
Closing the gap, refusing to make eye-contact. You can feel the casual observation of Azul and Jade on you as you display what is in your hands. Stop shaking, you big baby, you scold yourself. “Floyd. This is – um –.”
“Is that for me? Aw, does Shrimpy like me or something? That’s cute — a little shrimp with a little crush.”
You finally look up. An amused, mismatched pair of eyes squint impishly at you. Miles of intestines give a teapot boiling over sound in rage. Okay, two can play at that:
“Jade. How nice to see you! I happened to make extra for my own lunch; I noticed your habit of eating more than one meal at lunch and thought you would enjoy this.”
“My, what a gracious offer. Thank you, (Name). I will be sure to savor every bite.”
What you are offering to Jade is suddenly swiped: “HEY, THAT’S MINE!”
Your lips quirk up, expecting that. His next move you are much less prepared for. Halfhazardlessly, he flips off the box as if to check that Jade has not eaten anything from the tomb. All of his energy drips out of him, bloodletting-esque. He almost appears paler.
His only response is a slow blink directed at you.
“You don’t have to eat it. Grim or Ruggie will – And! And I get it! It’s pretty embarrassing. I totally get –” Your word vomit is swallowed by a pair of lips.
Floyd does not even give you a chance to reciprocate, pulling away with laughter on his tongue. Not mocking or amused. Lovey-dovey laughter.
Love has such a wonderful flavor. Right there, in the belly of the beast.
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daydreamin' and i'm thinking of you - j.m.
summary: jj returns from a day of surfing and devotes his night to you and a lil bit of weed.
word count: 2.3k
warnings: smoking weed, a lil suggestive, but mostly super fluffy and full of sweetness
author's note: back from the dead pookies!!! i just wanna say how incredibly grateful that none of yall have come for my wishy-washy ass! this year has been vcery hectic and rough, and i am so thankful y'all have let me be MIA. here's this little blurb smooch ily (i was too scared to flesh out the smut at the end IM SORRY ITS BEEN A WHILE)
JJ smells like a perfect, heady blend of sunscreen and salt when he and the boys get back from surfing. You’re waiting on the porch like a little 1950’s wife, and he runs up and hugs you as soon as he gets out of the Twinkie, acting like its been months since he’s seen you instead of a few hours.
“J!” You’re giggling as he swings you around, smacking loud kisses all over your face and neck.
“Missed ya, pretty girl,” he murmurs into your neck.
John B slaps JJ’s back, surprising him so he lets go of you. “You literally just saw each other.”
JJ’s jaw drops, hand over his heart like he’s been deeply wounded. “You’re just mad your woman isn’t out here to greet you,” he counters, squeezing your side and giving John B a sympathetic look.
“Wrong!’ Sarah says as she pushes open the screen door, giving her boyfriend an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek.
John B grins back at JJ, and follows Sarah back inside.
“You still up for that boat date later?” you ask, fingers intertwining with his.
You swear his eyes sparkle. “Um, duh!”
A few hours later, the sun is sinking into the horizon, sky turning the prettiest pink and orange. You are toting a basket full of picnic supplies: a tupperware full of elote salad, another with some grilled chicken, a speaker, and of course, a little cellophane baggie and some rolling papers. JJ’s job is to carry the fishing poles and bait (raw hot-dogs because why would he spend money on crickets when there’s hot dogs in the fridge?), and the six-pack of mini Dr. Peppers you’ll split (JJ will inevitably drink two of your three).
“Where are you going?” You hear someone call from inside the house, but both of you act like you can’t hear it.
HMS Pogue is sitting pretty at the end of the dock, and you practically skip onto it. The rev of the engine is like the call of an old friend, thrumming through you, bare feet on the deck.
You sit cross legged at the bow while JJ drives, your hair flowing behind you. The spray of freshwater is perfectly refreshing.
It’s dusk when the boat reaches a little secluded spot on the marsh, and JJ announces it. “Gorgeous,” he says, the sky purple above him. “And no one around for miles.” He plops next to you, sticking his nose in your neck and sighing. You’re sitting pretty in a bikini top and jean shorts, and he plays with the tie at your back.
You laugh and push him off, getting up to get your basket of food. He helps you unload it, mouthing a silent yes as he pulls out the sodas. Then comes the tupperware, and he sticks two spoons into the corn. “Cheers.” He holds his out.
You tap your spoon against his, and gasp in fake shock when he knocks the food of it.
“Gotta be ready, babe,” he deadpans, snatching up your bite after he eats his. “Danger is waiting at every turn.”
You shake your head and laugh, scooting the tupperware closer to yourself. “You’re so weird.”
“You love it,” He grins, and you can’t argue with that.
After you eat, JJ pulls out the package of hotdogs and starts to prep the rods.
“There’s no way you can catch fish with those,” you question, wrinkling your nose at them. You frown, turning on the puppy-dog eyes. “Do we have to fish? I wanna smoke.”
He copies your expression and sticks his bottom lip out. “Poor bunny,” he mocks, but shoves your fishing pole in your hand all the same. “Catch a fish, I’ll roll you a joint, ‘kay?”
You sigh. “ ‘Kay,”
He grins and plants a kiss on your forehead. “You got it, babe.” He gives you a chunk of hotdog and you slip it onto the hook. JJ comes up behind you to guide your cast and you let him, his breath warm on the back of your neck. There’s the whir of the line, and the satisfying plop of the bobber in the water.
“Now, we wait.” He takes the rod from you and drops it into the holder, and works on casting his own line.
You’re bored before he even puts his down. “I have to catch a fish before we smoke?”
“Yeah, crybaby.” The two of you sit on the bow, feet dangling over the water. His ankle knocks against yours.
You let out another dramatic sigh, but you let your head fall onto his shoulder. “This is the worst part. I hate waiting.”
JJ laughs. “Yeah, honey. I am well aware.” He pokes your side, and you yelp dramatically. Reaching over you, he pulls the speaker out of your basket, and turns it on. You watch as he connects to it and goes through his spotify, thumb skimming over the screen as he looks through his playlists. JJ clicks on one of your collaborative playlists, titled “songs for slow dancing.”
He stands up, reaching out to pull you up as the hauntingly pretty piano intro for Aretha Franklin’s Daydreaming begins to play. “Wanna kill some time?”
You smile, and let him pull you into him. You think you could slow dance with him until you dropped dead, until you collapsed into each other and turned into intertwined fossils. Maybe that kind of thing is a little too poetic for the two of you, but you don’t really care. He starts to sing along, and you press your ear to his chest to hear his voice thrum through his chest.
daydreaming and i’m thinking of you, daydreaming and i’m thinking of you…
One of his hands splays on the small of your back, fingertips sneaked under the waist of your shorts, callused and all too soft. The other one is holding yours as you sway back and forth to the beat.He twirls you out fast, and back into his grip, your back to his chest as he squeezes you.
No one would ever know it, but JJ absolutely loves to dance. A little after you started dating, you dragged him to some swing dancing classes at the community center, and expected plenty of pushback, but you were met with absolutely none. The two of you fell in love stepping on each others toes and falling all over each other. It’s always a fun party trick to pull out at the fancier parties. He’s always wanting to dance with you, whether it’s learning how to shag in the living room late at night, or spinning you around on the boat.
He stops you mid-step, asking, “Can we try the dirty-dancing jump?”
The dirty-dancing jump has only been successfully executed by the two of you once. All other times have ended in someone being injured (usually JJ). Your jaw drops open, and you lightly shove him. “Absolutely not! You wanna fall off the boat?”
He gives you the biggest eyeroll, but immediately switches to puppy dog eyes when you cross your arms. “Just like, a lift? Pleaseeeee,” he drags out, taking your hands and acting like he’s going limp.
“Fine! But if you drop me in this water, I’m actually going to have serious beef with you, Maybank.”
He laughs, maybe an itty-bit manaically, and grabs your waist. “Okay, I’m gonna count you off, and you’ll jump, ‘kay? So, one, two, three-”
You hear your fishing rod rattle in its holder and jump away from him. “My line!” Scrambling after it, you grab the pole right as it looks like it’s going to leap out of its holster.
“Get it babe!” JJ practically shouts, darting behind you and placing his arms around yours to give you a little support.
The whir of the line rushing out makes you jump, and you hurry to start reeling it back in, furiously turning the handle. JJ’s mouth is by your ear as you lean into him and he talks you up as you fight the fish. “Come on, baby, you got it. Keep going, keep going, you almost got it!”
He’s pulling half the weight, you know that, but you don’t mind the help when you can watch the cords in his forearms tense and pull.
Finally, the line leaps out of the water, and soon a big scaly body is flopping on the deck of the boat. “Atta girl!” JJ shouts as you snatch it up by the lure, holding it up proudly. It’s pretty heavy, probably a little over 14 pounds.
“Look at that, baby! Got yourself a bluefish.” JJ is smiling so proudly as he fishes out his phone, and makes you pose for a picture like one of those Tinder frat guys. The flash is harsh and you know you look crazy, but he grins at the picture all the same.
“Can you throw him back in? He’s too pretty to eat,” you ask as he messes with something on his phone. You’re still holding the fish as you try to lean over and see what he’s doing.
“Here, yeah.” He drops his phone on the boat deck and takes the fish from you to fling back in. When you look at his phone, you see your face staring back up at you from his lockscreen. It was some picture of the two of you from a party, but now it’s you and your fish. He immediately changed his wallpaper after he took the picture. In your opinion, it’s definitely not a knockout photo, but you almost tear up at the sweetness of it.
“You looked cute,” JJ shrugs, seeing you looking at it.
You just smile, shaking your head, and lean against him. “Can we get high now?”
“Damn, you waste no time, huh?”
Soon, your fishing rods forgotten, you’re watching JJ roll you a joint to share. His fingers dance along the rolling paper, tucking and smoothing all gentle. He’s mesmerizing. When his tongue darts out to wet the paper, you swear you start salivating.
He catches you staring, hitting you with that heartbreaker grin again. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
“Shut up and light up,” you sigh, reaching for the blunt in his hands.
“Can’t light up if you don’t hand me my lighter,” JJ frowns, expression sarcastic. He puts his hand out, waiting.
You reach into your basket and pull it out, smiling when you see it. A few months ago, you had decided to buy JJ a custom lighter. You got him one off Etsy, a cheap Bic lighter with your face printed on the plastic. Of course, the image didn’t translate correctly, so the picture is heavily distorted, your smile big and wide and eyes even bigger.
It’s probably his favorite possession.
He lights the joint, letting it smoke for a second before raising it to his lips.
“Hey,” you whine, reaching for his hand.
“So needy,” he chides, taking a hit, gripping you by your neck, and blowing the smoke into your open mouth. Your breath hitches as you try your best to inhale, try to not think about his lips just ghosting over yours, his calloused fingers hard on the sides of your neck.
“Good girl,” he exhales as you successfully breathe in without hacking up your lungs.
The frogs are peeping and the wind is slow and soft, pushing the smoke around the two of you and enveloping you in it. You’re talking mindlessly as the joint passes between you, staring at the way moonlight shines through JJ’s hair, turning it platinum. His irises catch the light just right- bright, icy blue.
You’re sitting cross-legged, knees knocking with his. All you can think about his how much you love your boyfriend, even with the edges of your mind soft and your senses fuzzy. JJ takes your hand, pressing the pads of your fingertips against his.
“It’s like I can feel your fingerprints,” he comments, fingertips lightly rubbing yours. He pulls your hand as he leans back, so you’re both on your back, looking at the stars.
“It’s so pretty,” you whisper in awe. With absolutely zero light pollution, the sky is a myriad of deep black and blue hues and so, so many stars. You’d decompose while trying to count them all. You snuggle up against J as he takes a final hit. From your perspective, the rising smoke almost looks like it’s weaving through the stars, netting around them and sparkling right above your head. JJ tosses the remnant of the joint into your grocery bag of trash.
“C’mere,” he sighs, propping himself up and running a hand down your torso. When he kisses you, he tastes like smoke and sweat, and a wave of heat rushes through you just from the taste. You’re pulling him on top of you by the loops of his cargo shorts, pressing yourself against the firm plane of his abdomen.
“God, you’re needy,” he laughs, pinning your hips down with a heavy hand.
“You made me this way,” you squirm, and it’s true. He’s too generous with his touches and too sugary with his words, and you chase him like he’s a hit of the purest cocaine.
He shifts on top of you, a knee between your thighs just like you like it. He presses his knee up just to see you gasp and grind down on him. JJ’s laugh is a little mean as snaps the waistband of your shorts. “Okay, honey, what do you want?”
There’s no shame in your voice as you blurt out, “Fuck me.” You’re whining out a plea before he can even answer, with no care that you’re out in the open… no care that the cops patrol at night.
JJ fakes shock, but the hardness of him against you gives him away. “You wanna get fucked, huh. Out in the open?”
“Don’t act like this wasn’t your whole plan, smartass,” you counter as he pins your hands down right above your head.
He just laughs in response. “Dirty, dirty, dirty,” he tuts rebukingly, but he’s pulling apart the tie of your swimsuit top all the same.
as always, likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!!
#outer banks fanfiction#outer banks#jj maybank#jj maybank fluff#jj maybank blurb#jj maybank x reader#jj maybank smut
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THE BIMBO RECEPTIONIST WAS SO CUTE
now id like to introduce, goth/metalhead!bimbo!reader x spence ( more of the opposites attract vibe )
super dark clothes and jewelry and looks like elvira a little bit, maybe a few piercings and tattoos for spencer to oogle at
Brooding - S.R
a/n: EEK i hope u love this as much as i loved writing it :)
bimbo reader has my heart <3
masterlist
‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧
pairings: spencer reid x goth!bimbo!reader
warnings: mmm none! fluff! just two cuties being cute!
wc: 0.6k
Your pen was a flurry of motion, streaking bold lines upon the sketchpad. Technically, you should be sorting through the endless stack of files, keeping them pristine and accessible for the agents. You were always ahead of your tasks, and this job, while not earth-shattering, mattered to you. But when you had a muse as captivating as yours, it was hard to put the pen down.
That muse being the man rifling through the files before you, his face a masterpiece of pretty lines and angles, unaware of the intensity of your focus. You contemplated expressing your admiration aloud, but the idea seemed a little too forward. So, you poured that impulse into a portrait, tracing the contours of his handsome face.
But it proved difficult to accomplish with his relentless pacing. Each step he took sparked another round of redos on the pad. Your tongue, tipped with a silver piercing, unconsciously found its way to your lip as you wrestled with the proportions of his nose, erasing furiously to get it just right.
You let out a sigh, louder than intended, and it was enough to pause his steps. "Sir, can you please stand still?"
He looked utterly baffled, lifting his brows toward his hairline. As your eyes met, he pointed to his chest, his question simple and unsure, "Huh? Me?"
A quick nod sent a ribbon of dyed hair fluttering before your eyes as you beamed at him. "Yes, you! Please, if you don't mind," you murmured, your fingers racing over the paper. "I just need, like, one more second."
He stood frozen, brows remaining quizzically raised. Why he complied, he couldn't say, but the sight of you, so engrossed in your art, your necklaces chiming in time with your movements, and how your bold makeup seemed to frame your face perfectly kept him rooted to the spot.
You peered up through your lashes, giving him a sheepish grin, cheeks lightly flushed as you set the pen down.
"All done! You're free to go. Thanks for being so patient," you chirped, gently waving the paper in the air as if to dry the ink faster.
"Can I at least see the result of my patience?" Spencer asked, his approach casual yet expectant.
You hugged the sketchpad to your chest, a gentle laugh escaping you. "Well, I don't usually just let anyone see my work, especially strangers."
Spencer's smile was tinged with amusement.
"Considering I'm the subject, I think I have some claim to it," he joked. "And by the way, I'm Spencer Reid. There, we're practically acquaintances now."
You couldn't contain the goofy grin that spread across your face, and a giggle bubbled up from your throat.
"Well, since you put it that way, I suppose I can make an exception," you said, drawing out the last word with a wink.
The portrait made Spencer do a double-take--it was him, but as if seen through a gothic, moody lens. His usual composure cracked, and a deep, genuine laugh broke through.
"I never knew I had such a brooding side," he commented with a smile. "I look like I stepped out of a Brontë novel. Perhaps Heathcliff on one of his better days?"
Your head cocked to the side, hair cascading over one shoulder, looking at him through lashes heavy with mascara as you shrugged.
"Heathcliff, huh? I'll take your word for it, but I get the brooding part," you said, with a bubbly laugh. "Come on, it's so you."
Spencer fiddled with his tie, raising a brow.
"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or concerned," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards as he felt a pleasant heat rise to his cheeks.
You squinted sightly, pretending to mull it over.
"Flattered, for sure," you said. "Broody types are just secretly plotting world domination, right?"
He grinned. "Well, maybe not world domination, but certainly plotting something."
Your voice was light, but your question was pointed. "So, what are you plotting, Spencer? Should I be worried?"
He tried to remember what Morgan had taught him.
"Absolutely. But some things are worth the wait--patience, you'll see, can be quite rewarding."
And with a promise like that, you found yourself more than willing to wait.
taglist: @hotchhner @khxna
#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid x goth reader#spencer reid x bimbo reader#spencer reid fic#criminal minds fic
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future problems (pt. 2) -- coriolanus snow x fem!wife!reader
me, after posting a one-shot: “ok i won't do a part two”
me, a few days later: *posts a part two*
howdy y'all ;) back with everyone's favorite toxic white man of the month
this part is based on this anonymous request -- love you anon :) xox
find part one here
summary: reader finds out she's pregnant and has to tell the scariest man in panem -- her husband, president snow
as always, warnings: smut!, pregnancy sex, coriolanus snow is a fucking warning in himself, he’s a dick here, fem!reader, p in v sex, mommy and daddy kink just trust me ok)
barely edited we die like men
anyways... here is future problems (pt. 2):
......
he was told by a servant a month before you told him.
he couldn't believe it.
you had not bled last month.
it's not that he was mad... but he wanted to be told by you. he wanted you to be the first one to tell him. it was important to him — trust and loyalty, especially from you. he had allowed you to get close to him, physically and emotionally, and he deserved that same respect.
he couldn't believe you had kept it from him.
you. of all people. you.
how fucking could you?
it had been a total of six weeks since he had been told by the servant.
it wracked his brain like it was the fever that debilitated him for weeks. it gnawed at him, it scratched at him, and it fucking demanded every ounce of energy from him that he possessed. that sort of pain, betrayal — it insisted on being felt and dealt with immediately, no matter what needed to be taken care of first. corio coriolanus couldn't believe he had honestly trusted you, or even thought you were worthy of some amount of trust... and he couldn't believe he, for even a second, allowed either of you to live in that facade.
never again, he reasoned. never again.
on the day after the six week marker, there was a knock on his office door.
his lips fell into a grimace before he forced it to remain even — calm. no emotion shown. not anymore.
“come in,” he spoke.
his eyes fell to the papers on his desk, where he continued to write and edit his memorandum. his eyes traced the words he wrote, but he was barely focused on what he was writing. the only thing he could hear was the sound of your footsteps entering his office.
“corio?” you asked quietly, smiling, as you stepped through his door.
inside, he flinched at his nickname. coriolanus, he wanted to correct.
he did not raise his head. “…yes?”
he could not see you — but he knew that you noticed his flat demeanor.
it affected your own.
he couldn’t see that — but he knew. he fucking knew.
it wasn’t the first time he had been cold to you, but enough time had past where he reasoned that this would be the solidifying moment of your opinion of him. he knew that you knew he was upset about something. what else could have changed his demeanor?
“i-i wanted to… tell you something,” you replied, voice wavering.
he could tell you were working hard to ignore the obvious signs that something had shifted between the two of you. he knew, he knew, and he knew — but he didn’t care. he couldn’t care. why should he, when you didn’t?
“yes..?” he replied once more, this time sighing.
his eyes met yours.
your resolve immediately fell. though slight, he could see that whatever confidence you had possessed had faded from your face. it was gone… and coriolanus didn’t have the resolve to replenish it. neither did you have the strength to fake it.
he saw you begin to pick at your fingernails — another nervous habit of yours he had noticed.
however, this was a new one. once the pair of you shared a kiss — you were rarely seen pulling at the skin of your lips and your usage of lip moisturizer had increased. he appreciated it, at the time — but now? now it was a reminder of what once was. with new bad habits came the alert of the passage of time — and the alert of bonds breaking.
he couldn’t deal. he just couldn’t.
“what is it?” coriolanus demanded, eyes blinking.
your lips parted in confusion, and your brows scrunched right with them. there was hurt in your eyes, and splattered across your cheeks in a pink hue. your cheeks were usually flushed with graciousness or from alcohol — but this was embarrassment. hurt. rejection.
he didn’t care anymore, especially not when he admitted to himself that a part of him loved seeing your face and confidence fall. if he was going to fall, you were going straight down with him.
down, down, down.
“i’m with child,” you responded, appearing to struggle to catch your breath.
there it was. the admission.
he clenched his jaw. his eyes focused on your face — and how the tears began to collect in your eyes. the rejection he was sending towards you was even being felt by him — and he almost felt bad. to see a woman he so blindly trusted, who thought she could outsmart him — play the part of a hurt and broken hearted woman so well.
he did not smile. he did not laugh. he did not even get up. he simply stared at her — silently.
“i take it you are not happy at this announcement,” she responded, voice barely wavering. “i-i would’ve thought…”
coriolanus watched as you placed a gentle hand over your stomach — almost in a protective manner.
“how long have you known?” he asked.
“i took the pregnancy test today,” you responded.
coriolanus’ jaw tightened. he was not expecting that, especially not after the news he was given. “…but you’ve known for some time. you must have — given how you chose today to take the test, and don’t seem as surprised as you thought i would be.”
you narrowed your eyes at him. “…no, coriolanus. i didn’t. i had hopes, yes, but… i took the test as soon as i thought reasonable. you’re the first person i’ve told.”
confusion and hurt. that was all you felt. it encased your body like it was trying its best to cast you from the room — placing a heavy boundary between you and your husband. husband… if you could even call him that. your lips began to twist in a grimace as emotions began to well up inside you.
“tell me why i have displeased you,” you spoke, voice threatening to break. you took a step towards his desk and kept one hand firmly on your belly. your eyes, red and wet, bore into his and refused to leave him. “i thought you would be overjoyed. i-i thought…”
“you claim i was the first person you told,” he spat, holding your glare. “but i was not the first person to assume.”
you scrunched your eyebrows at him… but then you realized. it hit you like a ton of bricks. you bit the inside of your cheek, drawing blood, before stating, “your spies.”
coriolanus narrowed his eyes. it was not an issue that she knew… but he didn’t understand how she could know, nor for how long. spies were useful when their identity and presence was not apparent, and therefore he considered his current spies failures — to be dealt with later. at the moment… he had other matters.
“you might want to elaborate on that statement if you’re going to act like it’s something profound,” he spat, standing and snapping his journal closed.
coriolanus stood behind his desk and pushed in his chair. you watched him as he struggled to keep everything together, neat and tidy.
your face was red and hot, and you weren’t sure if it was due to the pregnancy or the betrayal. how could he? how could he?! there you stood, trying to remain collected — but it proved useless. through your tears, you spat, “a woman is supposed to wait before telling everyone she’s pregnant — god forbid she loses the baby before it’s viable. i waited the standard amount of time most women are practically born knowing to wait. if your spy is going to make my cycle their business, they should at least understand basic fucking female biology, coriolanus, or your spies and their intel are fucking useless!”
you didn’t wait to hear his response. you left the room.
he stared at the oak door out of entitlement — it should open once more, and reveal his wife.
the mother of his child…
he had never considered… things of that nature. tests. waiting periods. hormones.
incompetence. that of his spies — nor his own.
he didn’t understand any of it.
however, he did understand one thing…
he had to deal with the useless spy.
…and that would happen before he approached you.
that approach occurred approximately an hour and a half later. he would have found you sooner, but the spy had… taken more time than anticipated. afterwards — there he stood, at your door, with a tray of food in his hands for the both of you.
his knuckles wrapped on the door.
there were no footsteps.
they wrapped again.
still, no footsteps.
once more.
…and, still, nothing.
he couldn’t believe this.
he went to knock a fourth time, but before he could — the door swung open.
to reveal you in the doorway.
your eyes were blown wide with anger, but the rest of your face did not show emotion. you glared at the man before you, which unsettled your husband,
he picked you because you were unproblematic — but had gotten lucky with the fact that your company was so pleasant. you were not loud, annoying, mean, bold, disrespectful, disobedient, or anything of the sort — but he did not expect this.
he did not expect you… to hold a grudge against him, much less stand up for yourself.
he stood there silently — dumbstruck.
“i would slam this door in your face if you weren’t the president,” you spat lowly. “please do not make me forget formalities.”
“i brought you dinner,” he spoke, ignoring you. “please… join me.”
you raised an eyebrow, scoffing. “you’ve been ignoring me for weeks, when i tried to convince myself you were just busy. you can handle another night of dining alone.”
you went to shut the door, but he stopped it with his foot. your eyes lowered to where his toe was in the doorway, and traveled up to where his eyes were. as per usual, his facial expressions were flat, save for determined. he always had a goal in mind… and refused to change it until he succeeded.
you sighed. you had had enough.
“i’m not doing this tonight,” you bit. “i show you every ounce of respect that i know you expect of me. i have been patient, kind, gentle — but i can’t meet you halfway right now. not after that. leave. please.”
there coriolanus went. searching your eyes once more, like he had done long ago. his jaw clenched once, twice, three times before it finally settled. he did not remove his foot before he spoke once more.
“why didn’t you tell me immediately?” he imposed.
there was a hint of pleading in his voice. your breath began to quicken with anxiety. out of exhaustion and frustration, completely forgetting your station, you rolled your eyes at your husband before responding.
“what if i was wrong, coriolanus?” you spat, your eyes were narrowed. “why would i tell the most powerful and scary man that runs panem — that i am pregnant with his child, if i am not one hundred percent sure? to get your hopes up for nothing, if, god forbid, i lose it?”
he didn’t respond.
you threw your hands up in exasperation. a silent cry left your lips in the form of a broken inhale. your hormones were running rabid — coursing through your veins and filling you with frustration.
you locked your teary eyes with him once more. trying to keep your voice quiet, you hissed, “your spies aren’t exactly discreet. i’ve known about them since my first day here. your spies — they’ve never reported i’ve done anything wrong because i have never done anything wrong. it’s not like i can hide anything here, either — they’re everywhere. nothing is a secret — even a private moment between husband and wife, like a wife finally being able to tell her husband that she’s sure she’s pregnant with his child. i have given you everything you’ve ever requested of a wife, yet there you sat — throwing silent insults in my face.”
there went the boundary.
up and sturdy.
layer after layer of brick and cement. your trust and love for him crumbled with each new layer, until you couldn’t see the man you once adore beyond the wall. the man before you frustrated you so much that you forgot what it was like to look upon his face and feel nervous excitement at the prospect of seeing him smile. you wanted to slam the door in his face, placing two boundaries up — a real one, and an emotional one.
one that would prevent you from ever being so stupid again — from ever letting him close to you, for ever thinking this could work.
stupid, you thought. stupid, stupid, stupid.
but coriolanus corio would have none of that.
he was a man of formalities and manners, but your husband actually pushed his way through.
you stumbled backwards in surprise. your husband had guards for doing his dirty work — not the shoulder of his new and crisp suit.
he shoved the tray of food on a nearby table, ratting the walls and the contents on each surface. you placed a protective hand over your stomach and watched him — waiting for his next move.
“i said get out, coriolanus!” you spat. your gaze was fiery red, and now there were angry tears in your eyes. corio could see the hormones flowing from every opening in your skin they could find — even smell them. “i refuse to speak to you!”
“the father of your child?” he spoke evenly, walking towards you. “your husband?”
you took a step back for every step he took forward. “you were more concerned with the secret kept than the actual chance of life!”
“i thought you were keeping the chance of being happy about a child from me,” he spoke, bitterness instinctually falling from his perfect lips. “you can’t forget — we barely know each other —“
“and who’s fault is that?!”
he stopped. his jaw tightened. he stared down at you and wondered where all of this fury had come from.
him. it came from him. the realization struck him similar to how other pieces of information had been striking him later. in the chest or face, whichever hurt more — and forcing his breath to catch in his lungs. never to reach his throat, let alone his lips.
he couldn’t keep going on like this — watching and waiting. watching others for their mistakes, and waiting for the correct moment to… correct them. at the very least… he couldn’t with you — not with you.
“i committed a wrong against you,” he spat before he could think about it.
you scrunched your eyebrows in disbelief. apologies were rare in the capital, and admissions of guilt were almost as scarce. you stared at him, still consumed with rage — but now confusion began to creep upon you. and where there is confusion… there is always curiosity.
you didn’t respond. you clenched your jaw at his words, but that was the only response he received.
“i did,” he reaffirmed, stepping closer to you. you drew back a step — not far, but still a step. he continued, “when i had heard what my spy had relayed to me — i should have asked you.”
you had three options. ignore him, yell at him, or hear him out. did he deserve the first two? yes. did you have every right to do either of the two, or both? yes, of course. however… were they worth it in the long run?
that was the question that now ate at you.
you had every right to put up the same emotional barrier you had worked so hard to tear down with coriolanus. his? who knows why he insisted on making his hurt everyone else’s problem. yours? he was an elite asshole, but… you were married to him. he was the president of panem. he was the most ruthless man in all of panem.
and you loved him.
you really, really did.
that was why his distrust for you hurt so bad.
it wasn’t about seeking approval anymore — because you thought you had it, or at least had come to close to it. once given that, you felt safe enough, well… to feel safe. to feel safety, trust, respect, reliability… and love. love.
the fucking bastard made you love him.
with reluctance, you took a step forward. “you should have, coriolanus.”
his jaw tightened as he also took a step forward. “corio — please, my love.”
you scoffed out of reflex and threw your stare to the side. you began to rub at your stomach, hoping to quell your own anxiety. there were a million insults waiting to leap from your tongue and latch onto his face, chest, throat — anything to hurt him or get him to fuck off. however, you swallowed them.
“i would do anything for you,” you stammered, trying to keep emotion out of your voice. “i have proved that time and time again.”
he took a step closer. “i know.”
“i know better than to keep something substantial from you,” you replied. “god forbid it was a fluke…”
another step closer. “i know.”
“i have done everything i can to prove that i am loyal to you, and only you,” you spoke, your voice wavering. “in the future, i ask that you approach me first — yell at me, fuck, i couldn’t care less — just as long as you don’t ignore me. anything, corio — just don’t push me away.
he laughed then, only a foot away from you now. the tears in your eyelids hadn’t hit your cheeks yet, but they threatened to. he reached forward and cupped your face in both of his hands. he leaned down due to your height difference and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
“i know,” he repeated. “and i promise — i will try my best to not push you away.”
“okay,” you nodded, sniffling.
“never heard such coarse words from my perfect wife,” corio attempted to break the tension.
you chuckled then, wiping away any moisture from your eyes. “there were more — trust me.”
“i would have deserved them.”
your eyes flickered up to his them, searching his irises for answers like he did to you. you weren’t sure how he did it — but he could find every lie or fact inside someone’s eyes. that trait had not found its way to you.
but maybe it would to your child.
“i want to hear you say it again,” you whispered, now meeting his eyes. “i want to hear you say that you promise you will try your best to never push me away again.”
“i promise,” he spoke, nodding.
you refused to stare into his eyes at his admission. if he wasn’t a good liar, you didn’t want to know — not in that moment.
"am i allowed to kiss the mother of my child now?" he asked with a smirk.
you glared at him. "you would've —"
"shhh," he cooed, before leaning down and pressing his lips to yours.
one of his hands slid to the back of your head and cradled the bottom of your skull. he wrapped his free arm around your back, pulling you into him. the kiss, you couldn't explain it — it — it...
it was like he swallowed you.
there was no place for you to move, but then again — why would you want to? you body was perfectly molded to fit his, in every way he wanted you to bend to him. his warmth, his scent, his taste — it all coaxed your senses into such a feeling of satisfaction that you weren't sure where it started or ended. it held your consciousness in warmth and safety — something rare in the capital. the only thing that mattered to you was that you were in your husband's arms and the kiss did not stop.
"so pleased with you," he mumbled against your mouth. "a child..."
warmth bubbled within the lower half of your body. praise, from a man like corio... any woman's weakness.
you hummed into the kiss, rubbing your hands up and down his chest. "going to be so proud of their father, the president."
the groan that emitted from his chest was deep and guttural — so masculine. it made every hair on the back of your neck stand at attention, waiting for a direction from the man before you. you began to finger his top button, hoping... hinting...
"sweetheart," he spoke, pulling away. "as much as i want to, i am not sure whether —"
"i think i'm fine," you gushed, only realizing after how desperate you might have sounded. "we might as well — especially before i become too big to breathe."
he stiffened as he held you. you immediately grew worried.
"what's wrong?" you softly asked, rubbing his chest.
he shook his head. "nothing —" he stopped for a moment, appearing to contemplate something. "it's just — i was imagining —"
you looked up at him curiously, hoping he would elaborate. his eyes immediately flew to your lips — perfect and plump, a match for his. you smirked.
you had him. “what were you imagining, husband?”
his jaw clenched again as his eyes widened. “my pretty wife has become so much more bold since i met her.”
you smiled up at him, hoping that he found it amusing more than disreepctful. one of his hands found your cheek as his thumb caressed the skin. your eyes were big as they gazed up at your husband, keening into his silent praise.
“i disagree with you, wife,” he spoke. “too big to bed —“ he scoffed before leaning down to your ear, your words rolling with disgust off his tongue. his lips brushed against the skin of your lobe before he spoke, “i’ll have a hard time keeping my hands to myself when the mother of my children will swell with me inside of her.”
your eyes, still wide, were frozen on corio’s. mischief danced in his irises, like a snake coiling around its prey. air left his nostrils in a small, sudden gush — amusement. the look that played on his face depicted the power imbalance — but, then again, how stupid could you be to ever think you would have control over your husband for a substantial amount of time?
he grasped your chin in his fingers before your lips parted. you were at his mercy — to be bent to his will. his head bent towards you before he spoke.
“you think you’ll repulse me — when my seed takes inside you, and it shows?” he asked. his eyes searched yours — but what yours reveal that he didn’t already know? he had you. he had you, and there was nothing you could do about it. “my naive, little wife… i don’t expect i’ll allow you to leave the bedroom much when that time comes.”
christ, you thought. your breath began to quicken as his words settled upon you. in a soft voice, you replied, “you leave me speechless, husband.”
he wickedly smiled then. “get on the bed, sweetheart. making up for lost time is in order, wouldn’t you agree?”
you couldn’t help yourself. you should’ve listened to him — but how could you, when he smelled so good, spoke so nicely, and was so close? you rolled onto your toes just enough to be able to press a kiss to your husband’s lips, and wrap your arms around his neck.
the angle was annoying for corio, who thought pulling you into his arms would be better use of his strength — especially if you weren’t going to listen. his large hands held your ass, supporting your weight as you leaned into his touch. your breasts, arched into his chest, were the only barrier that kept you two apart. there was nothing like a kiss from corio — heat, lips, teeth, spit. all of it melted into one.
“you missed me… didn’t you, sweetheart?”
“yes,” you spoke, breathlessly. “so much, corio.”
“i was so mean —“ he replied, in between kisses. “wasn’t i? neglecting my perfect wife. a good husband would have to make up for that.”
you hummed in agreement, almost breaking into a whine. “kiss me, corio. missed you so much…“
it was like he swallowed you. body, lips, breath, emotions — all of it. once yours, but now his. all his. your body temperature increased with every fold of his lips against yours. heat pricked at the tips of your cheeks, the back of your neck, and your lower back. your fingertips, tingling, made quick work of his buttons to strip him of his clothing.
he couldn’t deal with how slow and gentle your fingers were. he loved you and how gentle you were — but when his cock was straining against his pants? the head of his cock, so red it was almost purple, leaking at the sight of his redeemed, perfect, pregnant wife? begging for him?
you were fucked. so fucked.
he should've been disgusted at the thought of fucking his wife while the babe sat protected inside your womb. however, nothing could stop corio from rejoicing at the fact that you had never done him wrong when you had actually presented him with a gift, also showing the utmost protection for it.
you fell back against the bed, your back awkwardly landing on the edge. you couldn't stand or lay back perfectly balanced, therefore relying on your husband to hold you upright and your grip of his clothes.
"my perfect wife —" he moaned into your neck, mouthing at your clammy skin. he had shoved his hand into your panties, finding you already soaked. "glowing as a mother —"
it was like you were both succumbing to the heat and haze of all-consuming lust. your hot breaths added to the humidity in the air, making your embrace with corio feel like a sauna. he couldn't rip your lace stockings off fast enough as you struggled to hold your balance.
your husband loomed over you as one large hand cupped the back of your head. his long, talented fingers on his other hand drew rough circles on your sensitive bud and you couldn't contain your cries. it had been so long. so, so long. the feeling of loneliness and lust had dissipated and was replaced by satiation. you need corio's hot, and husky breath groaning against your ear and all of your muscles holding you up and in place, forced to take everything he could give you. tears began to well up in your eyes at the thought of not only having your corio back, but for the lonely need for intimacy to also leave you.
he laughed darkly. "you're so close already, aren't you?"
you whined, struggling to regain your composure as you fought through embarrassment. "it's just been — so long —"
"how would you feel if i took it away, little dove?" he asked, eyes taunting. "how helpless would you feel? — how much of a mess would you make?"
"don't take it away from me, corio, please —" frustration was eating at you as you held onto him. he was so far away, then so close, and he was threatening to pull away as if it was a game. your feelings, your safety, you — all a game to him.
the hand on the back of your head left you to grasp at your chin as tears rolled down your face. your teeth were firmly planted in your bottom lip as you struggled against his touch. the rope in your womb was being wrapped so tightly that you felt the strands would snap at any moment, but you knew he would pull away. his eyes, dark and boring into yours, spoke for him — you were right. it was a game, and he was loving it.
"tell me it was worth it — for this," he rasped, eyes still locked on you. "tell me all of the pain i caused you was worth it — for this."
you were writhing against his hold at this point, grinding your hips down onto his hand as you whined against his lips. you were pulling at the fabric adorning his shoulders, hoping to rip it from him — hoping to make him feel as strung out as you felt.
"it was all worth it," you croaked. "all worth it for how good this feels."
"i'll never leave you again," he promised, his movements now becoming more rough on your core. "tell me you love it. tell me you love me."
"i love you, corio — !" you cried, pressing the sides of your noses together so your lips were barely touching. "i love it so much — please, don't stop —"
"that's it, doll —" he groaned. "cry for me. do it — cry."
something snapped inside of you.
your eyes closed, and your vision went black.
your throat went hoarse from the sob that left your mouth.
your lips were ragged with how your teeth ripped into them.
but you? oh, god — you felt so full.
corio's palm rubbed against your clit as his fingers entered you, pressing into that deep spot only he could find. you rode his hand like satisfaction was the only thing that mattered to you. greed and gluttony — want and need. none of it mattered.
"mommy feels so good now, doesn't she?" corio whispered into your ear. "just needed what only daddy could give her. — s'all right — just keep cumming, darling."
"fuck, corio —" you whined, buzzing with overstimulation.
he clicked his tongue at you. "such a naughty mouth on you. i'll teach you."
and he meant it.
he immediately withdrew from you — letting you fall onto the floor with both hands on the sheets, facing the bed. you almost scrambled to get back up, until you heard corio's pants drop from behind you. he kicked open your knees, and found himself with your perfect round ass pressing into his cock. he pressed the front of you into the bed, and snaked a arm around your throat.
you felt the tip of his cock prod at your wet and swollen lips before he slipped his length inside of you. you tried to lean forward into his thrust, but corio didn't like that. with a hand wrapped around your throat, he pulled you backwards against him.
the angle made your shiver. the tip of his cock began to hit the wall right behind your clit, making your head go dizzy. his finger found the corner of your lips, dipping inside your mouth. he pulled at the corner, forcing you to look up at him.
"so helpless — so perfect —" he groaned, rutting into you. his head held you perfectly in place for his total control. "can't believe i let myself miss out on the chance to breed my perfect wife. so perfect, aren't you?"
you didn't know what to say. your head was swimming. you were barely down from your first orgasm and now corio was forcing another onn you. hormones, emotions, and sensations were running wild inside your body and you weren't sure how to make sense of the fever. coupled with his own frenzy, you were a mess. a rubber band, for him to snap and play with whenever he liked.
"i asked you a question," he snapped. "you're perfect, aren't you?"
you hesitated, working through insecurity as lust overtook your mind. mumbling, due to the finger in your mouth, you spoke, "perfect."
corio stared down at you in awe. your hair was a mess, as was the rest of you. your face was flushed, your lips were swollen, but your eyes... oh, your eyes... corio was a sick bastard. the look of any sight of wetness in your eyes during sex made his cock so hard he could explode. crying with need was a feeling corio would never let himself feel, no matter how much he wanted to let it overtake him. he wouldn't let himself feel it, but he couldn't hide the fact that he loved the vulnerability you showed when you wanted him. needed him. craved him. his thrusts weren't rough because he hated you, but because he knew that need all too well.
"keep crying for me," he rasped, letting his tongue fall past your ragged lips. "so pretty when you're a mess."
there was nothing like it — being held so tightly you couldn't move and being forced to accept the pleasure and satisfaction only corio could give you. draining you of every negative emotion you had ever felt to replace all of it with animalistic give and take. his own throaty groans were being swallowed by you, as his hips snapped relentlessly against yours.
"make me a mommy, corio," you whispered. "wan' it so badly."
his grip tightened around you as he shook with pleasure. with three thrusts and a heavy groan, he let all of his spend leak inside of you and paint your walls. you felt his rough voice against your ear, mouth obscenities as satisfaction overtook him. you hadn't came again, but you didn't care — not when the air still felt so warm and soft.
that was until you felt a hand find your clit with his softening cock still inside you.
you knew how sensitive he was, and you should've care — but you didn't. all you could think about was giving into how good his fingers felt against you, still feeling so full. the thought of him also being so sensitive while you rode his cock pricked at your senses, relishing in the fact that you were giving him a taste of his own medicine as you came around his cock.
"greedy fucking wife — !" he seethed, anger spewing from his lips as he struggled to fuck you back with his oversensitive cock. you knew it was so red that it was purple and swollen, hating you but loving every bit of you at the same time. you should've cared, but you didn't. not when you knew it felt so good for the both of you, his whines in your ear telling you everything. with one final groan against you, he spoke, "you're never leaving this fucking bedroom — i'll tie you to the bed if i have to, do you fucking understand?!"
all you could do was stare up at him with awe and tears in your eyes.
his mouth parted at the sight. with his cock still inside you, you still riding his softening cock as you rode out your orgasm, nothing was prettier. nothing fulfilled your corio more. with one last kiss, he spoke, "just as evil as me, aren't you?"
you giggled. "i love you, too."
---
if you're wondering if i went batshit insane i did HAHA hope you enjoyed
L xox
#coriolanus snow#corio snow#corio smut#corio imagine#corio fic#corio x reader#corio x you#corio mommy kink#corio breeding kink#corio daddy kink#coriolanus snow smut#coriolanus smut#coriolanus snow fic#coriolanus fic#coriolanus imagine#coriolanus snow imagine#coriolanus mommy kink#coriolanus daddy kink#coriolanus breeding kink#coriolanus x reader#coriolanus fanfiction#coriolanus x you#coriolanus snow x reader#the hunger games#billy the kid smut#billy x reader#billy the kid imagine#billy smut#billy the kid#billy imagine
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"Summers In The Air And Baby, Heaven's In Your Eyes."
Joel Miller x F!reader
An: first fic! Feedback would definitely be appreciated!
Word count: 1k+
Warnings:fluff, age gap (readers 26 & Joel is 33) Joel and reader have been friends for 4 years so, Fake dating, creepy neighbors husband, protective!joel for like 2 seconds, THEY KISS.
It's mid July and the Millers are throwing their annual neighborhood together.
Every. Single. Year. The millers throw an outstanding barbecue, the best Texan brisket that’s been smoked for 12 hours the night before just for this big event.
Hours before the event the whole Miller household was in shambles, everyone on deck running around tidying up, making sure everything is perfect.
Thankfully Joel and Tommy had helpful hands with you being there. Sarah not so much but she’d pop in at times to see what the progression looked like.
Joel called out for your help in the backyard.
“Hey can you help me with the pool, while I check on the brisket?” He squinted his eyes due to the Texas sun in his eyes.
“Yeah, the skimmers in the shed, right?” With the nod of approval from the older Texan, you headed to the shed and grabbed the skimmer for the pool.
While skimming the pool, you were oblivious to the footsteps behind you until you were falling into the pool and loud laughs were heard from the two.
Sarah hunched over; giggles coming from her. Joel stands in the spot that you were just at, laughing.
The worst duo when it came to stuff like this.
“You’re a very lucky man, Miller.” Reaching your hand up to signal help getting out.
“And why’s that?” Grabbing your hand and ready to pull you up from the cool water.
You yank his hand and here he comes splashing next to you in the cool blue water.
“Because if I was wearing the clothes for the party right now, you’d be a dead man.” You laughed at his soaking wet form in the water
Sarah was practically rolling on the grass from how her father fell for the obvious.
“Sarah, could you help me carry this stuff to the table please?” Walking out and placing the paper plates and plastic silverware onto the white fold up table.
“Where should I put this..?” She stood next to you confused.
“I’ll put it away, don’t worry about it.” Grabbing the box of napkins and more paper plates and placing them on the table.
Once you were done putting stuff away , you decided to check on Joel knowing he tends to get anxious before everyone shows up.
“How are you doing.?” You rubbed his shoulder.
“You know how I get before everyone shows up.” Pulling the brisket out of the smoker.
“Yeah and every time, people are blown away from your amazing Texan hospitality that keeps them coming every year.” Following him to the table where all the food is set out and covered.
“You ain’t got a damn thing to worry about miller.” You reassure him.
“Yeah I know but-” he was abruptly cut off.
“Hey Joel, people are here. You want me to let them in or nah..?” It was the man of the hour, Tommy miller.
Joel looked at you for some help, and with a nod of approval from you, he told Tommy to start letting people in.
-
With about half of the neighborhood in Joel millers backyard, there was still enough room to navigate around.
Sarah and her friends playing in the pool, parents talking about the latest gossip going on in the neighborhood. Joel and Tommy talking to their construction friends.
It was one of the very many things you enjoyed during the summer.
Watching from afar, soaking up the memory of pure happiness, until it was rudely interrupted by someone.
“Hey, you know where Joel keeps the beer? I’ve seen everyone with one yet I can’t seem to find a single cooler of beer.” A tall man, graying hair and slight wrinkles in the corners of his eyes.
“Oh um, yeah it’s just this way.” Walking outside by the grill and pulling the large cooler from the somewhat hidden space it sat before.
“Thank you darling. I appreciate it.” The man smiled at you.
“Oh it was really no problem at all.” You returned a polite smile at the older man and just as you about to walk away to find Joel, is when you felt a hand on your wrist.
“Why don’t you have a drink with me?” His oddly warm hand still wrapped around your wrist.
“I would, but I really need to find Joel.” Using anything as an excuse to get away from this man.
“How about you have a drink with me and then we can both go find Joel?!” He said, it was sounding like he was more telling you than asking you.
You were about to reply until your thoughts were interrupted.
“Actually Mike, I need her help with something, so if you don’t mind, I’d like for you to let go of my girlfriend.” It was the man that you were looking for, Joel miller.
“Oh my bad Joel, didn’t mean anything by it.” The tall man, Mike was much shorter than Joel was, Joel was practically towering over the older man. Mikes hand quickly unwrapping itself from your wrist.
“I think Linda’s over there looking for you. Said something about your daughter, might want to go find her.” Joel softly pulling you in his side, watching Mike scramble to find his wife.
“So girlfriend huh?!” You grin looking up at him. Resting your right hand on his chest.
He playfully pushes you away, laughing as he speed walks away from you.
“MILLER.” You shout as you ran after him, laughing once you catch up.
“I only said that so he’d let go of you, or I was gonna have to ruin the barbecue because I would’ve punched him” he said slowly sitting on the outside couch he had.
“Joel miller, you would ruin your barbecue for me, I feel honored.” Nudging your elbow against his.
“Oh shut up.” He looks at the ground chuckling.
After everyone left, it was just you, Joel, Tommy, Sarah and her school friend Ellie.
You and the Miller men clean up the aftermath of the barbecue.
3 trash bags full, fold up table put in the shed, extra food placed in the fridge, and beer put in the garage fridge.
You were finally done.
Tommy called it a night after helping you and Joel take the trash to the garage cans.
-
After washing your hands and putting away the extra paper plates back into the pantry, and running the dishwasher even after Joel’s protests about how he’ll do them tomorrow.
You found Joel sitting on the outdoor couch nursing a beer. Sitting right next to him and laying your head on his firm but soft shoulder.
He offered you some of his beer, which you excepted.
You two say in comfortable silence, just enjoying one another’s company.
At one point you could hear Sarah and her friend Ellie laughing and giggling. It sends a pang of happiness to your heart.
You finally broke the silence, your voice soft and airy.
“You’re the best, best friend I’ve ever had.” You say looking up at him.
And for a second you could’ve sworn the world went quiet, no giggles of the two young girls upstairs, no crickets or chirps, just you two.
“Oh yeah?” He said looking at the full moon that had been looking right at the two of you.
“Yeah.” Turning your attention to the moon as well.
“Well you’re also the best, best friend I’ve ever had.” He turns to admire you, how peaceful you look, how the moon light dances on your beautiful skin.
He watches as you turn to look at him, your smile brightens and for the first time in Joel millers life, he gets butterflies.
It’s like something had taken over Joel’s body as he slowly leans towards you, before his lips capture yours.
You deepen the kiss, moving from sitting beside Joel to sitting on his lap.
He breaks the kiss for a second to breathe, your foreheads resting onto one another’s before he captures your lips for a second time.
“I think I’m in love you with you.” You whisper into the kiss.
“I think I’m in love with you too.” He whispers to you.
A/n: Hey there! I hope you enjoyed!
#joel miller#the last of us#pedro pascal#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#sarah miller#tommy miller
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Could you make a one shot where the reader grew up with a very loving family (especially her dad) and rafe surprises her with gifts, activities and acts of service that she loves. She gets confused and asks him what’s with the stuff. He says that he’s recently been spending lots of time with her parents and always asks them what reader likes to show that he can meet the bar her dad has set. (And maybe slip in something on how he’ll set his bar with their future daughters and their boyfriends 😈🥹). I always look forward to reading ur work and I just wanted to finally ask cuz you write everyone’s requests so well!!
Setting The Standards
Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader
Warnings: N/A
Pronouns: She/Her
Word Count: 0.6K
Masterlist
Y/N loves that Rafe likes to spend time with her parents without her. She finds it sweet that he takes time out of his day to get to know the other people she loves and thinks it is good for him to be around a family that actually treats him with love and attention. Every time Rafe visits her parents, she notices he gives her a gift and does one more chore around the house the way she likes it. A part of her feels like he is trying to condition her, but it wouldn’t really make sense because he is the one doing the visiting.
One day, she decides to ask him about it. Her parents spent the day with Rafe at her and his shared house while she was at work. They had to leave before she got home because they had to get to her brother’s house to babysit her niece. She places her purse on the side table and pads to the living room. She isn’t surprised to find a box wrapped in flower-patterned wrapping paper and a bow. She approaches it with a smile, tearing into it as soon as she is within arms reach of it. Her instinct to wait for Rafe goes out the window. She didn’t expect to find ketchup chips in the box. Her parents must have told him about how she became obsessed with the snack when they vacationed in Canada a few years ago. Her hands eagerly reach for the bag and pull it open, shoving the red potato slices into her mouth. She moans at the sweet taste that reaches her taste buds. Rafe enters the room with a chuckle, “I see you like the snack I got you.” His feet take him behind her and he reaches into the bag to pop a chip into his mouth. She stares up at him with a smile. “I did. Thank you. What were you doing?”
“I was switching out your winter clothes with your summer ones. The weather is getting warmer so it’s time for flower patterns and shorts, Bumblebee.” He kisses her cheek with his arms around her waist. Butterfly erupts in her stomach. She hates changing between her closets. It takes forever and is so tedious.
“Aww, thank you, Baby. It means a lot that you do all this for me.” She rests her hands on his and they sway for a little until she gets the courage to ask what she has been wanting to ask. “So… I have noticed that whenever you are with my parents, I get gifts and your acts of service are more tailored towards me. I was wondering why.”
They freeze and he caresses her forearms. “One reason why I love spending time with your parents is that I get to learn small stuff about you that you may not see as important to me. It helps me make you happy and that’s my mission in life.”
She awws and kisses his cheek, “That’s so sweet, Baby. I wish I could do those things for you.” He brings his hand up to her cheek as a reassurance. “You may not know it, but just being here for me is enough, Bumblebee. Plus, how am I supposed to show our daughter how she should be treated if I don’t lead by example? Because both of you are meant to be treated like queens. I’m just setting the standards.” A heat spreads over her cheeks at the mention of their possible future. It solidifies her belief that he will make a great father one day. “You are going to set the standards so high for her that she will recognize that she only deserves to be married to a king,” Y/N adds. “Thank you for everything that you do for me.”
Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @thepatriarchykeychain @drewsmusee @starkowswife @maybankslover @forstarkey @loving-and-dreaming @magicalyoura @rubixgsworld
#rafe cameron#rafe cameron x reader#outer banks#rafe cameron imagine#outer banks fanfiction#outer banks imagine#outer banks x reader#rafe#rafe fic#rafe obx#rafe outer banks#rafe x reader#rafe imagine#outerbanks rafe#obx rafe cameron#rafe cameron outer banks#rafe cameron blurb#rafe x y/n#rafe x you#outerbanks#outer banks fic#obx
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Love Letters
Pairings: Aaron Hotchner x Reader
Word Count: 8.1k words
Warnings: Murder, torture, depictions of mental illness, typical Criminal Minds content...
A/N: Collabed with a couple friends about the serial killer. Guys, this was hard. Spent sooo much time building this character and then didn't even end up using all of the stuff we came up with. But it was fun and I enjoyed this and I hope you do too! Special thanks to the ones who helped me plan, @the-nerdy-goddess and @thecreature-bug and my beta reader @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen!
A knock on your classroom door has you turning your head, and you smile at the sight of the math teacher one door down.
You know why she's here, sneaking a “meeting” before all the kids get here for homeroom. You roll your eyes, scooting back in your rolling chair and crossing your arms.
“So how was the date Saturday?” Esther asks, raising a teasing brow as she walks further into the room, taking a seat right on the side of your desk. “You get lucky?”
You scoff. “I wish. The guy was boring. It was a total snooze fest.” You pick up a paper from your grading stack, marking another consecutive one hundred on little Amelia's test. “I told him I was a teacher and he told me how he had a crush on his teacher from the eighth grade.”
“Blergh,” she groans, making a face. “Was he a gentleman, at least?”
“I wish, part two. He didn't pull a chair, he didn't open a door.”
She shakes her head in disappointment and pats your back. “Your gentleman is coming to you soon. You deserve it.” She reaches over, picking up your necklace and running her thumb over the F before dropping it back down. “And I like that necklace.”
You laugh sarcastically at her, jutting your chin out toward the mirroring E around her own neck. All the fifth grade teachers wear one, a gift from Sarah’s—the science teacher’s—birthday party. “I like yours.”
She brushes the golden charm on her dark chest with a smile. She scoots off your desk. “Hey, if you're looking for another date, I might have a guy.” She winks at you, and you almost throw a pencil at her.
“Don't you have a class to teach?”
“Eventually,” she shrugs. “Small accident a few blocks away, traffic’s backed up. Buses are late–”
“–and most of your class rides the bus.” You nod, “Yeah.”
She walks to the door, patting the frame twice. “But I'll leave you be. I have copies to print.”
You shoo her away. “Goodbye.”
She winks at you again, clicking her tongue. “See you.”
~
The elevator doors close as David steps in next to Aaron. After a quick once-over, he smiles. “You look tired. Jack?”
Aaron shakes his head as he glances at his shoes, “No. Jack's fine.”
“Oh,” Dave raises his brows. “Did Aaron Hotchner have a date?”
He chuckles, amused by the assumption. “Me?”
He shrugs. “Good to have a little hope.”
Another rare chuckle passes his lips as he shakes his head again. His voice is low and soft with his amusement. “Yeah, I had a date. With a wrench and a kitchen sink.”
He hums, tilting his head from side to side as if weighing the options. “A date is a date. At least you can fix the sink.”
“Alright,” he mumbles lightheartedly.
Dave pushes the doors open as they enter the round table room, watching as the rest of the team slowly makes their way. When everyone is present and accounted for, he begins.
“What have we got, Garcia?”
Penelope sets her coffee cup down, making a face. “Oh, my little ducklings, nothing good.” The screen turns on and presents a round of crime scene photos, multiple women covered in uniform cuts all matching the other perfectly, besides the differences in the letters adorning their chests. It's graphic and strange.
Garcia avoids looking with everything she has. “Some hikers at the New River Gorge Bridge in West Virginia were going about their business when they found five perfectly marked graves lined up in a row.” The presses a button and said graves are shown before and after they were dug up. When Garcia says perfect, she means perfect. The graves are perfect rectangles, all the same size and depth and almost as though someone used a ruler to make sure the lines were straight.
“The bodies found were Madeline Johnsons, Beatrice Cabrera, Clara Warner, Dakota Platt,” one more press reveals a woman with dark skin now pale with death, “and our latest victim, Esther Cooke.”
The team flips through the files they were given, analyzing the information as it comes. “All were found covered in multiple incisions all over the body, and letters carved on their chests.” She makes a face. “I don't know how much you guys gate papercuts, but I know that if I got as many as our victims here, I'd be forever emotionally ruined.”
Reid's analytical eyes take in the sight of the bodies. “It's almost reminiscent of Lingchi, translated to ‘slow slicing’ or ‘death by a thousand cuts’. It was a form of torture and execution used in China around the 10th century until the early 20th century.” He talks a mile a minute, squinting his eyes at the photos as he does.
Prentiss shrugs, “Well, one papercut is bad enough, I could never do a thousand.”
JJ brings her drink to her lips. “I couldn't do ten.” They chuckle to each other.
Morgan juts his neck toward his files. “How did they die? The wounds are made for bloodletting.”
Garcia groans lightly. “So not glad you asked. Their throats were slashed, two incisions made at each side of the neck to cut the jugulars.” She adjusts her glasses, glancing at her tablet. “Autopsy reports say very slowly and with a very sharp knife. Like the unsub was trying very hard to keep steady. They also found traces of chemicals used in disinfectant in the wounds.”
Prentiss' brows knit together. “Why not just cut it clean across?”
“Well, look, there are 26 cuts in total on all the bodies, including the one at the neck,” Reid points out. “The incisions were very specific.”
“‘Course it was, look at that pattern,” Morgan says.
Each limb has a total of six equal cuts along the top of them, with the last two finishing off at the neck. It's too specific.
“All of the letters on their chests match the beginning of their names, except for Madeline. She has an A,” Garcia explains. “Madeline's family said she went by Addy.”
“Then the letters carved into them match the first letter of their names,” JJ says. “Maybe he's trying to go through the alphabet.”
“Matches the cuts,” Rossi shrugs. “There are 26 cuts, 26 letters of the alphabet.”
“Who died first and who was last?” Hotch asks, not looking up from his screen.
“They were killed and buried in alphabetical order, sir.”
A few members of the team nod, their theory supported. Reid clasps his hands. “Paired with the perfection of the graves, the specificity of the incisions, the disinfectant, we could be dealing with someone struggling with high level obsessive compulsive disorder.”
They agree.
“But how is he targeting his victims, other than by their names?” Prentiss wonders, “I mean, how does he figure out what their names are in the first place?”
Rossi sighs, “I guess that's what we have to find out.”
Hotch looks up at his team, his stern gaze glancing among them. “Based on the timeline of these kills, we hopefully have about a week before he strikes again. Let's not give him time. Wheels up in thirty.”
~
You look up at the gentle knock on your door interrupting your silent lunch break. You clear your throat, dropping your hand from your necklace as you lay eyes on Principal Luis.
“Hey,” she greets softly. “You doing okay?”
You nod, offering a half-hearted grin. You've had to smile at your kids all day today, despite the grief, and you were really depending on your break to wind down from it. “Considering.”
“You think you could talk? There are some FBI agents here with a few questions about Esther.”
You sniff, furrowing your brows. “FBI?” For you? You supposed that makes sense. You were close enough…
Two agents walk into the room, their professional blacks offset by the colorful parade that is your classroom. It looks strange, almost silly. You stand to greet them.
The woman offers a smile, a kind face to ease any worries you may have. The man is a little more stern, but there's a gentleness you admire hidden beneath.
“Hello, Ms. Hughes,” he greets. “I'm Agent Aaron Hotchner, this is Agent Jennifer Jareau. We're with the FBI.”
“You can call me JJ,” she says as she reaches a hand out toward you. You take it. “We're here with a few questions about Esther Cooke.”
You try not to look too miserable.
Agent Hotchner’s voice is soft as he speaks to you. “The principal said you and Ms. Cooke were close?”
You nod, crossing your arms. The classrooms are always cold. It's felt a little colder lately.
“She worked right next door,” you try not to stutter. “We were the closest in our department. I'm holding conferences tomorrow with parents about taking some of her kids into my homeroom until we find a…a replacement.”
Noticing your disquiet, JJ speaks up. “Was there anything going on in Ms. Cooke’s life? Anything out of the ordinary?”
Thinking, you shake your head. “Not really.” You shrug, “It was school, home, and not much else. The occasional night out with me, we are–” you clear your throat, “we were both single.”
Agent Hotchner adds in, “We're there any strange absences or even a trip she was going on?”
Again, you think. But nothing really comes up until– “She mentioned that she went on this tour thing with her parents last weekend, local. Some sort of…hiking thing? It's usually for tourists but they won free tickets.” Then you back track, “Is that the kind of thing you're looking for?”
JJ glances at Agent Hotchner. You're not sure what that means. “It could be.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” he asks.
You shrug. “Monday…before she went home. She didn't show up Tuesday or Wednesday, I figured she just got sick or something…forgot to tell me.” You rub your cheek with your sleeve. “I thought it was weird ‘cause she didn't call in or anything. I had to request a sub for her.”
Agent Hotchner nods. “Thank you for your help.”
“Of course. Anything.”
He dug in the inside pocket of his suit. “Call us if you have anything else. Here's my card.”
You reach out to take it, your fingers brushing. It was a comforting feeling. “Thank you.” The words are gentle as they leave you. You shake out of your slight daze, “Uh, here's mine if you have any other questions for me.”
You go behind your desk, grabbing a sticky note shaped like a koala and the first pen you see (which ends up being the brightest green marker you own)... The kids love the colors.
When Agent Hotchner takes it, he almost grins. You recognize the hidden amusement in some of the kids you teach. The ones that are harder to get to open up, even at this age. It's a little sad. Those kids happen to be some of the sweetest you know.
The sight of him in a sophisticated suit with all his professionalism, holding a cutesy koala sticky note is almost comical. He nods his thanks, and then turns to JJ.
They both begin to make their exit when you stop them. “Hey.” They turn. “Did anyone find her necklace?”
“Necklace?” JJ furrows her brow.
You nod. “All the fifth grade teachers have necklaces with our letters on them. Just like this.” You pick up the little charm around your neck for them to examine. “Except she had an E.” You let it drop, scratch the back of your neck as you hum. “Her parents said they never found it when they…”
The thought of saying “dug her up” out loud was haunting, and you already felt that shrinking feeling in your gut.
JJ redirects. “Would she normally take it off?”
You shake your head quickly. “Not Esther. She loves–” you sigh, annoyed now that you keep making the mistake of present tense. As an English teacher, it hurts more somehow. “She loved that necklace. We all do. We wear it nearly every day. Especially now.”
Agent Hotchner nods again, a really gentle movement that you honestly appreciate. “We'll keep an eye out,” he says. “Thank you for your time.”
You nod back at him, offering what smile you can. “Thanks.”
They leave and you check the time. You'd have to get your kids from lunch soon.
~
“Did she have anything?” Morgan wonders as Hotch and JJ return.
JJ’s teasing brows bounce. “Other than Hotch’s number? A bit.”
Rossi smirks, leaning across the table. “Did you find something special with our Ms. Hughes?” He puts emphasis on the title so Hotch is fully aware of her marital status.
“Let's focus, please.”
Hotch doesn't seem particularly annoyed, but there is a case at hand and he wants it solved as fast as possible.
Besides, it would be unprofessional to call her like this…asking her on a date after questioning her about her recently deceased.
The team giggles quietly amongst themselves. Children. But they do focus in as Morgan's phone rings as a signal to their resident oracle.
“Talk to me, babygirl.”
“I ran those credit card records like Hotch asked,” she starts. “All of which come up with very different results with no special link but one: three of the five all purchased hiking tickets for a guided trail a few days before they went missing. But they're very popular trails, tourists and families go all the time.”
“Hiking trail?”
“Is that significant?”
JJ looks around at the group. “Ms. Hughes said Esther Cooke’s parents won free tickets. They just went last weekend.”
“That would explain why it doesn't show up on the credit card records,” she says. The clack of her keyboard fills the space before she's speaking again. “Oh, yes, I see. The reservation is written in her mother's name.”
Reid looks up from the board where he worked on his geographical profile. “Clara loved out of state,” he says, “she was visiting. That could be how he found out about her.”
Rossi agrees. “So he's choosing most of his victims at the trail. Maybe he's a guide?”
JJ shrugs, “But how is he picking his victims?” She walks over to the pictures of all the victims hung up, their differences glaring as she shakes her head. “He's compulsive, he can't do it at random.”
“I don't think it is,” Hotch says. Eyes fall on him, urging clarification. “Ms. Hughes said something that stuck out to me. Esther Cooke always wore a necklace with the first letter of her name on it, but it was missing from the crime scene.”
The wheels turn in Reid’s head as he breaks away from his map. He picks up the crime scene photos, sorting through them to compare them to the headshots of the victims lining another board. “We might have something,” he mumbles. He picks up the first victim’s pictures. “Here, you can see Madeline wore a necklace with her nickname, Addy, on it. But at the burial site, it's missing.”
Prentiss catches on, picking another. A quick examination has her nodding along. “And look here. Clara had one, too. Hers is just a C.”
Rossi’s heavy brows furrow. “So you think he's targeting these women based on their necklaces?”
Reid words fly from his mouth as he speaks. “If he's killing them, burying them, and carving their letters all in alphabetical order, that could be his trigger—seeing the letters already in place and feeling the need to make it permanent, perfect.”
Morgan picks up Esther's picture, nodding. “We ready to give the profile?”
“I think so. Garcia,” her attention is lightning quick at the sound of her name, just like her wit, “get me a list of everyone who went on those trails and every guide who has led the ones our victims participated in.”
“That list is going to be longer than the Nile, but like Neith, I shall be victorious,” she declares.
Prentiss adds in. “Go ahead and narrow that down to white males who live in the area.”
“That helps.”
“Thank you, babygirl.”
“Happy to help, my salacious little snack.” She smacks the “ck”. He can hear the smirk in her voice. “I'll have that list in a jiffy.” Morgan chuckles as the call ends.
~
You plaster a grin on your face as you welcome in the next pair. It's been a long day already. The children have been a little fussy, others just sad, about the changes going on during class. The parents you've seen already have been awkward, annoyed, or (on the better occasion) nice, and you're ready to go home.
Just a few more meetings, then you can go home.
“Hello,” you greet. “Thank you for coming in.”
Ms. Tucker smiles gently, doing her best to be kind. She's one of the more patient parents. Her husband on the other hand… You've never been able to describe him as patient.
“Could we make this quick?” Mr. Tucker asks, checking his watch. He blinks harshly once, twice, three times, before looking back up at you. “I've got an appointment in an hour and…thirteen minutes.”
“Don't be rude, Larry,” his ex-wife insists, rolling her eyes as they take a seat in the chairs set in front of your desk. You sit as well, mentally bracing yourself for his meeting.
“Well, she's bringing us in here to tell us our kid isn't doing well in school. How do you want me to behave?” Another tight blink follows as he whispers under his breath, “Behave, behave.”
Ideally, these meetings should take no more than maybe five minutes. But parents make that difficult sometimes.
“Maybe if you spent more time with Peter, he wouldn't be having trouble,” she insists.
The animosity coming off the two of them is creating an environment that makes you want to kick them out of your room and do what you want. But you can't.
He scoffs. “Spend more ti–”
“Actually…”
They turn back to you then, remembering you're there as they close their mouths and listen. “We're not here to talk about his behavior. Peter has been wonderful in class.”
You grab Peter's file. It's just a stack of papers with Esther's old notes for him and his grades. You clear your throat quietly. “As you may know, the teacher next door to me just passed, and we are rearranging her classes until we can find a suitable replacement because we are short staffed.”
You hate saying “replacement”. These meetings have been hard enough simply because she's gone, but being the one of the people already working to replace her has been mentally taxing.
You pull your necklace from inside your shirt, sighing as you look up at them, toying with the charm.
You don't catch it. The movement is so slight and the whisper is so gentle that the moment goes completely over your head as Mr. Tucker's eyes lock on your charm. Under his breath falls a small, “F…F, F.”
“This conference was just to ask about whether or not it would be alright to transfer Peter into my class,” you continue, grasping the top pages out of the file. “Otherwise, his behavior has been fine. He's a smart boy with good grades. Ms. Cooke’s notes do say that he has a bit of trouble mixing with classes though, and he can be a little distracted. Another reason he would switch, he needs the extra social help.”
Ms. Tucker leans in slightly. “You said he has trouble mixing in?”
You nod, tilting your head as you remember Peter's behavior during your classes. “He's a little lonely.”
Mr. Tucker murmurs under his breath, holding onto the words. “Lonely.” His brows twitch. “Lonely…lonely.” You know they're tics, so you try not to make it obvious that you've caught it.
“He got along well with the teachers, but he's closed off to the other students. She saw that a couple of other kids picked on him, but they were little things that we were able to solve fairly quickly.” You sigh, thinking for a moment. You have to choose the right words, or this will end in an argument. “I would recommend trying to get him into things outside of school. A sport or a club, just something to get him to interact with more kids.”
Ms. Tucker is all ears as you speak, taking in what she can as she contemplates a solution. Her ex-husband seems a little out of focus, however. He watches you, his eyes taking you in, in a way that makes you uncomfortable.
“It also helps when the parents are on the same page,” you push through, ignoring the crawling in your skin and focusing on this child and his needs. “I realize you went through a divorce recently, which can be tough on your son. I know it's not my business to manage your relationship, but for the sake of your son, it's important not to be hostile in front of him. It could force him into thinking he has to choose a side, which can lead to negative effects on his mental health.”
She nods, soaking it in. “We can talk about it. You have our permission to take him in.”
“Yes.” Mr. Tucker nods. You watch his head dip three times. “Yes, yes.”
You sigh internally, glad the meeting is coming to a close. “Thank you,” you smile. “Did you have any questions for me?”
He replies, smiling as well. “No. Thank you.”
“Alright,” you close Peter's file, “then we should be good.”
“Thank you,” Ms. Tucker says. She reaches a hand out to shake your hand, and you take it. Her ex-husband does the same, though he lingers a little longer than you appreciate.
“Of course.”
They leave. You take a moment to breathe before you welcome in the next parents. And two meetings later, you've wrapped everything up. After clearing your desk, you snatch your things and head straight for the door.
You're happy to know it's not too late when you step out of the building. The sun is still up, but the moon is beginning to show with the coming evening. As you make your way to your car in the relatively lonely parking lot, it blinks when you unlock the doors.
You open the back door to throw your things inside, slamming it shut and opening the front in one movement.
You don't hear the footsteps behind you over the sound of your relief about the end of your day. So when something comes down hard at the back of your head, your pain and surprise is interrupted by the sudden darkness that overcomes you.
~
“You're on speaker.”
Garcia’s voice arises from Morgan's voice like the oracle she is. “Then I shall speak my prophecy for all to hear. I narrowed that list down significantly to the tour guides that lead the trails all of the victims went on—except the one who didn't. Speaking of, it turns out that our odd one out, Dakota Platt, put in an application to work as a guide but was denied. Anyway, I came up with three matches.”
Rossi hums. “Narrow the list to anyone recently going through a major change. A divorce, potential job loss, something like that.”
The sound of Garcia’s keyboard is heard over the phone, her voice coming a second later. “That takes one out. There's Perry Williams, he's just suffered a loss in the family—his mother died of lung cancer four months ago, around when the killings started. Then there's one other, Laurence Tucker, who just went through a divorce around a year ago. He's fighting a custody battle with his wife, started a couple weeks before the estimated time of the first murder.”
“Can you take a look at their medical histories?” Prentiss requests.
“Tucker has diagnosed OCD. He stopped taking his meds at the same time as the divorce.”
JJ is already on her feet as she slips her phone in her pocket. “That's our guy.” The rest of the team follow suit.
“I've just sent his home address to your phones.”
Hotch is packing his things as he speaks. “Garcia, go through his history. There may be something to suggest where he may be taking his victims to torture them. He can't be taking them home.”
Morgan raises the phone to his mouth. “Thanks, hot stuff.”
“Anything for you. Garcia out.”
~
“Clear.”
At the sound of the last check, Hotch lowers his gun as he sighs. “Hotch.” He looks over to see Reid peeking his head out of a room down the hall. He follows him, walking inside and following his gaze down to Reid’s hand, where he's holding a necklace he's pulled from a dark box on the dresser.
There are four necklaces neatly arranged within it, the fifth in Reid’s hand. An E for Esther.
His phone rings. “Yes, Garcia?”
She speaks quickly. “Our guy grew up in the area and attended a schoolhouse when he was little that was shut down years ago for unusual practices with the students. Reports found that the teachers there used to discipline ‘bad kids’—and by bad, I'm not talking just behavior, these are kids with diagnosed Autism, ADHD, OCD, the whole alphabet. Oh…maybe that wasn't the best word.”
“How were they disciplined?” Reid asks, pulling her back on track.
“Oh, right! The teachers used to slap hands with rulers and spank these children, sometimes with paddles. Sometimes kids would come home with big red letters drawn on their chests or clothes when they received failing grades as a way to shame them into passing.” She hums, “I'm guessing that's where the signature comes from.”
Reid sets the necklace down, “Is the building still up?”
“Like I said, it was shut down years ago. It was marked for demolition, but they never got around to it. The building still very much exists, and it's covered in wooden boards and caution tape.”
Hotch nods. “Send us the address. This could be where he's killing them.”
“Already done,” she says. “Also, fun fact. I learned that Tucker's son attends the school Esther Cooke taught at. Apparently, he was one of her students.”
A chill ran down Hotch’s spine as he thought about that. Scrambling in his jacket, he pulls out the koala sticky note in the inside pocket. “Garcia, I need you to give me another address.”
Reid’s brow furrows at his sudden haste. “What's wrong?”
“Ms. Hughes held conferences today for the parents of children Esther Cooke taught.”
Reid walks after him as Garcia retrieves the address. “So?”
“She wears an F.”
~
Your bleary eyes are so dazed and heavy. Mixed with the pain, it was hard to keep your head up and your eyes open. The letters lining the top of the walls, the alphabet which wraps around the room, fly around your head. It mixes with the chairs and desks, arranged so neatly around the room, lining the walls like the letters do. There's chalk and pencils and paper, all old and run down but set so neatly. The chaos and the tidiness is maddening.
It really hurts. Your arms and legs are covered in cuts, slow and methodical and painful. Your limbs shake with exhaustion, sweat sticks to your forehead and you feel heavy and sick. He'd removed your necklace. It's sitting on the desk where he keeps the rest of his supplies. You want it back.
His disorder is evident, and it bleeds over you with a glaring taunt. Every time he cuts you, he measures it with a ruler, and then you're thrown through the added torture of him disinfecting the wound each time. He counts it each time. He chants under his breath every time he cuts you, every time you talk, every time he blinks.
You just want to go home.
“Mr. Tucker, please,” you beg for the hundredth time, your plea falling on deaf ears.
He shakes his head, his ruler in the middle of your thigh. You want to move it. If he can't make a precise cut, he won't cut. But you don't have the strength. It's taking a lot to keep your head up.
“Hush,” he urges absentmindedly. “Hush, hush.” He adjusts the glasses on the bridge of his nose, careful not to use his hands.
“Why are you doing this?”
His attention is razor sharp as he measures. “I have to.”
It’s the most answer he's given you so far. Maybe if you just keep him talking, you'll be able to talk him out of it. You keep your voice gentle, trying not to sound as pained as you are. “Why?” you ask, though your voice wavers. “What did I do? What did Esther do?”
The name seems to spark something as he nods three times. “E, E, E.”
Your brow furrows. “Is this because of our necklaces?”
He shakes his head this time. Three times. “You won't understand.”
You sigh heavily. “Then help me understand.”
“You won't, you won't.” He picks up the knife, and you flinch away from him. “You won't.”
You keep trying. “You just have to talk to me,” you give him the best smile you can. “You can talk to me, Larry.” If you say his name, maybe you'll appeal to him. You can make it personal. You have to try something.
He mutters under his breath, as though he's thinking. “Talk, talk…talk.”
You nod, speaking slowly. “Yes. Just put the knife down, and we can talk.”
A scream tears through your throat as he drags the sharp blade across your thigh. It burns and it sears and tears stream down your cheeks at the feeling.
“19, 19, 19.”
You don't know what number he's going to, but you're scared for what he'll do when he finishes counting.
You struggle around the lump in your throat to speak, forcing out a breath to try and level yourself. “Is this about your OCD?” He glances up at you, but he doesn't give it too much thought. “I recognize it. Peter has early signs.”
“Peter,” he mumbles, finally taking pause to think. He hums and blinks.
“Yes, Peter,” you urge. “Your son. If you keep going, you could hurt him.” It's hard to see past your tears, but you keep going anyway. “When you get caught, and you will get caught, Peter will be taken away from you forever. He'd never forgive you.”
“Forgive me,” he huffs, shaking his head and rubbing his face. He grips his ruler in one hand. “Forgive me, forgive me.” He presses the ruler to the other leg, “Stop talking.”
You try to squirm, “Larry– Ah!” You purse your lips to stifle your shout, squeezing your eyes shut and clenching your fists.
“20, 20, 20.”
A round of sobs rack through you. You can't hide the pain anymore. It's so evident, and it's so intense. You can't breathe. You hiss as the disinfectant stings.
“Please,” you cry. “Please, just tell me why.”
He shakes his head. He's upset now, you can see it in the crease of his brow, in the excessive head shakes, in the way he rubs his face so roughly. “They said I have to.”
“Who?”
“My teachers.” He looks around the room, and his eyes fall on the alphabet lining the walls.
You follow his gaze. The schoolhouse actually makes sense now. You thought he'd chosen it because it was abandoned…
“I can't do the alphabet. I have to do the alphabet, alphabet.” He says it like he's reciting something, like he's punishing himself.
Your breath is heavy, you blink rapidly, trying to see past your tear-filled eyes. “Your teachers made you do this?”
God, sometimes you hate teachers.
He rubs at his eyes, sighing heavily. “A, A, A,” he begins, speaking quickly and almost like he's struggling to speak. It reminds you of memorization methods. Sometimes you suggest it to students who have trouble remembering vocab—write it down over and over until you remember. Maybe that's why he's doing it? “B, B, B. C, C, C. D, D, D. E, E, E. F.”
He opens his eyes and points his knife at you. “F. F.”
The fear flares within you again. You try not to turn to a blubbering mess. You can't communicate with him if you can't speak properly. “Is that what you're doing?”
He moves to your arm. You try to pull at the duct tape he's got wrapped securely around your hands. You've been trapped here so long, your hands are numb, your wrists are bruising.
“Have to get to Z, Z, Z.”
You almost shout it when he presses the ruler to your arm. “Listen, listen, listen!” you say it in a rush, so, so scared. He actually stops. “Okay, they said to say it three times, right? You have to write it three times?”
The number triggers his tic. “Three, Three, three.” It's honestly becoming annoying. It's insistent and repetitive and it feels almost invasive. But you have to be patient or he'll just kill you faster.
“You don't have to do this.” Your face is itchy from the tears drying and re-wetting, but you can't scratch. “You're gonna be okay.”
He's not listening anymore. “Behave,” he warns, holding the knife to your face. “Behave.” He shakes his head. “Behave.”
He's stopped listening. Despite your screams, he measures and cuts and cleans and measures and cuts and cleans, repeating each number as he comes to it with calculated method.
You clench your fists as the knife digs into your thigh again. You're surprised you can get your broken cries out as you struggle to breathe.
He stands up, taking large steps back to look at his work. You suppose he's almost done, and that terrifies you.
You think about your students, the little kids in your classroom who have already lost one teacher and are now going to lose a second. All those good kids are going through so much already. They all loved Esther. You know they all loved you. You have a wall of art, holiday cards, and plenty of hugged legs to show for it.
You don't want to lose them. You don't want them to lose you.
In a last ditch effort to dissuade him from his pursuits, you shake your head and sigh heavily. “Please.”
He comes closer to you, squinting his eyes to try to ease you. “Shh, shh, shh,” he says. “Just close your eyes. It'll be over soon, soon, soon.”
He presses the ruler to your neck, and you don't have the strength to fight it. It inspires more tears as you shake your head weakly. “Please, please, please.” You chant it, closing your eyes shut. You brace for the end…
Both of you jump when the loudest crash resonates within the room. Wood splinters and heavy boots stomp against the floor. Startled, he staggers back. You open your eyes, lights flashing as the room crowds with armoured people.
“Laurence Tucker, drop the knife.”
You know that voice. You recognize it. It's hard to see past the lights and the tears in your eyes. You know him.
“Can't! Can't. Can't, I have to finish. I have to finish. I have to finish.”
He's panicking. Too many things happening at once, everything out of order, everything out of control. He grips the knife tighter, looking between you and the cops in the room.
Someone else, their voice louder and less patient, shouts. “Drop the knife now!”
“Behave, behave. Behave!”
Someone else's voice, softer and somehow understanding, speaks. Though the voices are beginning to blur. “We know what your teachers did to you,” he bids. “We know how they hurt you.”
They hurt him.
He shakes his alphabet, losing it over the chaos. His frustration is palpable. Every time they speak, he gets more and more angry. “Can't do the alphabet. I have to do the alphabet. I'm supposed to do the alphabet!”
“Larry,” you speak, your voice hoarse from overuse. You catch your breath, keeping your voice level. Like you're talking to one of your students. He's scared, he's angry. He needs patience. “Larry, look at me.”
You can practically feel the concern of the agents rolling off of them. They don't want you misspeaking and making him more upset than he already is.
But he looks at you, and he seems to respond to the softness because his furrowed brows shift very slightly, his anger turns to some semblance of fear.
Although it hurts, you try to smile. It's taking so much to lift your head, even more to get the words out without the heaviness of your rising fear and exhaustion.
“They were bad teachers.” He rubs his face, but you press on, speaking slowly. “They weren't supposed to hurt you. Teachers are supposed to help. They were wrong.”
He closes his eyes. “They were wrong,” he whispers, like he's trying to convince himself. “They were wrong, wrong.”
The desperation seeps in. “Let me help you,” you whisper. “Let them help you.”
“Help me,” he mutters, his voice as quiet as yours. “Help me, help me.”
The first voice, the one you know, he speaks again, patient but still an order. “Drop the knife, and we can help you.”
“Help me,” he whispers. Slowly, he moves as he contemplates the words. “Help me.” They raise their guns in alarm, but he keeps crouching until he's finally kneeling on the floor. He grips the knife. “Help me.”
“Just breathe, Larry,” you huff. The spark of adrenaline you'd gotten from your rescue is wearing off again. You feel like you might pass out. “It'll be okay,” you mutter. “It's going to be okay, it'll be okay.”
He stares at the floor, thinking. “Okay…okay,” he drops the knife, and it clatters to the floor. “Okay.”
They make quick work of cuffing him, forcing his hands behind his back as the metal clinks against itself.
An agent immediately rushes to you, and you immediately recognize him, just as you had his voice. Agent Hotchner kneels before you, carefully removing the duct tape around your wrists and ankles. “Are you alright?” His voice is so soft and gentle. You lean into it as your eyelids become heavier and heavier.
“I think I'm gonna pass out.”
Your voice is scratchy when you speak. He looks you over, and his hand comes to press against your cheek. It's oddly intimate, though you know it's for comfort. You lean into the warmth. It's helping.
“No, you won't,” he says as he removes the tape wrapped around your middle. “I've got you.” He glances behind him, throwing his demand over his shoulder. “Get me a medic.”
He turns back to you. “Can you stand?”
You want to say yes, but you genuinely don't think so. You shake your head, “I don't know.”
“Do you want me to help you stand?”
You nod, the movement choppy. “Yeah.”
“Okay,” he says. He wraps his arm under yours, lifting you slowly, carefully, like you're fragile and precious. “Can you tell me your name?”
Your words are sticky and slow. You genuinely think you're going to pass out. “You know my name.”
“Yes, I do.” He nods, and when you glance up at him, he's giving you the gentlest smile, and you feel like everything is going to be okay. “Can you make sure I have it right?”
You hum. “Fawn Hughes.”
You're so discombobulated that you don't even give him your birth name, instead the one granted to you since you were little.
“Fawn,” he mutters. “Is that your nickname?”
You nod, slowly, and hum.
“It's nice.”
The both of you make your way as he helps you hobble out of the schoolhouse and into the evening air, past golden hour where pinks and purples coat the sky. It goes a little faster when the medic finally arrives. They help you onto a stretcher, and Agent Hotchner apologizes every time you whine at the pain.
When you're settled, he gives you a gentle nod. You grab his hand before he can turn to leave, hoping he doesn't notice the way you wince and knowing he does. “Thank you,” you mutter.
He sighs gently. “Don't thank me.”
“Thank you,” you say again, a little more insistent this time. You swallow thickly, the falling adrenaline increasing the solemnity as your exhaustion begins to crash down on you in waves. You're surprised when you feel a tear slip down the side of your face, disappearing into your hairline. You'd cried so much already, you weren't aware you still could. “He was going to kill me. If you hadn't come through, I'd be dead. So thank you.”
He looks down at you, nodding gently, the movement almost imperceptible. “You're welcome.” He glances at the medic, and then toward the ambulance waiting for you. “They'll take care of you.”
You didn't want to ask, but the need is too strong. You're so scared, and he's the only one here you truly trust. Besides the fact that he'd come to your rescue, you don't necessarily know why.
“Can you please stay?”
He thinks for a moment. Really, he should be here helping the rest of the team. But as he looks over, locking eyes with Rossi talking with Prentiss, he looks between the two of you and sends him a nod.
Agent Hotchner turns back to you and nods. “Yes.”
You want to thank him again, but you know he'll just tell you not to. As they load you into the ambulance, he holds your hand, and you lay back and answer the medics questions.
~
“Mom, I'm fine.”
You sigh, as your mother's worried voice rises from the other end of your phone. “You were kidnapped and tor—Shit!—tortured by a deranged serial killer. I have a right to be worried.”
“Well, you don't have to be. I'm okay. See?” You show her the bandages wrapped around your arms. “Patched up and healthy. Doctors say I should be out of here tomorrow morning.”
“We'll be there by then.”
“You don't have to come down.”
“Hush. We're coming down, and you can't stop us. I love you, and we'll see you in the morning.”
She hangs up before you can respond. You shake your head and sigh, setting your phone down. At least you know she was worried about you.
You glance up when you hear a knock at your door. “Come in.”
The door opens as Hotch steps inside. His face is gentle, though without a smile. You miss it in a way as you offer your own.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, his voice just as soft.
You take in a breath. “Okay,” you say. “Considering.” You motion to your phone on the bedside table. “Got off the phone with my mom, she's…already on her way from out of state.”
He closes the door gently behind him, sitting on the chair beside your bed. “She's worried about you.”
You nod. “Yeah, I know.” You sigh, glancing over at him. His eyes are on you. Your lip twitches, fighting a bigger smile. You clear your throat. “Doctor said I'll scar, but…the knife was so sharp and steady enough that they should scar fine… They're discharging me in the morning.”
“That's good.”
“Yeah.”
Honestly, the quiet is nice. You look at him, at the features of his face, the softness mixed with his professionalism looks good on him.
“We retrieved this from the schoolhouse,” he says, reaching into the inside pocket of his suit. He hands you a necklace, your necklace. You smile gently, reaching out for it as he places it in your palm.
You're going to have trouble wearing it for a while, but it's nice to have it back. You look up at him thankfully.
“We also found this at Tucker's house.”
He hands you a second necklace. It's identical to your own, except this one has an E…for Esther.
You swallow the rising lump in your throat. Your smile aches as you breathe through the tears threatening to well in your eyes. You look up at him, your smile trembling as you hold back tears you've already shed. “Thank you.” He nods, smiling very briefly. “I'll, uh…I'll get it back to her family.”
“I'm glad I could help.”
Another comfortable silence falls over you. You tilt your head as you look up at him, wrapping the necklace around your fingers as you think. Something's on his mind.
“What is it?” you mutter.
He contemplates for a moment before he speaks. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah.”
“How did you manage to talk him down so well? You seemed so…calm.”
You look down at Esther's necklace, thinking for a moment as you shrug. You speak slowly, clearing your throat as you rub the thumb of your free hand along the white bandage on your forearm.
“He told me his teachers made him do it.” You close your eyes and take a steadying breath, the events of the night before too fresh to ignore. “That agent…said his teachers hurt him, so I treated it like an abusive parent situation. He just needed someone to be on his side.”
You hate that it had to be you, but at least you understand why he did what he did. You almost hate that you understand. “He was hurt as a kid. That kid needs to know he's not alone.”
Hotch thinks about that, nodding gently. “You're a wonderful teacher.”
His words are genuine. It warms you and puts you back at ease. “Thanks.” You smile at him, his little one reflecting back at you. “I guess I'll just have to figure out what to do with myself until they let me go back to my kids.”
A tiny chuckle escapes him. It's a good sound for him. “I think the children will be fine.” You chuckle as well, the sound of his laugh a contagious thing that you can't help.
He glances over his shoulder, out of the open blinds of your room to see Rossi standing in the hall. Hotch’s smile simmers down as they make eye contact. He nods, standing to his feet with a sigh.
“I have to go,” he says, almost regretfully. “Get well soon.”
You turn your palm up as it rests in your lap, wanting to reach for him but not wanting to seem desperate. “Thank you.”
“You don't have to thank me, Ms. Hughes.”
After a moment, Hotch turns toward the door, placing his hand on the handle. “Agent Hotchner?” you call timidly, your heart thumping in your chest and your palms clammy. He pauses on his way to the door, turning back to you with a gentle look.
You clear your throat, dipping your head and trying not to seem as nervous as you feel. You almost died. If that didn't tell you how short life is, you don't know what will. Asking wouldn't hurt.
“I know you're probably busy and all, but…” you lick your bottom lip, summoning the courage to look him in the eyes as you smile nervously. “Would you like to go to dinner with me sometime?” You think for a moment, “I'll stop thanking you so much if you do.”
Since meeting this man, the smile he gives you is the largest you've seen on him. It summons your own beaming grin as he looks at you with cheeks you swear are tinted pink. He chuckles gently, taking a couple slow steps to you as he nods. “I would love to.” All the weight of your worries lift from your shoulders with a sigh. “Please, call me Aaron.”
Your cheeks warm at his gentle affection. You have to clear your throat to speak. “Okay, Aaron,” you say. “But only if you call me Fawn.”
Another tiny chuckle comes out of him. “Where did Fawn come from?”
It’s a genuine question, an innocent curiosity you're happy to sate. “I used to be obsessed with deer as a kid. The nickname stuck,” you say with a shrug. “Some people think it's stupid, though. You can call me by my–”
His interruption isn't rude. In fact, you have to fight the urge to hide your face away as he says next, “I'm looking forward to that dinner, Fawn.”
You smile. “I'll hold you to that.”
Aaron gives you one last smile, saying a soft goodbye as he leaves the room to join Rossi, who gives him the biggest smirk he's ever witnessed.
As David opens his mouth to say something, Aaron stops him immediately with a raised hand and an annoyed grin on his face. “Don't.”
David raises his hands in defense, walking silently next to Aaron to join the team.
Criminal Minds taglist: @queermaxwooo @mdanon027 @lilianhallee @hpstuff244444 @thegr8estpuff @niktwazny303 @bubbles2300
#aaron hotchner x reader#aaron hotchner#aaron hotchner fanfic#aaron hotchner fanfiction#criminal minds#criminal minds fanfiction#reader insert#female reader#fanfic#fanfiction#aaron hotchner x you#aaron hotchner whump#whump fic
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This week’s writer spotlight feature is: @wynnyfryd! Wynnyfryd has 34 fics in the Stranger Things fandom and all of them are in the Steddie tag!
i don’t know, you figure it out
Plot Holes
biting you biting you biting you- oh! kissing you!
Satanic Ritual: DO NOT WATCH!!
She's got some of the FUNNIEST writing in this fandom, and it's very snappy too like. She's an editing demon for sure, she can take a concept that I'd think would take paragraphs to explain and find the right words to make it hit just as hard with like, two sentences. I also really really love how descriptive her metaphors are, really visceral sometimes, and she's really good at writing realistic life events but still making them fun to read about even when it's about like, devastating shit. The sex she writes is also intense as hell! -- @griefabyss69
Below the cut, @wynnyfryd answered some questions about their writing process and some of their recommended work!
Why do you write Steddie?
I am but a humble bisexual — I see two beautiful brown-eyed men makin’ beautiful brown eyes at each other, I go a little insane for two years. It is what it is.
What’s your favorite trope to READ?
late-night moments of quiet hopeful hesitant intimacy over a shared joint or cigarette. Thin wisp of smoke between them, stars dancing in their eyes. Yeah. YEAHHHHHHH
What’s your favorite trope to WRITE?
This isn’t really a trope so much as a dynamic, but I love a good dipshit 4 dingus dialogue-heavy scene. Don’t get me wrong, I think Eddie and Steve can both be very smart and knowledgeable in their areas of interest/expertise, but these are two young dudes with no access to the internet. I love letting them be confidently incorrect dumbasses. Just ‘yes and’-ing each other’s stupidity while an exasperated third character begs for mercy.
What’s your favorite Steddie fic?
Well, this question is impossible and furthermore rude. This question came into my home and didn’t take its muddy boots off. This question never mailed me a thank you letter for my lovely wedding gift. That blender was expensive; the absolute nerve. No but seriously, I think The Lathe by palmviolet is going to stay with me forever.
Is there a trope you’re excited to explore in a future work but haven’t yet?
I’m a big fan of doing canon divergence from different jumping off points — the beauty of having characters live in the same small town their whole lives is that you get so many great opportunities for these “what if our paths crossed sooner” moments.
I have some very loose notes for a S3 fic where Eddie is the movie theater employee who finds Steve and Robin in the bathroom after they escape the Russians, and I also have an old WIP set between S1 and S2 where lifeguard Steve rescues Eddie and then spends the summer teaching him how to swim. Would love to revisit those after I finish the trailer park AU (which I will be referring to as TPAU because my fingers are tired and because ‘toilet paper au’ makes me laugh.)
What is your writing process like?
Uhhhhh. 😂 I mean, for TPAU, basically just insert the scene from Dune 2 of Paul’s first sandworm ride: I’m shaking I’m sweating there is sand in my nostrils and I am surely about to die— oh wait, maybe I’ve actually got this? Am I actually doing it? Oh shit, look at me go!
For one-shots I like to use a more structured outline and bracket method. I start by dividing my doc into numbered scenes, with each scene getting a notes section and a prose section, like this:
This format gives me a lot of freedom to switch up the order of scenes and to move between scenes so I avoid writer’s block. I can also jump ahead to scenes I really want to write without making a mess of my outline. Once I have something written in the prose section of each scene, I go back and work on replacing each bracket with prose until there are no brackets left. Lastly, I create a new blank doc and copy the prose over in order so I can read the full fic and work on edits from there.
Do you have any writing quirks?
I have been known to abuse a semicolon. And an em dash. And a conjunction at the start of a sentence. Yes, I do have ADHD.
I’m also a lyricist, so I feel like my prose tends to stray into poetry territory pretty often.
Do you prefer posting when you’ve finished writing or on a schedule?
When I’m finished! Which is probably why I tend to stick to one-shots; I get impatient and want to post stuff the second it’s ready.
Which fic are you most proud of?
‘i don’t know, you figure it out’ for SURE. I’ve never written a fic this long or stuck to a writing project this consistently in my life. Like ever. The last time I even came close was my first NaNoWriMo when I was 16, which was, uh… years ago, plural, and I’ll leave it at that. 😂
How did you get the idea for i don’t know, you figure it out?
“There’s a dead rat on his doorstep.” That’s it. That first sentence/scene popped into my head while I was bored at work, and then I started thinking, “hey, you know what? I don’t know that anyone’s ever done a fic where Max and Steve trade places for S4; that might be fun.”
And then NaNoWriMo was coming up, so I thought it would be cool to try live posting a fully improvised fic every day for a month to see how many words I could write. And then this tragic wet cat version of Steve Harrington grabbed me by the throat and took over my whole life.
When writing Satanic Ritual: DO NOT WATCH!!, what was something you didn’t expect?
How SAPPY these two got!! My god, boys, I’m trying to write smut over here, stop having a beautiful existential crisis!
(I blame Briston Maroney for that though lol, I think I listened to ‘Body’ like 1400 times that month.)
What inspired Satanic Ritual: DO NOT WATCH!!?
@inklessletter posted this totally gorgeous art of Steve and Eddie recording themselves kissing, and I promptly lost my mind.
What was your favorite part to write from biting you biting you biting you- oh! kissing you!?
This exchange:
Steve: “What? I’m just asking!”
Robin: “You’re being embarrassing!”
Steve: “No, you’re just embarrassed. There’s a difference.”
Like it’s just so them lmao
How do/did you feel writing i don’t know, you figure it out?
You know when you set out on a long hike in the summer and three hours later your calves are screaming and you’re covered in sweat and your sunburn’s starting to itch and this one horse fly won’t fuck off and your cell phone doesn’t even get service out here so literally WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELF, and then you climb that last hill and look out on the most beautiful landscape you’ve ever seen in your silly little life?
Basically that.
What was the most difficult part of writing Plot Holes?
Ooh, that one was fun! The only real difficulty was trying to keep it to a microfic because the concept could definitely be fleshed out to a full story — @griefabyss69 and I were joking around about “what if someone did ‘plot hole’ for the @steddiemicrofic prompt fill?” and then that fic just fell out of my head in about 15 minutes.
Do you have a favorite scene and/or line from any of your fics?
For sure! I’m currently super proud of the graveyard scene in the most recent update of TPAU — I don’t write true horror often, but I love horror so it was really fun to give it a try! Favorite line from any fic is probably this reference to ‘You’re Divine’ in my fic Monsoon Season because I love uncomfortably-aroused prude Eddie, and his internal monologue cracks me up every time I think about it:
Freddie Monsoon’s debut novel is called The Fourth Chime, and it is, as far as Eddie can tell, the first installment in a series of unapologetically filthy fuck fests about a man whose lover gets flung into an alternate dimension during an apocalyptic event and miraculously returns as some sort of… sexy bat-boy with a fucking horse dong and a bite kink. Critics are calling it “the most romantic novel of the last decade.”
It’s me; I’m Critics.
Do you have any upcoming projects or fics you’d like to share/promote?
My main project right now is finishing TPAU if it kills me, but beyond that, I have a few one-shots for @subeddieweek in the works, including a collab with @griefabyss69 that I’m so so SO excited to share. It’s hot, it’s funny, I can’t wait for y’all to read it.
Outside of these questions, Is there anything YOU would like to add?
First of all, as @wormdebut would say: I think you’re pretty. Thank you so much for all your hard work! I love this blog, and I love answering questions <3
Secondly:
- Preheat your oven to 400 degrees.
- Toss cubed sweet potatoes and parsnips, sliced sweet onion, and fresh garlic in a mix of olive oil, salt, pepper, and rosemary, and then spread in a single layer on a foil-lined baking sheet.
- Bake for ~40-45 minutes. (Potatoes and parsnips should be soft without being mushy when you poke them with a fork.)
- Prep your sauce: I made a dijon drizzle situation by mixing olive oil mayo, a dash of dijon mustard, lemon juice, salt, pepper, garlic powder, and a splash of water, but you could also add a little dab of hot sauce, bbq sauce, or different mustards. Basically just grab like four condiments out of your fridge and play around with the flavors you like until you make a mix that’s thin enough to pour.
- Drizzle roasted veggies with sauce.
- Enjoy a very tasty side dish (or do what I did and eat the whole sheet as a meal like some sort of parsnip goblin because you were too lazy to make the main dish after chopping all those veggies)
okay thank you love you byeeeee
Thank you to our author, @wynnyfryd, and our nominator, @griefabyss69! See more of Wynnyfryd's works featured on our page throughout the day!
Writer’s Spotlight is every Wednesday! Want to nominate an author? You can nominate them here!
#writer's spotlight#steddie#steddie fic recs#steve harrington#eddie munson#steve x eddie#stranger things#ao3 writer#steddie writers#writer's wednesday
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Surprise villain au oneshot
———
It had only been about three months since he took the little fox kit he found on some rich folk’s porch under his wing and Sonic had already heard the little guy apologize to him more times than he could count.
Most of the time it was for no reason, like if the kit dropped something and Sonic looked back at him. Just little things that required no apology but he always got one anyway. The hedgehog always waved it off, telling him that there was nothing he needed to apologize for.
Sometimes, however, it was due to how Sonic himself responded to him.
Sonic tended to experience pretty extreme mood swings, going from practically bouncing off the walls to the bottom of the barrel to being ready to kill someone who looked at him wrong all before a moment's notice. It wasn’t uncommon for him to be pleasant to be around one second and then suddenly snapping at anyone who breathed too loudly the next.
He knew it happened, he just didn’t know what to do about it. It was like he was stuck and could only watch himself slowly fall apart.
And worst of all, he’d begun to snap at Tails.
He didn’t mean to — he didn’t want to scare the little guy away, not when this was the first friend he’d ever had and they’d just started getting closer — but he couldn’t stop himself.
Sometimes the kit’s crime was asking a question at the wrong time or simply talking to him. It’s not like he ever knew when Sonic would suddenly get mad at him, the little guy was just trying to communicate with his new friend and was being punished for it.
Everytime it happened, the fox would get quiet and walk a few steps behind him. He’d only speak when spoken to until something got him excited the next day.
But he never left, he always stayed somewhere behind him and was still there in the morning.
It was a cycle.
They were walking down the street during the later hours of the evening, trying to think of somewhere to settle that night. Today was slow, Sonic usually got their money by pickpocketing off random people and he hadn’t been able to find anyone with more than $5 on them. It’s like all the richer mobians stayed inside today or people were starting to realize that money was being stolen and got smart.
Don’t get him wrong, $5 was great and he’d take it but deep down, some part of him was still used to the lavishness of Eggman’s bases…
They’d made it near the outskirts of Station Square. There’d been nowhere in the city for them to sleep with all the anti-homeless shit they’d been putting up. Spikes on benches, blocking off alleyways, the works. Sometimes, he considered just getting the two of them arrested so they could sleep in the juvenile detention center for the night or two.
But then they’d be separated and Tails could be sent back to his so-called parents.
He didn’t understand why they even bothered to file a missing person report and hung up fliers, they obviously didn’t care about the kid like he did. If they had been good parents, then Sonic wouldn’t have found the kit sitting on a porch in the rain, saying that his parents had kicked him out of the house for the night.
If they didn’t want to take care of their own kid, fine. He’d do it for them.
As they made it to the train station, Sonic put his hands on his hips and hummed. He looked back, “Hey, kid. What do you say we camp out in the Mystic Ruins tonight? Y’know, sleep under the stars and all…that…” His words trailed off as he looked at the kit.
He was holding one of the missing person posters.
Now, you wouldn’t be able to tell he was the kid in the flier unless you squinted and maybe turned the paper on its side. It was a terrible picture and the description said nothing about his twin tails. As long as the kid kept his hood on, he was in the clear.
But that wasn’t the problem.
An indescribable fear gutted him, dread opening up a pit in his stomach as his breath hitched. It was irrational, he knew it was irrational, but that didn't change anything.
“Why do you have that?” He asked
Tails blinked at him and looked back down at the paper, “Oh, uh- I found it yesterday. I meant to throw it away earlier but I forgot-“ The kit tried to explain before Sonic cut him off.
His body moved on autopilot as he snatched the flier right out of the kid’s hand, completely missing the way the kid flinched. Sonic’s gaze narrowed, glaring down at the wide blue eyes now full of fear staring up at him. He looked down at the flier again and ripped it into four pieces with an annoyed tsk.
“Forgot to throw it out, huh? You sure you weren’t just planning on going back to your folks and leaving me in the dust?” He practically spat out.
Tails’ eyes got wider and his breath hitched before he frantically shook his head, tears building in his eyes as they squeezed shut. “No! No, I wasn’t!” He cried out, “Honest!”
Sonic stared at the kit as he rubbed his eyes with the back of his paws to stop any tears from falling in public. Self awareness suddenly barreled into him full force as he remembered that they were, in fact, surrounded by people. He could feel their eyes on him.
He anxiously clenched his fists and turned around, “Good...” he simply said, “Let’s get going.”
The kid nodded and scurried behind him, still willing to follow him.
The train ride was quiet. It was pretty late so that wasn’t too surprising. Sonic looked out the window behind him, watching as the city lights faded into deep greens as they approached their destination.
Instead of leaning against his shoulder as he usually did, Tails sat a little bit away from him, namesakes curled around his legs as he stared at the floor. His ears were down, resting against the back of his head. His eyes were covered by his hood, Sonic could only see the small frown on his muzzle.
He sighed. He could only imagine what his little outburst looked to random people walking by. A thirteen year old scolding a six year old for holding a piece of paper. What a great look.
It’s not like anyone did anything about it anyway. No one ever did anything about it.
“I’m sorry.” The kit mumbled.
“You’re good.” Is what Sonic should’ve said, because it was true. He was all good, he didn’t do anything wrong.
But instead Sonic just hummed, unable to bring himself to speak. He didn’t know if it was embarrassment or if part of him was still unreasonably mad at the kid. He felt his heart break all the same when he saw the kit make himself smaller.
The kid didn’t deserve this, he didn’t deserve any of this. If Sonic knew what was good for him, he would’ve dropped him off somewhere with nice people who didn’t randomly snap at him and push him away only to love bomb him a day later.
Tails didn’t deserve any of it and yet Sonic couldn’t let him go. He didn’t want to be alone, the thought terrified him.
Eventually, they made camp near a cliff overseeing the ocean in the Mystic Ruins. The stars were shining overhead and the waves crashed against the shore beneath them. The wind rustled the trees and danced with their little campfire that lit up their faces.
Neither had said a word to each other since the train station, but that was normal.
Sonic looked at Tails out of the corner of his eye. The little kid just sat there, his blue eyes were still downcast as the fire’s warm glow reflected off of them. While his ears weren’t pressed against the back of his head anymore, they were still wilted, not quite standing up to full height.
The hedgehog sighed before looking back at the campfire, “You…you weren’t lying back there, were you?” He asked, “About not leaving…you weren’t just saying what I wanted to hear, right?”
Tails shook his head, “I wasn’t lying”
Sonic stayed quiet for a moment and just watched the fire dance, listening to each crackle as his words from earlier echoed in his head.
“I’m sorry.” He said.
“It’s okay, Sonic.”
Soon they would go to sleep and wake up the next morning. Everything would go back to how it was. Sonic would spoil the kit as an attempt at an apology and they'd be fine until the next time he lost his temper. Maybe it would take a few days, maybe a few weeks, maybe even a whole month, but it would happen again and the cycle would repeat.
That was their normal.
#fic#and the brother of the year award goes to….#not this guy!#at least sonic is self aware right? right?#they’re fine i swear#they do both need therapy tho#would just like to say that this takes place before they become criminals#whereas regular sonic values freedom even if it means his friends leave for a bit#this sonic is terrified of being alone#and would self destruct if tails were to ever leave#sonic the hedgehog#miles tails prower#unbreakable bond#the brothers ever#villain au
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