#Pablo Neruda's desk

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Alastair Reid : Pablo Neruda's desk [UNdr] :: [h/t Beth Levin]

* * * *

'How often I found where I should be going only by setting out for somewhere else.'

-R. Buckminster Fuller Beth Levin, Pablo Neruda's desk UNd

#Beth Levin #Pablo Neruda's desk #R.Buckminster Fuller #Alastair Reid

[ktwritesstuff]

The Professor (Pedro Pascal smut inspired by SNL)

Title: The Professor Fandom: RPF: Pedro Pascal, Hot for teacher AU Rating: Explicit Characters & Pairings: Pedro Pascal (professor of Latin American Studies) x Reader (bedraggled PhD candidate) Word Count: ~2000 Summary: As if that SNL skit wasn't going to launch a thousand smut fics... As always, lovingly beta-read by @bs-fangirl. Additional notes below the cut.

Notes: This is my first "real person fic," may God have mercy on my soul. Additionally, my Spanish is virtually non-existent; I've relied heavily on Google Translate and asking my coworkers questions on the sly, my apologies for any errors! As we all know, this is not a story about actual human Pedro Pascal, but the fictionalized version which lives rent free in our heads. And as proper fan girl culture dictates, we keep this shit locked down. But just in case:

This note is for actual human Pedro Pascal and Pedro Pascal only. I don't know why you would click "Read More" on a post clearly labeled "Pedro Pascal, Hot for teacher AU" but if you have, I beg of you LOOK AWAY, SIR. LOOK AWAY. If you choose to proceed, I will not be responsible for any trauma you may suffer as a result. Thank you.

For everyone else, I give you:

The Professor

Professor Pedro Pascal was the head of the Latin American Studies department at your small college.  You had never been in his classes as an undergrad–Latin American Fiction and Poetry, and a special seminar on the Magical Realism of Isabel Allende–but it was well known around campus that his family had fled Pinochet when he was a child, which granted him unsurprising street cred among your communist-leaning circle of friends.  He had been appointed the interim director of the campus’s Literary Center–after his predecessor was ousted for exposing himself in a virtual meeting. 

As the Center’s Graduate Assistant Director, it meant although he wasn’t technically your boss, you were suddenly spending an annoying amount of time working around the throngs of freshman girls who flocked to his office hours.  You couldn’t really blame them.  He was, if not an outright heartthrob, a reasonably good-looking college professor.  A strong face, with a short, rugged beard, a striking Roman nose, and deep brown eyes with the most charming crow's feet.  He had a lean physique, with a hint of softness at the belly, just this side of a “dad bod.”

His modest good looks combined with a cheerful disposition and a penchant for quoting the love poetry of Pablo Neruda were like catnip for liberal arts majors.  And although you were a card-carrying bra-burning feminist, you weren’t entirely immune.

“Professor,” his office door was open, but you knocked on the frame.  

Pedro looked up from the stack of resumes you had been sent to review before the selection panel for a new director.

“Coffee?”

“Mi angelita,” he sighed, rising from his desk to graciously accept the warm cup from your hands.  “What time is the first candidate arriving?”

“Noon,” you said.  “You, me, Dr. Monroe, the Provost, and Assistant Dean are sitting on the interview panel.”

Pedro looked at his watch.  

“Shit,” he sighed.  “I have Intro to Creative Writing at 9:30.”

“I’ll set up the conference room,” you said as he shoved his papers into his messenger bag, slinging it over his shoulder, still carrying the open mug as he raced down the stairs.  

“Thank you, Angel.  Thank you!”

It was a six month process to find a new director.  Six months of staring across the conference table, chewing on the end of your pen, pretending not to be affected by the way he leaned in when you spoke and stroked his thumb across his lower lip in concentration.  Or the obscene way he spread his legs in a comfortable chair while speaking with candidates in front of a panel of students.  

And having to do it all over again when your first choice–a student favorite–declined the position, to stay in New Jersey of all things.  You knew Pedro was relieved to have reached a conclusion; he didn’t care for the administrative duties or politics.  He wanted to teach, to be with his students.  You admired that about him, he appreciated your organizational skills (and the fact that when you made coffee it counted as a meal.)  You worked well together, but now that was coming to an end. 

It was past 9pm and you had already closed up the Literary Center for the night, but Pedro was still in his office, reviewing students’ papers.

“I’m done for the night, Professor,” you said.  “Is there anything I can do to help you get out of here?”

“That depends,” he said, with a wry smile that had you convinced he was only half-kidding.  “How’s your Spanish?”

“Hmm,” you said, stepping into the light of the desk lamp.  “¿Dónde está la biblioteca? ¿Como estas?  Bien, gracias.  ¡Qué lluvia!  And that’s all I’ve got.”

Pedro chuckled.  “I’ve heard worse.”

“That and un tequila, por favor.”

“Tequila,” Pedro repeated, intrigued. He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, pulling out a bottle of Patron.  “That I can help you with.”

Your mouth fell open in surprise.

“Professor,” you deadpanned.  “I don’t know if you knew this, but alcohol is not permitted in academic buildings.”

"Lucky for me," he said, picking up the bottle. "I have tenure."

You laughed and Pedro laughed; you offered to run downstairs to retrieve a pair of glasses and a salt shaker from the kitchen while he finished grading papers in record speed.

“I worry about these kids,” Pedro said, three shots deep.  “I do!  The moment they hear something the least bit troubling, they refuse to engage with the material.  Our world exists in shades of gray.  They want things to be ideologically pure, when what they need is to learn to discern.  To question.  To decide!”

“I understand what you’re saying, Professor,” you said. 

“Pedro, please,” he interrupted you.  “Pedro.”  

“Pedro,” you repeated.  “I agree, but there’s no reason we need to elevate and spotlight the same tired canon of bigots, abusers, and dead white men year after year when there is so much more out there.”

Pedro downed another shot and pointed an accusing finger at you.  

“Look who’s talking,” he said.  “Your PhD is in Shakespeare Studies!”

“I know,” you laughed, pouring yourself another glass.   “I know, I’m a terrible person.”

“You are not,” he said, suddenly serious.  “You have an incredible mind and the most beautiful way of looking at the world.”

You felt languid and relaxed and warm.  You liked the way Pedro looked at you.  There was something undeniably romantic about getting drunk in the richly furnished office, with its leather armchairs and oak bookshelves, debating the merits of Nietzsche and bell hooks.   

“Okay,” you broke the silence.  “Okay, here’s a fun fact you can pass along to your successor.  There are 3 prints signed by Allen Ginsberg in this building, and you can see them all from this desk.”  

“There’s the one on the wall,” Pedro said, pointing to the framed portrait hanging above the bookshelf.  

“Yes,” you said, rising from your chair and moving to the other side of the desk.  “And there in the hallway, on the right, that's an excerpt from "Howl" they set in the printshop downstairs.”

You perched on the arm of his chair to get closer to his eye-level, pointing through the open door.  You slipped, nearly falling into his lap and he placed a hand on your back to steady you.  He smelled amazing, like old leather and warm spices.  

“And there, in the stairwell, you can just make out the top of his head on that linotype,” you explained.  “Do you see it?”

“I do.”

When you turned your head, Pedro was looking at you.  Perhaps it was the tequila, but you were almost certain he was staring at your lips, his eyes heavily lidded, smiling lazily.

“You look tired,” you warned.  You should have gotten up to leave, but you didn’t want to.  You didn’t want this warm, lovely feeling to ever end.  

“Just thinking,” he said.

“About what?” 

“Kissing you,” he said.  

You were almost surprised; you had spent so much time trying to convince yourself that your semester-long flirtation was a one-sided puppy crush.  You had been so busy with your research and recruiting and planning, you had forgotten somewhere along the way that you were a stone cold fox with tits and ass for days and enough sex appeal to blow the top off Mount St. Helens.

“You can,” you said, turning your body toward him.  “I don’t mind.” 

“I shouldn’t.”

“Fine then,” you turned to stand.

Pedro seized you by the waist, pulling you back into his lap and into a long, slow kiss.  His lips were surprisingly soft and his mouth tasted like salt and lime as his tongue brushed into yours with careful, confident strokes.  

“That was nice,” your eyes fluttered open as Pedro finally pulled away.  “You’re a good kisser.”

“You, too,” Pedro said.  “Again?”

You tilted your chin, touching the point on your neck, just below your ear.  As Pedro leaned in, working the beginnings of a hickey into your neck, you guided his hands from your waist to your breasts.  You pressed against him, moving to straddle his thigh.

“More?” Pedro asked.

“Yes,” you panted. You braced yourself on the back of the chair, one hand on either side of his head, grinding against his leg, feeling hot and wet as he kneaded your breasts with reverent appreciation.

“Mi amor,” he breathed.

“Pedro,” you held his face, nipping at his bottom lip.  

“Dime, lo qué quieres.”

“Fuck.”  His accent went straight to your cunt.  You ran one hand up his thigh, groping at the crotch of his chinos. 

Pedro let out an obscene moan and hoisted you up onto his desk.  He slid his hands up your thighs, fingers slipping into your panties.  He ran his fingertips through your folds, tracing circles around the swollen nub of your clit with an absolute shit-eating grin.

“Qué lluvia.”

You howled with laughter.  “I know that one!  I know that one!” 

“A huevo.”   

Pedro rose from his chair, bunching your dress up around your waist.  You pulled his shirt free from the waistband of his pants, running your hands up the warm skin of his back.  

“Want you,” you sighed.  “Want you inside me.”         

“Whatever you want, Angelita.”  

Pedro pulled your underwear down to your ankles, pausing to retrieve a condom from the wallet in his back pocket, like an over-eager undergrad, pulling down his pants to roll it on.  He pressed the head of his cock against your clit.  You grabbed him by the ass, wrapping your legs around him to guide him into you.  

Pedro flicked his hips into you with short, quick strokes, sending jolts of energy through your core.

“More,” you pleaded breathlessly.  “Deeper.”

Pedro lifted your ankles onto his shoulders, pressing into you long and slow until you could feel him bumping against your cervix.  You gasped, reaching behind you, scrambling for leverage, knocking the computer monitor off the desk.

“Oh no!” You turned, trying to catch it before it crashed to the floor.

“It’s okay!” Pedro said, taking your face in his hands to guide your gaze back to his eyes.  “It’s a shitty computer.  It’s fine.”

You moaned, letting your head fall back, grabbing for his chest with one hand as he fucked you.

“So soft,” he moaned against your ear.  “So fucking good for me, Angel.”  

“Give me your hand,” you said, guiding his fingers back to your clit.  “Up and down, right there.  Oh God.”  

You grabbed Pedro’s shoulder to brace yourself.  

“I’m close,” he warned.

“Not yet,” you pleaded.  “Just a little more.”  

You could feel your own climax building inside you.  You just needed a little more to push you over the edge.  

“Oh God!”

Pedro came inside you with a gasp as your inner walls clenched around him.  He slowly withdrew, supporting your legs, and easing you onto your back, scattering papers and pens onto the floor.  He kissed your neck and your breasts as his hands explored the curves of your body. 

You woke the next morning on the couch in Pedro’s office.  You were lying on top of him; your head on his chest.  He had his arms around you, your head was pounding as you squinted into the daylight.

“We got fucked up last night?” you said.

“Yup.”  

“It was nice."

"It was," Pedro agreed, kissing the top of your head as you blinked sleep from your eyes. 

"What time is it?”

You grabbed his forearm, turning it so you could look at the face of his watch.  

“Oh shit,” you gasped.  “I have Freshman Seminar in half an hour.”

“I already missed my morning classes,” Pedro moaned, letting his head fall back against the armrest. 

“Do you want to explain to Dr. Monroe why I can’t teach her class?” you said, rising from the couch and searching the office floor for your underpants.

“No,” Pedro said.  “She scares me.”  

You pulled your underwear back on, finding your bag, you used the satin scarf tied around the handle to cover the love-bites blooming on your throat and chest.  You dabbed concealer under your eyes and added a fresh coat of red lipstick.  

“Would you like to have lunch together? Not at the Caf. Somewhere nice, like a date.” Pedro asked, sitting up.  He looked endearingly child-like with his bedhead and giant brown eyes.  

You paused, checking your reflection in your compact mirror.  

“Can we do that?” you asked.

“I don’t see why not,” he said.  “You were never my student and after this week we won’t even work together any more.”

“Oh,” you nodded.  “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

“I’ll pack things up here and meet you after class.”  

You smiled.  “I’ll see you then.”   

#rpf: pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #hot for teacher AU #mr. ben has us in a chokehold #mr. ben snl #pedro pascal x you

[armpirate]

Soundleasure | Choi San || CH. 6

Pairings: Soft!San x fem!reader || Strangers to lovers, fake dating

Genre: smut, angst, fluff, online sex, ghosting

Warnings: inexperienced!San, fem!reader, masturbation, online sex, camboy, first times.

Summary: You can do whatever you please and be whoever you want on the Internet. And San knew that a little bit too well.

After finally following all the signs the universe was throwing at him, he started living a double life that no one was aware of. Everyone in his daily life knew him as Choi San, the reserved and quiet boy who wouldn't raise his voice, and would barely communicate with anyone outside of his comfort group. But only a few knew him as Soundleasure, the man with a sexy voice and a filthy mind that had their toes curling just with his narrations.

He never thought of the possibility of those two lives ever meeting, he had always tried for them to follow a parallel route and had always played safe to keep his friends from ever suspecting that side even existed. But his plans will start to crumble when he gets a little too close with one of his subscribers and she invades his real-self and altergo's universes without being able to stop it.

Y/n will not only help him to keep his secret from his circle, but will also show him there's more of Soundleasure in him than he'd like to admit. 

Previous || Next

MASTERLIST

Aprox. time of reading: 14 minutes

Y/n stopped in the middle of her office, finally lifting her gaze from the screen of her phone to see a big bucket of pink camellias invading her desk. She pursed her lips in her confusion, looking back at Jennifer's desk to find her in her business, head almost stuck to the screen as she worked on one of the sheets she had asked her to take care of.

—Jen —the girl lifted her head, looking around lost as she tried to tell where the voice came from—, can you come here for a second? —she waved her hand, getting her secretary to get that move from the corner of her eye.

She moved almost instantly, dragging her office chair as far from the desk as possible to make a subtle trot to where her boss was.

—The delivery man sent it this morning while you were in a meeting —she let her know—. They're beautiful, aren't they?

—Umm well, they aren't my favorite type, but they're cute —she shrugged.

—I believe there's also a note —Jennifer let her know, pointing at the bucket.

Y/n stepped towards the bucket, finding indeed a pale blue note among the flowers. When she took it, she could see Jennifer's playful smile waiting for her to read out loud the note, although she opted to read it silently instead.

"I adore you, as certain dark things are to be admired -in secret, between the shadow and the soul" xx

—It just has a Pablo Neruda quote on it, with a few words changed —she mentioned as she frowned—. Did the delivery man say who it came from?

—No, he just asked for you and left it in your office since you weren't here —Y/n tilted her head at Jennifer's information.

For a minute, she hoped those flowers would be coming from San. A cheesy, yet distant way to try to get her attention back after literally disappearing from everywhere but Soundleasure, but she knew it was just that: hope. Someone that disappeared that way and didn't dare to give an explanation as to why he didn't ever reply back to her wouldn't bother sending flowers. And it wasn't like he knew where she worked either.

Could be they were from the new match on Tinder that would take her on a date later? Although the quote in the note didn't make much sense. But it wasn't like she expected anyone there to be a perfectionist with something like that to know what that quote meant.

—Anyways —Y/n rolled her eyes, dropping the note to her desk—, how's your sister? Did she adapt well to college?

Not long ago Jennifer seemed more stressed than usual, always taking guilty looks at her screen to go back to the computer's monitor and enter a cycle that seemed exhausting from afar. Until Y/n asked her to her office to learn what kept her so distracted. The fact that her little sister was moving in to Boston to start the new semester there, while Jennifer wasn't able to assist her because she needed to be in her workplace made her be everywhere, but nowhere at the same time. At least until Y/n managed to give her a few days off so she could be able to guide her, and take her to all the important places she'd need to know while she stayed there.

—I think she adapted better than I ever did —she joked—. Thanks again for those days off. I know it wasn't the best time to be missing.

—Don't worry. I managed to work well —Y/n tried to calm her down—. You've always done a good job, and you've never missed a day. It was the least I could do for you.

Jennifer's smile widened at Y/n's words, feeling proud by the several praises she threw at her while reassuring her everything was alright.

—Do you need anything else?

—No, sorry to have bothered you with that —she shook her hand in the air, pointing at the bucket—. You can go back to your things.

Jennifer smiled and nodded one last time, giving her boss one last look before she stepped outside the office, closing the door behind her. The focus in her work lasted two minutes only, before she could sense the tension from everyone outside. As she lifted her eyes from the screen, she saw everyone in her team, including Jennifer, looking at the four people carrying boxes filled with their things. All of the members of her team lowered their gaze, looking back at their tables with guilt as their ex colleagues walked past them.

She knew everyone was worried about the ramp down, that was why she held a meeting with the team to reassure them that they were going nowhere. She gave no explanations as to why, she just let them know it was certain they'd keep their jobs. Although her choice not to tell why her team stayed, while the others had to go without two members each, had her receiving accusing looks almost instantly. Of course everyone would think her team was kept intact because she was the big boss' daughter, instead of thinking she did something that neither of the other supervisors would think of doing. And it wasn't like she expected anyone to reduce their salary for someone else either.

If she felt uncomfortable before, it got worse after it was known who was leaving the company. It was evident. When she stepped in a room, everyone either shut up or changed their conversation drastically -and she had been there long enough to tell when the conversation made no sense because they weren't talking about that since the beginning. And it got even worse with the people at her level, throwing condescending looks at her because she managed to get her staff intact, because she thought she was "better than them".

It didn't matter how uncomfortable she had to feel, it was the price to pay for her position. Being one of the managers, and at the same time the daughter of the one in charge of everyone, wasn't an easy task. Definitely not emotionally.

She remembered a few years back, when she first joined the company as a normal agent, and as soon as it was known whose daughter she was, when she drove almost every day back home while crying, barely able to see through the blurry vision. She stepped inside the office and she was alone. Her supervisors gave her the cold treatment because they knew she would receive a promotion no matter what, her colleagues ignored her because they only saw her name and not how she was carrying the work of the whole team on her back. And just when it all started getting better, everything was going back to that dark place she thought she managed to leave. With the only difference that she grew some thicker skin, evolving those tears into some unexplainable rage and some muttering nonsense that she hissed to herself until she closed the door to her penthouse.

And that day would be no different. She kept ranting while being stuck in traffic, saying out loud everything she wasn't allowed to say back in the office because she was expected to keep her composure.

—Y'all think you could do my work better than me... Fine, take it. I'm so fucking done at this point —she huffed, rolling her eyes as her hands worked on the wheel—. Jesus fucking Christ, why couldn't my dad just let me stay at home and be a proper daddy's girl? Why do you —she pointed at her reflection in the rear view— also need to prove anything? Seriously.

At that point she was more upset at herself than her situation. She hated how weak she felt, how she allowed those looks and unheard comments get to her, when she had no reason to let them all get over her mood like that.

—And why did I even agree to go on that date now? —she sobbed, getting inside— You're so dumb, really.

It wasn't like it was going to be something new. That guy probably would try to shoot his shot, try his luck with her while being an ass, and probably would run away as soon as he saw that wouldn't work with her.

She was too busy talking to herself, regretting her decisions, to be able to calculate the moves of her car properly. Before she was able to, a cracking sound was heard above the music that was playing on the radio, making her heart stop almost instantly.

If she doubted things could get any worse, there was the confirmation that indeed they could. She moved the wheel all over again, redirecting her car and giving it more space to fit into the space, just seeing the black paint of her car on the orange column. Her heart stopped when she got out, to check the disaster her distractions made. And right at the worst time, because she had just enough money to make it through the month. That repair was something she probably wouldn't be able to handle anytime soon.

"Why couldn't this happen last month?"

San had his two hands in his pockets, overhearing Wooyoung and Mingi bickering on each of his sides, using him as a shield whenever the other got too heated up in the conversation.

—I'm just saying you always choose what we eat when we go out —Mingi complained.

—That's not true. Last time it was San the one choosing.

—But San's are always a good pick. We ended up in McDonald's because you insisted on going to the empty Greek restaurant.

—Because we always eat the same —Wooyoung replied back, stepping forward to be able to see Mingi.

—There are a lot of Greek restaurants in Boston, and you took us to the worst one —his index accused him, pointing towards his face to remark the fact that their lunch was more expensive because of him.

—Didn't we eat already? —San sighed, stepping in to put a stop to an argument that had been going for way too long— Wooyoung could have no idea it was a shitty place, it's not his fault. It's already done, so let's just enjoy the rest of the day.

—Thank you —he applauded, dedicating him a complicit smile.

He could understand Mingi's annoyance. With his scholar salary, Mingi made enough to pay the bills and treat himself to something every once in a while. It was fair he was annoyed because he spent that part of his money on food he didn't even like. But blaming Wooyoung for it wouldn't change things. He didn't make them eat there on purpose, San knew he was already feeling guilty even if he hid it with that sassy attitude that got both of them on their nerves sometimes. He was certain his friend was already thinking of a way to make it up for them, even if there wasn't anything to really make up for.

—What if I buy you some ice cream? —Wooyoung walked in front of San, now standing between the two.

—Ice cream? Do you think I'm six? —Mingi inquired, frowning at the suggestion— Ice cream and I pick what we watch on TV today.

—Aren't the boys coming over tonight though? —San reminded, sure that both of them had mentioned how the group would reunite in their apartment.

—That's true —Wooyoung gasped.

—Then tomorrow. I pick what we watch tomorrow.

San couldn't help but smile when he realized the argument came to an end with Wooyoung wrapping one of his arms around Mingi's neck and ghosting his stomach with the bandaged one, while he just tried to keep walking and get away from his embrace -even if that meant dragging him on their way to the ice cream shop.

He was immersed in the silence that peace brought, at least until Mingi spoke again.

—San...

—Hmm? —he barely lifted his head to him.

—Isn't that your girlfriend?

Girlfriend? What girlfriend?

San looked confused at him, frowning while his friend just gave him a concerned look before he pointed to one spot in concrete to redirect San's eyes there.

All the muscles in his body tensed when he indeed saw Y/n from afar, trying to think of the best way to get out of there smoothly, but just being able to damn himself for ever bringing up that she was ever his girlfriend.

He understood why his friends were looking at him like that. Meters away, Y/n was smiling cozily to another taller man, tilting her head as they talked. To them that looked suspicious, and it made complete sense from their perspective.

—No, it's not —San assured—. The ice cream shop is in that direction.

—Sannie, that is your girlfriend —Wooyoung confirmed—. She just... cut her hair?

At that moment was when he regretted showing him a better picture of Y/n, where it was easier to spot her features. He never thought they'd ever come across her in the middle of the street, he actually never thought he'd see her or talk to her ever again, but there she was.

Either he did something, or he'd have to give a lot of explanations after Wooyoung pulled a scene. Which was something bound to happen by the way Y/n and that boy kept getting closer.

Y/n looked at Oliver, finding herself surprised at the way everything turned out quite well. He picked a coffee shop to have a good chat, crowded enough for her to feel comfortable, but not that crowded so they wouldn't be able to keep up with what the other said. And he was also a ten physically, with those big green eyes that made his caramel short hair stand out. He was the best thing that happened to her on that awful day, and it was a reality that she'd go on a second date with him if he ever talked with her again after they parted ways in a matter of minutes.

—Before I forget, thanks for the flowers.

—What flowers? —he asked, with a timid smile.

—Oh, it wasn't you? —she frowned.

He shook his head again, leaving her back not knowing who was the person behind them. Although it wasn't like she genuinely cared about it. It probably was someone in the company playing with her.

Oliver stepped a bit closer, making it clear at that point what his intentions were.

Her tongue moved over her lower lip, moistening it up and getting ready for something that was obvious to happen. Their heads moved to link their lips together, there was no way that anything could ruin that.

But oh, how wrong she was.

She wasn't allowed to advance much more, before her lips collided against a dry and soft surface, opening her eyes wide to find a different face receiving a kiss on the cheek.

—What the fuck is wrong with you? —Oliver pushed the boy away from them.

But he held onto Y/n's arm, pulling her to him while she just tried to get rid of his grip. She stopped resisting when he finally turned to her completely. Confusion, shock and panic slowly left her body to be replaced by rage.

—You —she squinted her eyes at him.

—I need you. Just one second —he begged.

—Do you know him? —Oliver questioned.

His expression totally changed in a matter of seconds. That cute and soft smile was gone, and he was giving her a furrowed look, filled with annoyance. His tone was also harsh on her, as if she was the one to blame for what happened.

—Yeah, but...

San held her arm, with a desperate grip that wasn't that hard to hurt her. He just wanted her to follow him inside the coffee show she was standing outside of, away from the curious looks his friends were probably giving them.

—What are you doing? —she finally asked, getting away from his fingers when they reached the corridor to the restrooms— One day you disappear, and the other you get in the middle of a kiss? What's wrong with you?

—I know I messed it up big time with you. I know I have no right to ask anything from you, but I seriously need your help.

Y/n scoffed, thinking he had to be playing with her. San wasn't actually asking her a favor after basically ghosting her for no reason, wasn't he?

—My friends think you're my girlfriend —he informed her quickly—. I didn't know what to say when they caught me talking with you. And now they saw you with that other guy, while thinking you're still dating me, and...

—And why didn't you tell them we broke up? —she asked, lifting one of her eyebrows— I don't know, make something up. I bet they're more than used to it.

He couldn't blame her for being mad at him for ignoring her, and he wasn't surprised at the idea she got of him after he disappeared out of fear. The obvious answer from her was that he was a player, who texted her until it stopped being fun to jump onto the next one.

—If I tell them we broke up, they'll be a pain in the ass about it.

First girlfriend, and it barely lasted a month. He could already hear Wooyoung's and Mingi's comments while teasing him.

—Remind me how that's my problem?

—Pretend to be my girlfriend. Just for today —he asked her.

—To be your what? —she cackled— Are you insane?

Before she was able to reject him a second time, San sank to his knees in front of her, making some of the tables near the corridor, and those who were able to witness what was going on, turn to them.

—I'll do whatever you want —he assured her—. Just tell me what you need.

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head while trying to keep him from rubbing that soft spot she had that'd lead her to blindly help others.

He didn't deserve it.

—I'll return the subscriptions if you want. But please...

—The subscriptions? —she suddenly asked.

If he gave her back that money, she'd be able to pay for the repair of the car with no problems.

San gave her hopeful eyes as he looked up to her after her question. He didn't know that linking their pupils together could be the biggest mistake for her, but she still dropped her gaze, trying to let him know that she wouldn't do it.

Who in their sane mind would help someone to convince his friends they were dating when he ghosted her weeks back? It made no sense.

#armpirate #choi san smut #choisansmut #ateez #ateezfanfic #ateezff #ateezimagines #ateezsmut #ateezxreader #atiny #choi #choisan #choisanateez #choisanfanfic #choisanxreader #ff #onlinesex #reader #readerinsert #san #sanateez #sanxreader #smut

[eoieopda]

Oo we doing horny headcanons at jade hq??? Okkkkk

Your thoughts on bts as needy/horny boyfriends while you’re a busy working independent woman lmao 👀

JADE HQ ☠️ omfg. love that, love you. let’s fuckin gooooo

namjoon is sending you the horniest poetry known to man. it’s all deep cuts that only he knows about. the authors he’s quoting have mostly been dead forever (and half of them were sapphic), but he’s got their eroticism locked and loaded. you ever receive audre lorde’s recreation as a sext? now you have! you’re rolling your eyes at that big-brained motherfucker, but you’ve also never been wetter, reading pablo neruda talk about… a whole almond??

seokjin commits to the bit. you’re in a meeting, receiving a photo series that tells a story. oh, there’s his lil smirking selca. then, his neck and — what’s this? bare collarbones? a photo of clothing left in a trail down the hallway in his apartment. an empty shower, water running. most maddening is the photo of a steamed up mirror where he’s written “you done yet?” in condensation because he knows 1) you’re not done, and 2) that you can just barely make out his reflection in the fog. bastard.

yoongi is subtle. he’s sending you context-free pics of him doing shit with his hands because he 👏🏻 knows 👏🏻. he absolutely did not need to show you the iced americano he’s holding, but he does need you to see how his hand wraps around it and makes the veins in his forearm stand out. in case you weren’t picking up the hints, he gets a little more blatant. it’s game over when you get the tangerine slice leaking juice all over his fingers. RIP to you, bestie.

hoseok is thankful you work from home because you’re both accessible and distractible. he knows you’re on a Teams meeting, and that he’s not visible on webcam from the other side of your laptop. you know that you have to control your expression when he’s walking around your apartment naked with a semi, like it’s just a normal monday afternoon for him. your coworkers wonder what tf is wrong with you when your pupils visibly dilate during a boring presentation, which you haven’t glanced down at for the duration.

jimin got tired of his whining going straight to voicemail, so he’s going straight to your office. security at the front desk doesn’t recognize him, but he walks with such confidence and determination that they don’t even question that he belongs there. and your secretary? well, they’re easily charmed — and jimin’s easily charming. he’ll be waiting for you to get back from whatever’s on your schedule. try and ignore him in person — see what happens 😌 rest assured, you’ll be cancelling your next appointment. something came up.

taehyung is the king of whimsical daytime nudes. he knows you hate unsolicited dick pics as a concept, so he’s going to find the stupidest, most creative ways to let you know what’s waiting for you when you come home from work. we’re talking shit taken on a self-timer, standing naked behind a potted plant, thick dick™️ peaking through the leaves. is it ridiculous, cracked, and kinda cringey? yup. is it effective? in a way that makes you question what’s wrong with you ✨

jungkook is impatient. you’re hard at work, typing furiously to meet a project deadline. meanwhile, he’s closing your laptop, ignoring your complaints, lifting your whole body out of your desk chair, and carrying you off to the nearest fuckable surface — couch, bed, counter, whatever. you can finish your shit when he takes a post-nut nap 💕

#minors do not interact #jade speaks #anon #bts headcanons

[punchingtelescopes2]

I Can't Wait

Word Count: 1,324

Summary: You NEVER interrupt someone when they are reading a book.

Warning: Just two people disgustingly in love. And Fred's poorly mentioning Pablo Neruda's love poem 14.

“I’ve been thinking”, said George, “We should sell the whizbangs as a bundle instead of individually you know because...” “Mmmhmmm”, Fred interrupted absentmindedly, “Yup”. 

George took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. Fred had been quiet, thoughtful and moody the past couple of days and George was tired of it. “So listen,” George said clearing his throat, “I’ve been thinking about dying my hair blue, that outta help the customers tell us part.” “Sure. Wait what?!” Fred furrowed his brows at his brother. “Aaah!!” George said pointing an accusatory finger at Fred, “So you only listen when you want to.” Fred, huffed and mumbled a string of curse words at George. “You know if I’d heard anything you just said I’d be offended but I didn’t so I’m not,” George said with a triumphant smile. Fred rolled his eyes giving him a small smile. “You’ve been in a foul mood since Sunday night. It is now Wednesday mate and frankly you are starting to get a bit annoying.” Fred glared at his brother but George ignored him and continued. “Out with it, what’s troubling you?” “It’s Hermione mate,” Fred sighed. George snickered as he wiggled his brows, “Trouble in paradise Freddie?” 

“I asked her out about a week ago,” Fred sighed, rubbing his hands on his face. “And?” George said impatiently. “Well when I tried to finalize plans for our date last Sunday after dinner at the burrow, she looked at me annoyed and sighed ‘What about Friday?’ ”George looked at him, fighting a smile, “Is that what you were doing while she was reading under the tree?” “Yeah,” said Fred, hurt and confusion on his face. George was soon howling with laughter which made Fred scowl. “You are telling me that,” George choked through his laughs, “YOU asked Hermione Bookworm Granger a question while she was reading?” “Yes,” Fred said with uncertainty. George laughed harder, making himself fall off the desk he was sitting on. 

Fred laughed in annoyance,”I don’t find this funny at all Georgie, '' he said, hoping his brother's childhood nickname would make him stop, “I think she's mad at me.” “Okay, okay. Look here you idiot,” George said, pushing himself off the ground, “I’ve got a few things to say, ONE!” he shouted, “Hermione is not mad at you. She, for some unknown reason, loves you just as much as you love her.” Fred looked at his brother with worry on his face, “I don’t know.” “AND!!” George shouted ignoring his brother, “Everyone, in both Wizarding and Muggle worlds, knows you don’t interrupt a bookworm when they are reading.” 

“Is that really a thing?” Fred asked unsure. George rolled his eyes and ignored him, “TWO!!” he said loudly as he grabbing a roll of parchment form his desk, “You don’t, *whack* talk *whack* to a bookworm *whack whack* when they are *whack whack whack* nose deep in a *whack whack whack* book. *whack whack whack whack* “Ouch,” Fred snapped, “Okay, I get it.” “THREE!!” George shouted as he whacked Fred with the roll of parchment again. “Ouch! Quit it!” Fred yelped, “Or Merlin help me I will hex you.” 

“Three,” said George softly, “When was the last time you talked to Granger Fred?” “Uh, not since Sunday,” Fred said quietly. “Exactly, you won’t know what she was thinking Sunday if you don’t talk to her. It’s called communication Freddie, it’s an important part in every relationship. Now stop being a baby and owl the woman. Remind her of your date and then actually talk to the woman, in person. Sort this out” George said matter of factly.

Fred shot out of his chair suddenly, “George you’re a genius!” Fred said, putting his hands on the side of his brother's head and bringing him close to give his forehead a loud noisy kiss.” “Oh God,” George wiped his forehead. An annoyed look on his face, “I better be the godfather to your first born.” 

____________________________ (The Burrow)

“I feel so bad Gin,” Hermione groaned as she covered her face with the book she’d been trying to read. “Why?,” Ginny said absentmindedly as she sat on the floor. Her back was against her bed as she tossed a quaffle against the wall. 

“Well I’d completely forgotten I had a date with Fred this Friday. And at Sunday dinner, when he reminded me about our date I’d completely forgotten about it,” Hermione gasped, “I think he’s mad at me.” Ginny snorted and both girls burst into giggles. “Ginny it’s not funny,” Hermione’s giggles had turned into a desperate whine. “I was in the middle of my book,” she said, “He caught me off guard! I never forget things. It was a really good book.” Ginny laughed harder, “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“Ginny!,” groaned Hermione. “He’ll be fine. I ignore Fred and George all the time and they still talk to me,” she said dismissively. “Listen, don’t worry,” Ginny said, “You. Are. Good.” “Ginny his face,” Hermione said holding back a sob, “you should have seen Fred’s face.” Hermione grabbed her chest with a pained expression, “He looked so embarrassed and hurt. Probably thought I didn’t love him anymore.” She turned to Ginny, worry etched on her face. 

“Again, I ignore them all the time,” Ginny said nonchalantly. “Yeah but you’re their sister Gin.” Hermione said, covering her face again.

“Look it’s gonna be fine, 100% sure he’s not mad or hurt by this. I am sure the idiot realized he was interrupting you as you read your book,” Ginny finished with a shrug. “Listen, it’s just Fred, he's not mad or upset with you. I’m sure of it. But if it makes you feel better just make it up to him.” “Make it up to him how?,” Hermione asked. “Well,” said Ginny thoughtfully, “You could always kiss him. That shuts him up.”

Hermione was about to shush Ginny when she interrupted my obnoxious hooting. “Is that...does Apollo have a howler attached to him?,” Hermione said as she looked at the tawny owl in confusion. “I believe he does,” Ginny said looking curiously at Hermione, “It’s probably a mistake,” she said walking closer to Apollo.

“Oooh,” Ginny covered her mouth with her hands as fought the urge to laugh. “What is it?” Hermione asked. “Hermione it’s for you.” “ME?!,” Hermione squealed loudly. “Yup!,” Ginny giggled . “Don’t laugh,” Hermione chuckled nervously. Ginny giggled, “You’re right, I’m sorry. I wonder who it’s from,” Hermione shrugged. Ginny smiled, “Well, it’s starting to smoke so I guess we will soon find out.” 

Hermione took a deep breath and nervously opened the shaking red letter. 

“GRANGER!'' Fred's voice filled the room. “WAIT GEORGE SHOULD I USE HER FULL NAME!?” "YES STUPID!!,” George bellowed back, “IT MAKES IT MORE ROMANTIC!.” “OH YOU’RE A GENIUS!,” Fred shouted back. “HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER! I AM VERY MUCH LOOKING FORWARD TO OUR DATE THIS FRIDAY!! I WILL BRING YOU HAPPY FLOWERS FROM THE MOUNTAINS, BLUEBELLS, DARK HAZELS, AND RUSTIC BASKETS OF KISSES AND ANYTHING ELSE I CAN POSSIBLY FIND TO MAKE SURE YOU HAVE AN INCREDIBLE TIME FRIDAY NIGHT. I AM GOING TO STOP NOW BECAUSE I DO NOT KNOW WHAT I'M SAYING ANYMORE OR WHAT THAT MEANS, BUT I KNOW YOU LOVE THAT NERUDA BLOKE AND I THOUGHT THAT BIT FROM ONE OF HIS POEMS FLOWED NICELY IN THIS LETTER. ANYWAY I LOVE YOU GRANGER. ALWAYS. MMMMUUAAAHH!

The letter tore itself up leaving behind a deafening silence. 

“What the bloody hell was that?!” Ginny whispered mystified. Her voice sounded loud in the still quiet room. Hermione and Ginny looked at each other and burst into a fit of laughter. “That was Fred!,” Hermione said, wiping tears from her eyes. Ginny smiled as she rolled her eyes. “Still having doubts as to whether or not Fred is mad at you?”, she asked with one raised eyebrow. “No,” Hermione sighed, smiling dreamily out the window, “No doubts at all.”

#fred wealsey fic #fredlives #fred x hermione #fremione #fred weasley #hermione x fred #hermione fanfiction #fluff #so much fluff #idiots in love #soulmates #fred lives #au #punching telescopes 2 writes #ginny weasley #george weasley

[agentnatesewell]

yes indeed :) and any other mathy pickup lines I can make her say (...something something Taylor expansion something lol)

what about suri, what are her pickup lines for Nate??? how does she try to out-fluster our dearest Agent Suavewell?

I had to look up some more math pick up lines and thought you might like this: if we are both math majors, then why is there so much chemistry between us?

Also had to look up the Taylor Expansion and according to Andrew Chamberlain PhD, The Taylor expansion is one of the most beautiful ideas in mathematics. The intuition is simple: most functions are smooth over ranges we’re interested in. And polynomials are also smooth. So for every smooth function, we should be able to write down a polynomial that approximates it pretty well.

I don’t know exactly how, but this definitely applies to N Sewell

As for Suri, hers is more along the lines of punctuating the ‘Agent Sewell’ when trying to flirt with Nate

Her flirting is also more physical, which is why she tends to wear shorter skirts and sits on the front edge of her desk. Something to get his attention (and she strives for something pretty to get his attention)

But sometimes sneaks in a line of romantic poetry, especially from her favorite, Pablo Neruda

Really though, flirts with this kind of Megara in this scene energy at times

What a fun ask! Thank you!

#didn’t add it up there but also sometimes some suggestive comments - akin to the bold options in the books #but really nate and suri are kind of disasters around each other #how do they get anything done?? #that’s why she has to make sure she uses that brain cell every once in a while #thank you for the ask! #ask #nate sewell #navery #otp: nuri

[prismatic-bell]

MISSION BRIEF: End of Fest Poetry

As we close out Fest, I, Agent 0018, must let the curtain come down on the show at last. Please enjoy this image featuring the poetry of Pablo Neruda, and taken from Q's desk in Listen/Hear.

Long Live Team 00!

#007 fest 2022 #team 00

[brattybottomdyke]

Gracias, linda😚 pretty bad out there? Two days ago it smelled like someone was having a BBQ.

But it isss, I think it's adorable, I'd give you tons of kisses every time you blushed 😊 🙈

Well I am trying 🙈😘

Oh dear! Well at least you'll be able to get away after! Hopefully you enjoy your time off! I've got a four day weekend so I'll be watching The Magicians and I think finishing up Ted Lasso at the beach ⛱️ (and of course keeping you company!)

Madame Rouge! I'm still stuck at the office until tomorrow finishing up month end, but I finally slept a full 8 hours so that's great 😫

I'm going to HAVE to agree on princesa's voice, definitely deserve to have an ego for that alone

I do like poetry, actually, Madame Rouge, I used to write it a long while back ☺️ Pablo Neruda is one of my faves! "Puedo escribir los versos más tristes está noche..." not at all Madame, we know you're busy!

I had breakfast and an apple but haven't had time to leave my desk for anything more (I'm caught up on water!)

🐁

you’re welcome ☺️ it’s getting worse, yeah 😮 i remember that from a couple weeks ago when the smoke was first bad here

that would just make me blush even more 🙈

you’re succeeding my dear 🙈🥰

im looking forward to it, for sure ☺️ oh! that sounds absolutely lovely!! i hope you enjoy your weekend, you deserve it 🥰😘

oh no wayyyy 🙈

#anony🐁 #answered #🐭

[chichikir]

Dearest Brother

“There is no space wider than that of grief.” Pablo Neruda Dearest brother. This has been the hardest and most difficult piece for me to write. Since the day you passed, every day, pen in hand, I sit at my desk to write about you. With a heavy heart I start to scribble but after writing a few words I break down and cry. It all happened so fast and so unexpectedly. I still find it hard to…

View On WordPress

#art #arts #blog #blogger #blogging #death #family #grief #hope #life #love #story #thoughts #writer #writing

[valpohq]

BIENVENIDOS A SANTA MONEDA !

whether  it's  a  lavish  vacation,  searching  for  muse  through  the  city’s  colorful  streets,  searching  for  someone  to  hold,  or  maybe  for  something  in  themselves;  santa  moneda  opens  its  doors  and  welcomes  you  !  you  have  24  hours  to  send  in  your  account,  and  be  sure  to  check  the  after  acceptance  checklist  to  make  sure  you're  not  missing  anything  ! 

Welcome Charles Hastings ! We're excited to have Pablo Neruda's number one fan join the complex, can't wait to see him reciting poems in the funniest of settings !

Charles Edmund Hastings III picked up their key from the front desk 6 months ago. The thirty-one year old uses he/him pronouns and is a English Professor at Universidad de Bellas Artes de Valparaíso & Tour Guide at Sebastiana Museo de Pablo Neruda from Cambridge, UK. According to their apartment application, people have told them they look a lot like Tom Blyth, and the character they identify with most is Troy Bolton from High School Musical. Santa Moneda gives you a warm welcome, and we hope you enjoy your stay. ( link... again... )

#new rp #apartment rp #appless rp #city rp #oc rp #town rp #accepted #listen if you know charlie then you'd know how accurate the troy bolton comparison is lMAOO

[maatryoshkaa]

between the lines | lee minho

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐃𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒!𝐀𝐔

✑ Late fines, shared lockers, and a missing love letter:

In which a frantic search for an overdue library book leads to you finding other things that are...long overdue.

✑ PAIRING: student librarian!minho x bookworm!reader

✑ GENRE: retro!high school au, slow burn, slice-of-life romance, slight enemies-to-lovers shenanigans

✑ WORD COUNT: 9.7k

✖︎ TAGS/WARNINGS: fem!reader, mild language, bullying themes, skz are all around the same age. mc is insecure and a bit of a valentine's day grinch. minho is whipped but too hardheaded to admit it. also, an embarrassing amount of classic literature/pablo neruda references.

Ah, Valentine’s Day.

Call it the most romantic day of the year if you will, but in the treacherous hallways of Levanter High, it meant a minefield of hormonal couples, crushed chocolate boxes, and supermarket rose bouquets. Clutching your backpack with a grimace, you narrowly dodged a pigtailed cheerleader as she leapt into her jock boyfriend’s waiting arms. Turning into another hallway, you plugged your ears to block out a senior boy’s cold rejection of a freshman’s nervous love confession.

You finally caught sight of your locker and breathed a sigh of relief. Levanter High’s lockers were split in half lengthwise—one top row, and one bottom row. You dropped to a crouch to wrench yours open—you’d lost your lock a couple of weeks ago—trying to block out the early morning commotion as you rummaged for your English books.

“Hey, watch ou—”

The locker above yours opened with a screech, and you looked up just in time to see a pink avalanche of cards and chocolates raining down on your head in a painful, deafening crash. The student who had called out the warning was frozen with a comical look of shock on her face. You swore the entire hallway fell silent, blood rushing to your cheeks as you slowly raised your gaze at the person who had opened the locker.

Lee Hana—head cheerleader of Levanter’s pep squad, and in your humble opinion, the spawn of Satan herself.

“Ohmigosh,” she exclaimed, raising one hand to her mouth in mock horror, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there.”

The crowd around you was beginning to snicker and point, and you felt your face growing redder by the minute. “What are you doing here?” You asked tersely, motioning towards the locker above yours. “That’s not even your locker.”

Hana smiled and held up a small, glittery package. Oh. You didn’t have to look closer to know that the envelope was a love letter, elaborately tied to a box of expensive chocolates—the kind your parents would probably have to work overtime to afford. “My Valentine—for your locker buddy,” Hana replied matter-of-factly, then added, “Not that you would understand, hm? Since you’ve never received one yourself, and all.”

A smattering of laughs erupted from the crowd that was building around you. Biting back a retort, you looked down at all the other Valentine’s trinkets that had spilled around you. Of course—you should have gotten used to it by now. After all, your locker was right underneath the one that belonged to the student librarian, school heartthrob, and the absolute bane of your existence, Lee—

“Minho!” Hana exclaimed, and you looked up to see him shuffling through the crowd, his eyes briefly falling on yours. You immediately turned away as the pretty cheerleader skipped up to him, and shoved your books into your bag. Slamming your locker shut—twice, because Levanter’s damned lockers always jammed before shutting properly—you snatched up as many of Minho’s fallen Valentine’s Day trinkets as you could before shoving them back into the now-emptied top locker. The metal door was still swinging wide open. You’d overheard Minho complaining to the boy who always did the announcements—Han Jihyun? Han Jisung?—about how he kept losing his own lock. Both of you seemed to have a habit of misplacing things (not that you liked to admit to that similarity).

Out of the corner of your eye, Minho was still watching you over Hana’s shoulder, his lips tilted in a half-smile. Your gut twisted unpleasantly. Four years and counting—that was how long you’d ended up with a locker right under Minho’s.

“You’re so lucky!” Lia—your best friend—had gushed, while you had scoffed in utter disbelief.

“Oh, sure. Just my rotten luck.”

“Come on, y/n. Are you still hung up about that love letter from freshman year?”

Yes, you had thought sourly. “No way,” you had snapped, and Lia had giggled, unconvinced.

It wasn’t like you’d always had a personal vendetta against Minho. In fact, in ninth grade, you’d been head over heels for him, just like the rest of the student body—to the point where you’d even slipped a small love letter into his locker on Valentine’s Day, too. It had been one of those gaudy 99-cent corner-store cards, and you'd saved up your pocket money just to buy a matching pack of candy hearts. Then you’d spent the day with butterflies in your stomach, anxiously waiting nearby his locker to see his reaction.

But when he hadn’t shown up, you'd shrugged and begun heading home—and that was when you had caught sight of Minho, throwing all the love letters he’d received straight into the Dumpsters in the back parking lot.

Talk about a reality check.

As if that hadn't been traumatizing enough, you’d been forced to face him nearly every morning for the following three years. To make matters worse, being Minho’s involuntary locker mate also meant that all the girls—and guys, for that matter—saw you as little more than a stepping stone to him, always asking you to relay party invitations or trying to curry favour with you to get to him.

“We’re not close,” you’d insist to his persistent admirers every time, but it didn’t help. Minho, on the other hand, you thought bitterly, seemed to think he was too good for anyone—he didn’t even respond much to Hana’s advances, and she was drop-dead gorgeous. There was no way he’d even look twice at you—you’d been firsthand witness to that. You finally gave up trying to clean up the fallen Valentines, and stood up with a sigh. Throwing him a death glare, you pushed past the crowd just as the bell rang and students began scurrying away.

What did it matter if Lee Hana was trying to get with Minho? If anything, they were a match made in heaven. Or hell. With a decided huff, you plopped yourself down at your desk just as your English teacher began class.

“We’re starting the poetry unit today! Remember, you’ll be writing a love poem of your own for the final project—so I suggest you all get started on reading!” You teacher had winked and clapped her hands excitedly while a collective groan had swept through your class. A few couples had nudged each other meaningfully, already promising to write their poems about each other, and you’d thrown up a little in your mouth.

Romance was a bit of a touchy subject for you— now, you didn’t hate the notion of love, per se, you’d just always been somewhat...wary of it. After watching your friends fall in and out of disastrous relationships and fleeting feelings from the sidelines too many times to count, your own defense mechanisms had skyrocketed, and now you found yourself trying not to roll your eyes at every piece of romantic writing you read. Still, this inexperience only made you more determined to get a head start on the topic— and so, once the last bell had rung, you made a beeline for the school library. You would tackle love the only way you knew how to—by hitting the books. Pushing open the door, you overheard Hana and her friends muttering in disappointment and immediately recoiled.

“You said he’d be in here!”

“Well, I thought I saw him! Let’s wait for a bit.”

You peeked over the librarian’s desk, and sure enough, it was vacant— save for a tray of half-shelved books and stamping cards. Maybe Minho left early today, you thought, shrugging. That’s a relief. Then you shook your head quickly. What’s it to me whether he’s here or not? You tried to ignore Hana’s disdainful glance at you, heading straight towards your favourite nook at the back of the library instead: a cozy alcove tucked behind the last row of shelves. With a deep sigh, you pulled out the first book of poetry your teacher had assigned—Shakespeare’s Complete Sonnets—and sank into the bean bag chair.

‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May…’

A couple lines in, and the Englishman’s words were already making your head spin. You grimaced, massaging your temples. ‘A summer’s day?’ Seriously? You could swear you’d seen something less cheesy on a dollar store card. After a couple of pages, you could already feel your treacherous eyelids beginning to droop, fighting to stay awake as you tried to make sense of Shakespeare’s verses. But thy eternal summer...shall not fade...nor lose...possession…

“The library’s closing.”

You jolted awake, hands fumbling blindly before you could even force your eyes open. The library came into focus first—the lights had been dimmed, the flickering EXIT sign from the empty hallway casting a warm glow through the panelled window across the room. A dull headache still throbbed in your temples.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes groggily. You had to practically peel your cheek away from the Shakespeare book, fingers gingerly feeling the dent the cover had left in your cheek. “I-I’m so sorry, I must have—lost track of time studying.”

A familiar chuckle sent your heart plummeting to your stomach. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

When your eyes finally adjusted, your expression automatically soured into a glare.

“Now that’s more like it.” Smirking, Minho crossed his arms, leaning back on a bookshelf. He glanced down at the book in your lap—the book that you clearly hadn’t been studying. “Didn’t know you were one for Shakespeare.”

“I—” You threw your hands up in exasperation. “I’m not. His writing gives me a headache. It’s like it’s all in another language or something.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Old English. Why are you reading it, then?”

“We’re doing poetry in class—and our final project is to write an actual love poem, based on the poets we’ll study. Shakespeare was just first on the reading list, so…” you felt yourself trailing off, flustered. Why were you even bothering to explain this to Minho, who probably couldn’t care less? “Nevermind.”

You felt his piercing gaze on you as you shoved your books into your bag, glancing outside at the nearly emptied parking lot. If you squinted, you could spot a couple—Seo Changbin, judging by the male’s iconic leather jacket, and his lover—making out under the bleachers. You shook your head incredulously. Valentine’s Day. Love poems. Hormonal couples galore. It was like the universe was playing a long, cruel joke on you: Ha-ha, look who’s spending Valentine’s Day studying in the library alone.

Well, alone except for a student librarian with whom you had a mortifying history. Not much better. Eager to leave, you got to your feet, only to see Minho flipping through a smaller book he’d pulled off the shelf next to him. “If you want some real inspiration,” he began slowly, pushing up his glasses, “I’d suggest you start closer to our time period.”

You looked down at the book he was holding up, brow furrowing as you read the title out loud. “Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. Pablo Neruda.”

“The best Chilean poet of the 20th century,” he nodded. “‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way, because I do not know any other way of loving but this.’”

It took you a second to realise Minho was quoting a poem, and you were suddenly grateful that the dimly lit library hid the flush of red that had betrayed your cheeks. Clearing your throat, you mumbled, “That actually sounds...kind of pretty.”

He didn’t look up, but you thought you saw the corners of his mouth shoot up ever so slightly. Maybe the shadows were playing tricks on you? Flipping through the book, Minho fished out a pad of sticky notes from his back pocket and marked a few pages. “Here. ‘The Song of Despair’...‘Tonight I Can Write’...‘Here I Love You.’ Those are good.” Clamping the book shut, he held it out towards you.

You almost thanked him, but the words faltered on your tongue as you took it from him suspiciously. “What’s with the sudden helpful attitude?”

He shrugged. “It’s my job.” You raised an incredulous eyebrow, and he smirked. “Consider it my apology for this morning, then.”

That left you at a real loss for words, and for the first time, you struggled to find a retort. “That’s...considerate of you, apologising on behalf of your girlfriend and all.”

“Hana’s not my girlfriend.”

You breathed a small laugh. “Soon-to-be, then. Don’t break her heart.”

Minho scoffed, bringing the book to the front desk and scrawling your name on the sign-out card. He stamped the dates, then held it out at you before glancing out the window. Dusk had fallen, the empty football field lit only by rows of flickering lampposts. “You can get home safe?”

“Screw off, Lee Minho.” You eyed him warily, shoving the book into your bag before practically running to the double doors. The strange atmosphere that had suddenly built up in the library felt terrifyingly foreign to you, and your first instinct was to be rid of it as soon as possible. In the hallway, you spotted a janitor dumping a bin into a trash bag. A familiar avalanche of pink envelopes and gifts caught your eye, and you felt a wave of humiliation. Just the memory of Minho throwing yours out—after reading it and having a good laugh, no doubt—made you want to ram your head into the lockers all over again. You’ve got no chance with him, y/n, you thought blearily. Right when you’d thought you’d finally come to terms with Minho’s brutal (albeit unintentional) rejection, here he was again: crashing back into your life like some...cat-eyed, pointy-nosed meteor.

“Oh, y/n! One more thing.”

You’d already had one foot out the front door when Minho called your name again, making you jerk your head back in surprise. Minho had his bag slung over one shoulder, a pile of books in his arms as he waved to get your attention. His smile looked almost...genuine in the warm shadows, his round glasses softening his usually sharp gaze. Despite yourself, you felt your heart skip a beat.

Then Minho made a wiping motion over his face and grinned. “You’ve got drool on your chin.”

Your face reddened, and you slammed the library door shut, earning a glare from the janitor down the hall. Smacking the heel of your palm against your forehead repeatedly, you stormed out of the school muttering curses under your breath. Typical Lee Minho.

To your surprise, you practically devoured the poems in less than a week, taken aback at how much you genuinely enjoyed them. It was the first time you didn’t find yourself cringing at romance—and sure enough, in a couple days’ time, you found yourself reluctantly standing back in front of the double doors of the school library once again.

Carefully, you craned your head to peep into the panelled window, scanning the room for Minho. As per usual, a gaggle of girls were huddled on the other side, blocking your view.

“Looking for someone?”

Flinching, you nearly tripped on Hana’s long legs as she came up beside you. Before you could respond, she fixed you with a withering look. “You’ve got some explaining to do, Little Miss Perfect.”

“I—sorry?”

The cheerleader rolled her eyes, sneering. “Don’t act all innocent with me, you sneaky b—”

Sighing, you pushed open the doors before she could finish. Hana followed you into the library, still sputtering angrily. Her hand snatched your arm, French manicure digging painfully into your cardigan.

“The Valentines,” she hissed, and it finally clicked.

She’s talking about the love letters, you realized. The ones Minho throws out every year.

Gut twisting, you looked up to see all the other girls crossing their arms and looking back at you expectantly. “None of you...got a response?” You asked incredulously, already knowing the answer. This happened every year: Expectant admirers showered Minho’s locker with gifts, Minho wouldn’t even glance at them— and then, for some reason, you were left to take the blame. A twinge of annoyance shot through your chest.

“You stole them from his locker, didn’t you?” Hana continued accusingly, pupils shaking. “You sneaky, jealous bitch— of course you did.”

He threw them all out, you wanted to scream back at her, but the words wouldn’t budge from your tongue. Somehow, saying them out loud felt like tearing off the stitches of an old wound; a painful reminder of your personal humiliating memory. And—though you hated to admit it—a small part of you still didn’t have the heart to throw Minho under the bus just yet, even after all that he’d done.

Feeling defeated, you sighed and turned towards her. “Why would I want to do that?”

Hana scoffed, tossing her chocolate curls over one shoulder. “Oh, please. We all know you’ve had a massive one-sided crush on him since ninth grade.”

A rush of heat flooded your cheeks, the other girls’ snickers at your reaction drowning out any of your protests. “That’s not—”

“Not true? Then—is it mutual?” Hana sneered mockingly. “Don’t make me laugh. He wouldn’t be caught dead with the likes of y—”

“Can I help you with anything?”

The small crowd fell silent as Minho appeared from one of the aisles, eyebrows raised slightly in his usual nonchalant manner. A chill of panic rushed down your spine, palms growing clammy with cold sweat. H-how much did he overhear? In your peripheral, Hana was practically batting her eyelashes at him, but Minho’s mild eyes were focused on yours expectantly.

“I—uh. Well,” you stammered eloquently, your entire body suddenly paralyzed. Hana’s cherry red lips were twisted in a smug smirk, clearly waiting for you to embarrass yourself. “The book,” you blurted, immediately rummaging for the poetry book in your bag and holding it out to him.

Minho took it from you, fingertips grazing yours slightly. They were surprisingly warm. “How’d you find it?”

“R-really good, actually.” Then, you hesitantly added, “I...like the way Neruda uses imagery—he’s precise without being plain, and artful without deviating too much into purple prose. I think I liked Tonight I Can Write the most— y’know, ‘Tonight I can write the saddest lines...’” You swallowed, then instantly began regretting having ever spoken. Great job, y/n, now you sound like a full-blown nerd.

But Minho nodded, his eyes gleaming. “‘I loved her, and sometimes, she loved me, too.’”

“That’s the second verse,” you muttered automatically, and his lips twitched.

“It’s one of my favourite lines.”

The other girls had begun to awkwardly shuffle out of the library, their absence easing your racing heart. With just a few mildly spoken words, you noted, Minho had managed to make you feel as though you had blocked out the rest of the world. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Hana glaring daggers at you, and the small smile dropped from your face.

“Do you need something?” Minho asked her blankly, his gaze trailing down to Hana’s hand, which was still painfully latched onto your arm. With a roll of her eyes, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the library.

As soon as she was gone, you breathed an audible sigh of relief. Minho was peeling the sticky notes off from the poetry book you’d returned, eyes still watching you intently. Giving him the side-eye, you deadpanned, “She’s pretty, you know. Maybe you should go talk to her sometime.”

There was a small smile on Minho’s lips. “Does she like Chilean poetry?”

You could only give a short—slightly too shaky for your liking—laugh in response, ruffling your own hair as you tried to calm your frazzled nerves. Don’t forget, y/n. One, that he’s out of your league. Two, how this was all his fault to begin with.

“Is that all you came here for?” Minho’s voice broke into your thoughts again, making you jump. There was a glint of amusement in his eyes. He finds this—me—amusing.

“Well…” you looked down at your feet, then grudgingly nodded at the poetry book you’d just returned. “Do you...have any other recommendations?”

Minho’s face broke into a shit-eating grin, and you bit back a groan. before your pride got the better of you and you changed your mind, he was already heading towards the back of the library, sliding books out as you struggled to keep with his pace. “First of all, Dickinson. Hit-or-miss, but you never know. Then there’s Sylvia Plath, some Emily Brontë…”

Before you knew it, you’d been whisked into a world of verse and metaphor, flying between numerous time periods and continents as you and Minho perused the shelves. Just like the time when you had accidentally fallen asleep in the library, the library seemed to grow cozier, quieter, more peaceful during moments like these, as if the entire world was holding still as you lost yourself in pages upon pages of books. Soon, you found yourself heading to the library nearly every day after school. Despite yourself, you found yourself looking forward to that sunset hour, the fleeting period where most students had left, and the entire library would glow warm as though it were blushing under the swathes of golden light. And in these same fleeting moments, you found your gaze lingering more and more on Minho—the way he would push his silver glasses on, furrowing his brow in concentration whenever he searched for a book, or run his long fingers over their worn spines whenever he was lost in thought—

“Like what you see?” With a flinch, you realised Minho had begun walking back towards you, a crooked smirk on his lips as he set a new pile of books down at the desk you were sat at.

“No!” You snapped, too quickly. “Just—spaced out for a bit. Too concentrated on the project.”

The smirk hadn’t budged from Minho’s face, and you resisted the urge to throw a copy of Emily Dickinson’s Selected Poems at his long, pointy nose. “Mm. You seem to be coming here a lot more often.”

“That’s because the due date is coming up.”

“No. I mean, you seem to be talking to me a lot more.”

You rolled your eyes, snatching a book from the top of his pile as you muttered, “Screw you, Lee Minho.”

His eyebrows shot up in wicked mischief. “You’re more than welcome to try.”

With a cry of exasperation—and surprise at having been heard—you hoisted your book bag onto the table, building a makeshift wall between the two of you.

You didn’t catch the way Minho’s laughter slowly faded as he rested his head on one hand thoughtfully, quietly watching you read. Your lips were pursed in concentration as you muttered your notes under your breath. Cute, he couldn’t help thinking.

Minho had always been good at memorizing things, but he couldn’t remember exactly when you’d begun disliking him so much. You had always intrigued him—what with the way your locker always seemed to be overflowing with books, or how you used to lend him your copy when he forgot his, back in ninth grade. That Valentine’s Day, four years ago, your name had been the only one he’d hoped to find as he rifled through the cards he’d received. But he’d come up empty, and so he’d thrown them all out. And for some reason, you’d been cold to him ever since.

Minho had assumed that you were probably annoyed with all the letters that would fall out of his locker and onto you, and so every year he tried his best to get rid of the Valentines as soon as possible. Nevertheless, you only seemed to be getting more and more annoyed with him.

And now here you were, right in front of him, four years later, and he still couldn’t bring himself to ask you why. Confrontation had never been his strong suit—his words always seemed to come out too blunt, too cold, too soon, and so he’d always avoided bringing it up with you again. Minho sighed, raking a hand through his hair. Written words—that is, books—had always been so much easier than people.

He did, however, remember when he’d started falling for you.

Tenth grade, literature studies. He’d begun arguing against your thesis during one of your presentations, and the two of you had ended up bickering the entire class—pulling out quotes from nearly every chapter of Pride and Prejudice before the class president had to intervene, and your teacher had sent you both to detention.

You had glared at him once, and he’d fallen head over heels.

These violent delights have violent ends, he’d mused in his head back then—Romeo and Juliet—and with the murderous stare Minho sometimes caught you fixing him with, he was willing to bet that you were wishing a violent end on him, too.

He couldn’t pen a love letter to save his life, either— and so, he resorted to pettily glaring at any admirer that approached your locker like Gandalf—you shall not pass—until they backed off. Minho didn’t think you would appreciate him revealing that, either. The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous his actions seemed—and like a poorly written plot twist, you had ended up stumbling back into his life again. Never in his life, however, did Minho think that Pablo Neruda would become his wingman. Glancing down at his portrait on the back cover of the book, Minho could almost imagine the Chilean poet pointing his pen threateningly: “Don’t screw this up.”

“Hey, Minho?” He snapped out of his thoughts to see you waving your hand at him from the other side of your book bag. “You were right. I don’t get any of Dickinson’s poems.”

Your words took a moment to register, Minho caught off-guard by the soft golden hour light illuminating your pretty features. You waved your hand in his face again, and he blinked, breath caught in his throat. Almost tripping over his tongue, he finally quipped, “How on earth are you passing AP English?”

You glowered and smacked his shoulder, the near-silent library ringing with Minho’s laughter once again.

With a week left to the deadline, you were planted at your desk in your room, the wastebasket littered with crumpled up half-sheets of notebook paper. To your dismay, none of the words seemed to be coming out the way you wanted them to. Gnawing the back of your pencil in frustration, you dumped the contents of your book bag onto the desk, and spotted your latest library book—100 Love Sonnets, by Pablo Neruda. Inexplicably, out of all the poets Minho had introduced to you, you always found yourself coming back to him.

Flipping through the well-thumbed pages, your fingers stopped at one titled Sonnet XVII. “I love you without knowing how,” your eyes scanned the verse curiously, “or when, or from where. I love you simply…”

It was the poem Minho had quoted that evening in the library, you realized, heart skipping a beat. “...without problems or pride / I love you in this way, because I do not know any other way of loving / but this, in which there is no I or you / so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand / so intimate that when I fall asleep, your eyes close.”

With a sigh, you buried your head in your arms, lying face-down onto the desk. Maybe the reason why you instinctively disliked reading love poems so much was because of the sheer sincerity of them all. You envied their ability to put feelings into words—with unabashed, unapologetic ardour, and be celebrated for it, to boot. Eyes scanning the verses again, your mind wandered to the way Minho’s eyes had lit up as he’d explained the lines to you, his brow furrowed in focus.

At Levanter High, you had grown used to being pushed around and out of the spotlight. It was either the popular girls and their backhanded compliments, or the boys who spoke to you condescendingly just to a) get you to do their homework, or b) get in your pants. But Minho had always taken you seriously, albeit while driving you half-insane with his infuriating remarks. And as much as you hated to admit it, that same fiery look in his eyes whenever he got worked up—so different from his usual reserved facade in front of the teachers and swooning students—had always made your heart skip a beat. In tenth grade—back when he seemed to pick a fight with you nearly every English class until Bang Chan had to hold the two of you back from killing each other—you’d thought you’d successfully quashed your feelings for the mild-voiced, hazel-eyed librarian. Yet every time he spoke, he left you feeling vulnerable, disarmed, and you were back—though you refused to admit it—to square one.

“‘I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul,’” you whispered, fingers tracing the words on the paper. Feeling a sudden surge—of confidence, or simply exasperation, you weren’t sure—you seized the pen and began scribbling on a new piece of paper. For years, you’d been afraid to face your feelings, terrified of the humiliation if Hana—or anyone at school—found out. But if getting them all out in one cheesy, hot mess of a love letter could give you some closure, you thought tensely, you were more than happy to oblige. You would write it all out under the guise of a love poem, and then it would never have to see the light of day again.

Words began coming to your head like a floodgate had been thrown wide open, and you began scrawling onto the page. “‘I love you as the plant that never blooms, but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers,’” you quoted thoughtfully as you drafted your own poem. In a way, it felt cathartic—you could get all your feelings out, pass it off as an assignment, and never think about the forbidden fruit again. For all you knew, it was a win-win situation. The pen kept wobbling, ink spilling out haphazardly and skipping, but you relaxed slightly. Maybe this assignment wasn’t too bad, after all.

Head filled to the brim with poetry, you set the pen down and dozed off.

“You’re not coming to the football game?” Lia flashed puppy eyes at you, and you smacked her hand playfully, swiping a french fry from her plate.

“Lia, since when have I ever gone to one?” The two of you had dropped by the Sunshine Coffee Shoppe for a quick pick-me-up during lunch hour, but one smile from the cute waiter—Yang Jeongin, if you remembered his name correctly—had dazzled Lia into ordering an extra burger combo, complete with a plate of fries. “Sports and crowds—not my thing. And I have an English project due the next day.”

She pouted. “Oh, come on! Knowing you, you’ve probably already finished it by now.”

You grinned, thinking back to your love poem and fighting the urge to cringe. You’d read it the morning after, and it had taken every fibre in your being to hold yourself back from ripping it to shreds. Piercing, catlike eyes, you’d written in one line. Silver spectacles. Long fingers on dusty pages. Shuddering, you’d stuffed it into the Neruda book before banishing them both to your locker and going about your day. Love poems are supposed to be cheesy, y/n, suck it up. It’ll only be this one time. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone other than your teacher would ever read it.

When you dropped by the library after school, you spotted Hana’s familiar figure by one of the cubicles. As she tossed her hair over her shoulder with a laugh muted by the plexiglass windows, you saw that she was talking to a grinning Minho.

“Are you sure you’re not coming to the game on Thursday?” Hana was whining as you pushed open the doors to the library. She patted his arms playfully. “You could be on the football team if you wanted to, you know! Why don’t you try?”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not that quick on my feet.”

“Well, tell you what. They’re having a party at Hyunjin’s place right after—his parents are out of town. If you don’t feel like coming to the game, at least join us at the afterparty to loosen up a little—have a little fun.” She blew him a kiss and stood, throwing her purse over her shoulder and spotting you. You instinctively froze, bracing yourself for whatever slew of insults she had for you today, but all Hana did was beam and wave at you.

As she passed you by the door, she threw you a knowing wink. “Have fun on your little study date!”

Her words made your ears grow hot again, but to your surprise, there was no trace of venom in her voice — only a lighthearted teasing, as if she had been your friend all along. Hana really did look sweet when she smiled genuinely, and you could see why she had so many people easily wrapped around her finger. Maybe people do change. Or she’s just in a good mood. Before you could shrug and turn away, you sensed Minho’s presence behind you and yelped.

He held his hands up in mock surrender, and you could swear he was suppressing a laugh. “Here to work on your project again?”

Hana’s strange exchange with you on her way out had left your mind reeling, and you scrambled to form coherent sentences. “No, I, um—I actually finished it last night. I just…” Thought I’d just drop by to say hi. But your pride turned the words to mush before they had even formed, and you ended up trailing off awkwardly.

“Really?” There was a flash of disappointment in his face, then Minho’s gaze landed on the book-borrowing register on the front desk. “Right—your book is due today. Did you want to return it?”

Your eyes widened, silently cursing at your own forgetfulness. “Um—yes,” you lied, pretending to search in your bag before giving an awkward laugh. “Yep. I think it’s in my locker—let me go get it.”

After jogging to the other side of the school, you flung open the bottom locker, making another mental note to replace your missing lock. Still catching your breath, your hand sifted through the notes and textbooks before coming up empty. Where is it? You could swear you remembered putting it there, unless—

Breath catching in your throat, you shut the locker with a mortified bang. The English classroom. You practically sprinted down the hallways, earning another dirty look from the janitor as you raced past. Bang Chan looked up in alarm when you nearly crashed into the English classroom door. The entire room was empty, save for the class president, who looked like he was helping to file the teacher’s papers.

“Where’s the fire?” He asked jokingly as your eyes frantically raked the room.

“Have you—seen a book, by any chance? 100 Love Sonnets. Pablo Neruda.”

Chan frowned. “We shelve all the books after class, and if it’s one we don’t recognize, we keep it until the students come back in the morning.” He shrugged. “I don’t remember seeing anything.”

Your heart sank, and you saw the corners of Chan’s mouth lift bemusedly.

“What’s the hurry, anyway? I thought you hated love po—”

With a groan of frustration, you left the baffled class president staring after you as you turned on your heel and back into the hallway. Your mind was racing, panic making your ears buzz. The love letter’s in there. Where the hell did I put it? You sprinted to the Sunshine Coffee Shoppe next, but only got an apologetic shrug from Jeongin even after you’d scoured every nook and cranny of the diner. The sun was already beginning to set as you trudged, defeated, back to the school. Spotting the library’s dim windows in the distance, you wrestled with your options — if it weren’t for that cursed love letter, you could’ve probably just told Minho you’d misplaced it. But now the book—along with everything you’d never dared to tell anyone, crammed onto a sheet of notebook paper—could be anywhere, and there was no way in hell you were going to stop looking until you found it. Heart heavy with dread, you did a full 180 and began walking home.

It was no use. You’d practically pulled an all-nighter tearing your room apart searching for the book— and then, the better part of the following day running around town. But no matter where you looked—the record shop, Blockbuster’s, or even the laundromat—you came up empty.

It’s like it’s disappeared entirely, you thought as the lunch ladies piled your tray with a few sad-looking burritos. The cafeteria was buzzing with teenagers jittery with caffeine and sugar, and you had to duck as a boy chucked an apple at another across the room. You passed the cheerleaders’ table, trying to avoid eye contact, but their giggly conversation carried over the chaotic commotion.

“Did you see how cute Hyunjin looked today on the field?”

“Are you sure he doesn’t have a girlfriend? Maybe Hana can talk to him for us—if he doesn’t fall for her first.” The blonde cheerleader that had spoken nudged the older girl insistently.

“Me?” There was a smile in Hana’s voice. You could feel her eyes on you as she mused, “Oh, I don’t know, Hyunjin’s not my type. I much prefer boys with—how should I put it—catlike eyes, silver spectacles, and long fingers perfect for turning dusty pages…” She clasped her hands together in mock adoration, and her friends erupted in giggles.

“What the hell was that? Sounds like a cheesy love poem.”

You had frozen stiff as soon as she had uttered the words, stunned eyes finding Hana’s only a couple feet away. She gave you a winning smile—the same one you’d deemed friendly just a couple days ago—and winked.

“Give me my book back.”

You pulled her aside after the last bell had rung, voice shaking. Hana only tilted her head innocently, eyes round as a puppy’s. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Before you could spit a biting retort back at her, the taller cheerleader tapped her chin thoughtfully with one bejewelled nail. “But I might think harder if...I got a little something in return.”

You grit your teeth. “What do you want?”

“Make your librarian boy come to Hwang Hyunjin’s party as my date,” Hana beamed, “and tell the office you want to change your locker.”

“You’re crazy,” you blurted, and her face immediately darkened. Dropping her voice, she leaned in closer, until her voice was right beside your ear.

“Oh, I can be even crazier. What would happen if I made copies of this little letter on Monday, hm? Or published it in the school paper for everyone to read? I’m sure Han Jisung would love that—”

Your eyes trailed down to the slip of paper she’d pulled out of her purse, the sight of your own familiar handwriting making panic surge through your veins like ice. Snatching it from her hand, you quickly began tearing it apart before noticing the calm smirk on Hana’s face.

“Photocopy, silly,” she giggled in a sing-song voice as you peered more closely at the shredded pieces, hands shaking. “Oh, all right, don’t cry. If you want the original so badly…” she leaned in again, cruel smile on her lips. “Then you might want to look in the library.”

Eyes widening, you immediately pushed her away and bolted for the stairs. “Don’t forget the deal! Thursday night,” Hana called after you, and you broke into a run.

Most of the classrooms were already empty, their dark windows reflecting your own face back at you as you hurtled past them. Your heart pounded in your chest as the library finally came into view at the end of the hallway, but you nearly came to a screeching halt when you saw that the lights had been turned off. Had Minho gone home early? Chewing your lip anxiously, you peered past the plexiglass. Aisles empty, books all shelved neatly, chairs stacked. The library was quiet as a tomb. Desperately, you tried the knob—and to your surprise, the door creaked open. Maybe he forgot to lock it. You had nothing to lose. Holding your breath, you slipped in.

Even the faint click of the door closing again sounded deafening. You rifled through the front desk first, dropping to a crouch as you inspected the carts and borrowing-bin. To your dismay, they were all empty—they must have all been re-shelved already. Heart sinking, you began tip-toeing through the shelves, fingers trembling as they ran over the laminated Dewey Decimal labels. Please, please, please…

You reached the poetry section at the back of the library, eyes squinting to try and read the spines of the books under shrouds of shadows. Poets— Nash. Naidu. Nemerov…

“Neruda,” you gasped, eyes falling on the book you had practically gone through hell searching for. 100 Love Sonnets. Almost sobbing in sheer relief, you reached out to grab it—just as another hand shot out from beside you. Your yelp of surprise broke the still, dim quiet, and you didn’t have to look up to know who the warm, pale fingers belonged to.

“Care to explain what you’re doing here?”

Spectacles glinting under the twilight, one hand in his pocket, nonchalant as ever, was the boy that had gotten you into this mess. Lee Minho.

As you stared back at him, mouth slightly agape, you felt as though your entire world was balancing precariously over a yawning abyss— as if one wrong move would send everything you’d spent the last two months—no, the last four years—repatching. You swallowed hard. His hand had landed a split-second later than yours, holding both you and the book in place, and you tried to ignore the feeling of his warm fingers on your chilled skin. Forcefully, you yanked the book from the shelves and out of his grasp. “The—book. I-I realised I still needed it for the project. It’s due this Friday, you know.”

He raised his eyebrows, unconvinced. “Today’s only Wednesday. Why not come back tomorrow morning?”

Shit. “I, um, promised Lia I’d go with her to the game tomorrow,” you fibbed, flipping through the book quickly, ready to grab any stray piece of paper that flew out. Nothing. “So I—need to finish the assignment today. Could you renew it for me?” Trying to plaster on an unbothered smile, you flipped through the book again. Still nothing. Had Hana lied to you?

In your peripheral, you saw Minho slowly shift his weight, crossing his arms as he mused, “Well, I’m not too sure about that. We’re getting...careful about letting students borrow books for too long. People tend to leave some...strange things in them.”

Your eyes snapped up, fingers freezing on the fluttering pages. “What—then did you—see anything? S-strange, I mean.”

A flicker of amusement passed through Minho’s eyes, and then it was gone. He cleared his throat, humming thoughtfully. “Why? Do you have something in mind?”

The strange intensity of his gaze seemed to corner you into the shadows, and you swore your heart was pounding so hard it seemed to echo through the room. “Nothing,” you stammered, throwing your hands up in exasperation, “I mean, I just—accidentally left—” Kill me now. You shook your head rapidly. “N-nevermind. I’m heading home.”

“Y/N—”

“Oh, one more thing.” You turned, remembering Hana’s sly words to you back in the stairwell. “You’re invited to Hwang Hyunjin’s party, after the game on Thursday.” Then, hoping you sounded more convincing than you felt, “Hana’s really counting on you to be her date.”

Minho chuckled. “You know I go to parties as often as you do.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no malice in his words, only that same, airy indifference Minho always carried himself with. “Please? Hana—I mean, it would make her really happy if you went.”

“Would you be happy?”

The strange question caught you off guard, making you look up again. Minho was no longer smiling. His hand was still resting lightly over the missing space the book had left on the shelf, and his expression looked strangely lost under the twilit sky.

“Would it make you happy if I went?” He repeated, and you felt your mouth go dry.

Make your librarian boy come to Hwang Hyunjin’s party, and I won’t publish your little love letter for everyone to see on Monday. You nodded firmly, laughing in an attempt to ease the strange atmosphere that had settled over the two of you once again. “Y-yeah. Ecstatic.”

You turned on your heel, breath leaving your lips in a shaky sigh. If the poem wasn’t in the book, where on earth could it be? Option one: It had fallen out somewhere along the way, and hadn’t fallen into anyone’s hands. The best case scenario. Option two: Hana had been playing with you again, and she had had the original all along. Option three…

“By the way, Hana told me not to give this to you.”

You whirled around in surprise, and your eyes landed on a horribly familiar piece of notebook paper dangling from Minho’s fingers. Option three, damn it all. Mortified, you snatched it from his hand, crumpling it into your fist as he laughed lightly.

“It’s a very good poem.”

“Shut up, Lee Minho,” you wailed, wishing the ground would just swallow you up and bury you six feet under for all of eternity. “It’s a cheesy, cliché wreck.”

He hummed in amusement. “What were you writing about?”

Paralyzed, your eyes flickered towards the window before sputtering, “The—sunset. Figurative approach, you know? Emily Dickinson-inspired—”

“Mm. Then what was that quote about—” He tilted his head in thought, fingers snapping. “Catlike eyes, silver spectacles, and long—” He stopped when you plugged your ears instinctively, eyes glowering at him in disbelief. If looks could kill, Minho was sure he’d now have died more times than the characters in a Shakespearean tragedy. “—was that about the sunset, too?”

“Of course,” you snapped, your voice a tad too pitchy for your liking. Damn Lee Minho and his knack for memorizing things. “Haven’t you ever heard of extended metaphors? Rest assured, Lee Minho—I will never, ever, ever—have feelings for you.” You crumpled the sheet of poetry into a ball as you spoke with a note of finality, jamming it into your back pocket for good riddance.

Minho looked unfazed, the light curve of a knowing smile playing on his lips. After a moment, he took a step towards you, making you stumble back in alarm. “‘You can cut all the flowers,” he mused, glancing down at the crumpled love letter, “‘but you cannot stop spring from coming.’”

“Wh-wha—”

“Neruda quote. Tell me if I’m making you uncomfortable, and I’ll stop,” he murmured, eyes growing serious for a moment before his lips twitched with mirth, “but something tells me I deserve to hear more about that sunset from your poem.”

Gulping, you felt hot tears brimming in your eyes, and suddenly wished you were anywhere but here. This confrontation had been your worst nightmare, what you had always wanted to avoid. Your pride’ll be the end of you, y/n, you remembered Lia remarking when you’d sworn up and down that your feelings for Lee Minho were a thing of the past. And it was true—your pride had always gotten the better of you. You were a hypocrite, and a terrible one at that—always telling yourself you had gotten over that stupid, ninth-grade heartbreak, before unravelling into a nervous mess whenever Minho so much as threw a glance at you. And now, you could feel everything you’d feebly repressed for the last four years caving in. Crashing down on you like an avalanche of cheap supermarket chocolates.

“It was about you. You, alright?” You hissed, voice coming out more wounded, rather than venomous like you’d intended. “There. Are you happy now?” You were glad the shadows hid the humiliated tears beginning to roll down your cheeks, and wiped at your eyes furiously. Damn it all. So much for not crying.

“Then why didn’t you—”

“Say anything?” You breathed a short laugh. “Because I didn’t want to see you just throw it out again, okay?”

The silence that met your words was deafening, and when you finally mustered the courage to lift your gaze you saw that Minho’s look of disbelief mirrored your own.

“'Again?'”

Damn Lee Minho and his two-faced ass. Had he already forgotten? “In ninth grade. I left you a—stupid love letter in your locker, with all your other Valentines. Then I s-saw you throwing them all out, behind the school.”

“But I read every name on the cards,” Minho insisted, running a hand through his tousled hair. I left you—a stupid love letter in your locker. Your words sent his head spinning, and he felt his flustered cheeks heat up as he mumbled, “I’ve never—seen yours on any of them.”

Now it was your turn to blink in confusion. Minho’s brow furrowed in vague recollection. “But I did see Hana pulling an envelope out from my locker that day. She said that—she’d heard someone had been sending chain mail on Valentine’s Day, so she was helping the principal clean them up from people’s lockers.”

Hana? Your mind flashed to the missing locks, and the cheerleader that always seemed to be hanging around your locker, and suddenly everything dawned on you. “What did the envelope look like?”

“A corner store card. With—”

“Candy hearts. Right.” You muttered, watching Minho nod slowly. Your anger faltered slightly, feeling a slight shame wash over you, but you weren’t willing to give up just yet. “That still doesn’t explain why you dump out all the gifts you get every year.”

He sighed. “Look. Why would I keep love letters from people I don’t like? That’s just...narcissistic. And I don’t...like chocolate, either,” he added as an afterthought, and you couldn’t help exhaling a short laugh at his ridiculously blunt sentence. Another silence fell between the two of you, the angry tension in the air replaced with an almost childish awkwardness.

“I really did like the poem,” Minho spoke tentatively after what felt like an eternity, and you buried your head in your hands.

“Shut up, Lee Minho, oh my g—”

“And I wouldn’t have thrown it out.” The soft edge to his voice made you stop, peeking out of your fingers to look at him questioningly.

“Why not?” You asked, swallowing hard. “You said keeping letters from someone you don’t like would be narcissistic.”

He was barely a foot away, and the sheer proximity of his face from yours made your stomach flop—with irritation or butterflies, you weren’t sure you wanted to find out. Nonetheless, a tiny voice at the back of your head told you that you were heading towards the latter.

“You know, for someone who reads so many books, you sure are dense,” Minho murmured, shaking his head.

“Wh—”

“I throw out all my Valentines every year because I never see your name on them, alright?” His expression was as careless as ever—that cool, calm facade he wore like a suit of armour—but you didn’t miss the slight tremor in his voice, the flicker of apprehension in his eyes. Lee Minho, you realized with a jolt, was nervous. “I...only ever wanted to receive one from you.”

Your eyes widened, hands lowering from your face in shock. The book tumbled from under your arm to the ground. “But—Hana always told me about how much you hated me.”

“Hmm.” He dropped down to pick it up before fixing his piercing eyes on yours. “Funny. She’s been telling me the same about you. How you’re a two-faced, back-stabbing...such-and-such,” he smiled at the indignant look on your face before his face grew serious. “You’ve always let people walk all over you, and you never retaliate. It’s both admirable and frustrating to watch.”

“I’m not good at confrontation,” you mumbled, still shifting your weight from one leg to the other nervously. “Every time I think I’ve finally got the guts to try and say something back, I...I get all terrified that the words’ll jumble up and I-I’ll start to cry like an idiot again—”

“You’re not an idiot,” he interrupted sternly, “You’re probably more clever—and genuine—than everyone in our grade combined. Your thesis was brilliant.”

You snorted incredulously. “Then why did you keep attacking it every class?”

“It was the only time I could get you to talk to me.”

“Weirdo,” you muttered, but you couldn’t find it in you to make the word sound insulting anymore. Minho chuckled, hand grazing yours as he handed the book back to you. You didn’t move your hand away, and neither did he.

“It is weird. I must be out of my mind. Whenever you look at me, it’s like the whole world stops, and suddenly every cheesy line of poetry I’ve ever read just seems to make sense.”

Your heart was pounding so hard you were more than certain Minho could hear it. The way he was looking at you was nearly overwhelming, stomach fluttering with a feeling so strange and foreign it terrified you. Never in your wildest dreams had you thought that you would be here, in this delicate, unreal moment, and you felt all your insecurities threatening to swallow you up again. Out of everyone in the school, he likes you? A voice snickered at the back of your mind. Don’t kid yourself.

Shrinking away, you mumbled, “Y-you—don’t have to say stuff like that, you know. I mean, i-if you feel bad because of the letter and everything, you don’t have to pretend you lik—”

There was a flash of an exasperated smile on Minho’s lips. Before you could finish, his hand reached to pull your chin towards him again, and suddenly his mouth was pressed flush to yours. You froze, lips parting in surprise, but the kiss was light—barely even a brush of soft skin, and bringing with it the faint scent of vanilla and old books. Minho pulled away almost as quickly as he’d pulled you in, stammering, “I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

That seemed to send what was left of your hesitation crumbling into dust. You grabbed the collar of his dress shirt to pull him back in, and the library fell silent again.

Minho kissed the way he talked—soft but firm, and always leaving you struggling to catch your breath. Each touch had the growing intensity of something long overdue, starting out careful—as though you were treading over the newly shattered, four-year-old misunderstandings of one another—before your hands instinctively tangled in his hair and Minho pulled you in impossibly closer. You could feel his heartbeat pressed against yours, the crumpled poem and Neruda’s sonnets long forgotten on the carpeted ground.

The click of the library door opening sent the two of you flying apart, Minho hitting his head on the shelf with a comical thud. The kiss left you dazed and out of breath, and Minho’s face was flushed as both of you whipped around to see a livid Hana at the front of the library. Mouth opening and closing in silent fury, she shot you a death glare before storming out the door, leaving both you and Minho blinking after her.

Several moments passed, the whiplash of the unexpected interruption having sent both of your heads reeling. Then, the two of you broke into stunned laughter, slowly sliding down to the carpet as you doubled over in giggles.

When you finally stopped laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, Minho’s gaze was fixed fondly on your face. You poked his cheek. “You’re blushing, asshole.”

He didn’t respond, eyes falling to your lips again, and you felt your own face flush. “W-what?”

Minho grinned. “And you have drool on your chin again.”

“Hey, Minho! Minho, you won’t believe this!”

That enthusiastic voice belonged to none other than Han Jisung—voice of Levanter High’s morning announcements, and notorious school gossip. He hurtled down the bustling hall towards you and Minho, hunching over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

“Shit, ‘sung—did you kill somebody?”

The dark-haired boy shook his head rapidly. “Did you see the school newspaper?”

Your mouth went dry, Hana’s lingering threats still ringing clear in your ears. Jisung continued excitedly, “Two people submitted anonymous love poems over the weekend—at the same time! Can you believe it? I’m supposed to cover it on the announcements in a bit!”

Two? You peered at Minho, who hadn’t looked at you, and glimpsed a knowing glint in his eyes. “W-who submitted them?”

“Well, Lee Hana was handing out copies of the first one to everyone first thing this morning. But when I showed her the other one, she refused to tell me who the first belonged to.” He pouted.

Minho looked like he was trying hard not to laugh. “Do you have a copy of the paper, ‘sung?”

The dark-haired boy grinned. “Yeah, ‘course! You guys can have mine. See ya!”

As Jisung disappeared into the crowd of students, you turned back to Minho. He had been in the middle of putting a new lock on your locker, and was now setting the combination on his own. “They’re matching,” he’d pointed out when you’d gone into town together to buy them, and you’d groaned.

“Gro-oss.” The old, PDA-hating you would have probably thrown them away on the spot, but now the sight made you smile like a dork. If you can’t beat em, join ‘em.

You looked down to read the papers Jisung had deposited into your hands. Sure enough, on the left column, you spotted a photocopy of your own love letter. But on the right, there was a completely new one—and you had a sneaking suspicion you knew who the anonymous writer was.

“You know, Minho,” you deadpanned, “I don’t think either of us are cut out to be poets.”

“I stayed up all night writing that love letter, you know!” Minho exclaimed indignantly, and you just shook your head laughing. “But you’re right. I could feel Neruda turning in his grave.”

“You’re going to be the end of me, Lee Minho.”

His face broke into a mischievous grin at that, pinning you playfully to the lockers and stealing another kiss as you yelped in surprise.

“Can it be a happy ending?”

#this took way longer than ryu anticipated #ryu is nervous and hopes you enjoy ㅠㅠ #part of this was just ryu being a self-indulgent english nerd too #also-new format! #tumblr's new update whoo #stray kids #stray kids au #stray kids soft #stray kids boyfriend #skz #stray kids imagines #stray kids fluff #stray kids minho #lee minho #lee know #stray kids angst #lee know boyfriend #bang chan #hwang hyunjin #lee felix #kim seungmin #yang jeongin #seo changbin #han jisung #skz as high school lovers

[polarisbibliotheque]

Dante & Vergil finally having a relaxing bathtub time with their s/o

Because everyone needs to wind down every once in a while.

Pairings: Dante x Reader; Vergil x Reader

Summary: Everyone needs relaxing. In the Sparda household, that is done through baths with trusted lovers

Author's notes: I think I'm always going to put some poem reciting on Vergil's stuff. I am so sorry. But he cannot get away from it anymore - as Dante can't get away from chatting with his s/o while chilling on his big office chair.

And there's no NSFW in it. I know, weird.

Also, do check Pablo Neruda's work. He is one of my favourite poets after watching "Il Postino", a 1994 movie "about" him, at school - and do watch the movie. It's poetry in images

Age Restrictions: Well, they are taking baths together, naked - so reader's discretion advised. Although there's nothing overtly sexual (forgive my ace ass), Vergil's one can be a little more... Tempting.

Dante

“You look horribly tense.”

You observed Dante as he entered the Devil May Cry – disheveled, sprinkled with blood and a few more cuts on his shirt than he’d have planned. Yet another that you’d have to sew into place until you convinced him to buy another one.

Because since he was young, Dante had the “if I don’t have shirts, I’ll just walk around shirtless then” mindset. Not that it bothered you, but it surely wasn’t a very acceptable dress code everywhere.

“Not more than the everyday amount.” He winked back at you, slumping on his chair with a deep sigh.

“I bet an electrical bill that your shoulders are rock solid.” You approached the man, who just leaned his elbows on his desk and kept looking at you from under his ruffled white hair.

“You know I have rotten luck with bets.” Dante closed his eyes, his usual smile too tired to make an appearance.

“I’d say you have a rotten luck with everything except fighting, but I don’t want to be too cruel with you today.” You managed to make him chuckle with your words as you laid both of your hands on his shoulders.

And it seemed like grabbing two sets of bricks.

“Jeez, Dante, you gonna die with all this tension.” Your comment was more of a surprised whisper: it was worse than you thought. Not that you weren’t used to massaging him all over because of sore muscles after intense fights – and the reciprocate was true – but it seemed like all the tension he had accumulated from the last few weeks decided to make an appearance that day.

“I know, babe… I’m really tired today.” He lowered his head, massaging his own neck a bit. You furrowed your brows – that behavior was rare and so out of character on your red devil. “This last month has been really tense… There were some old foes of my father back, they kept sayin’ all those things about my family and my mom… Sometimes, they hit us hard.” Dante raised his head again, looking at you with a faint smile. His sky-blue eyes, though, carried sadness instead of the usual energy. A bittersweet demeanor, as Dante would always wear when his strength was low, but he didn’t want you to care about it too much. “But I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about lil’ ol’ me.”

“I always worry about lil’ ol’ you.” You wrapped one of your arms around his shoulders, forcing him to slide a little with his chair so you cold sit on his nearest thigh. Dante couldn’t hold back a smile filled with care. “That’s what being a partner means, cowboy. I’m here for the good and the bad times, no less. Although, I can accept more.”

“I guess we can all accept more, huh, partner?” He forced an old western movie type of accent, making you laugh as Dante wrapped your waist with one of his arms, using his other hand to hold one of your thighs and properly putting both of your legs across his – Dante’s thigh being the best chair in the office. Not that you had much choice when the only chair was taken by him on a regular basis. “I just don’t want ya to get as tense as I am. One worried devil around the shop is enough.”

“Technically, I’m not a devil. Even if I’m worried, you’d be the only one to fit that category.” You argued, making him roll his eyes while laughing. It wasn’t his usual hearty laugh, but it was a good one to listen. Dante’s voice would always be the best kind of song to your ears. “Plus, carrying the weight of constantly saving humanity is too heavy of a burden to carry on your own. No wonder your shoulders feel like I can throw Cavaliere at you and you won’t even feel it.”

“Oh, I’d actually like to see you doin’ that! When are you goin’ to let me train you?” His hand unconsciously drew patterns on the thigh he was holding to keep you in place. “Gotta say, you’ll look hella sexy driving Cavaliere around and kickin’ some…”

“Demon ass!” You both said together, mimicking Nico’s accent. That made Dante break in a more cheerful laugh, resting his forehead on yours.

“Well, you can always teach me. I can’t assure you I’ll be strong enough to wave a full-ass motorcycle around, though.” You had a few giggles in your voice still, closing your eyes as you felt his breath calming down on your face.

“You kiddin’? If I train you enough, you’ll be able to throw me at demons.” Although his voice was lower, Dante’s usual playful tone was still there, slowly coming back to his heart. You always brought his heart back – it was your most beautiful power, in his opinion. No demon could ever do that.

“Neat. I’ll just go ‘Dante, arm!’ when I feel like it and hold it to throw you at demons. It would be epic. ‘Want a piece of Sparda, you clowns? Well then, catch THIS!’” As you spoke, Dante himself closed his eyes, hugging you tighter and laughing while imagining that scene. “I think Nero would be jealous.”

“He’d want to try it out with Verge. Only he wouldn’t give his ol’ man a heads up.” With his own phrase, Dante laughed even more, imagining how Vergil would be mortified with that. “That would be a sight to see!”

“We gotta train it, now. You’ll be my biggest weapon, Dante.” You took some distance from him, to look at his eyes again. The skies were getting a little bit clearer, adoration now mixing with the sadness. You ran your fingers through his blood sprinkled hair, something Dante loved with all his heart. “A huge weapon that needs a bath, by the way.”

“Ah, I’m gonna take a quick shower. That water bill…”

“Don’t worry, it’s already on the budget. We’re taking a bath today, red devil.”

Dante looked back at you, interested. He wasn’t expecting you to use “we”.

“Do you prefer jasmine or orange blossom?” Your head appeared through the bathroom door as Dante took his clothes off and left on a designated place on the floor – currently shirtless as you decided to ask.

“Well, I prefer you.” His answer was laced with a serene smile while his clothes met the floor.

“Very funny, you goof.” You weren’t pleased with the reply, but not exactly surprised. It was classic Dante at his finest. “I want to choose a scent you like.”

“If it’s the ones you use, I like all scents, honey.” Dante stretched out his arms, cracking his neck in the process. It seemed like his muscles were made of marble. “Make me a surprise.”

“You know, one day, you’ll have to get used to the idea of choosing stuff you like, not just accepting what life throws at you.” You were almost as grumpy as an old lady and, for some reason, Dante found that adorable.

But he knew you were right. Dante was too used to just accept things and never ask for more – he barely had an idea on how to choose what he actually wanted. Yes, you were just talking about bath scents, but he’d always be happy with whatever. Life wasn’t too keen on being nice to him, so Dante figured, at some point, that if he couldn’t fight it, at least he wouldn’t stress about it.

That’s why he was so good at being versatile during fights: he’d see what his enemies would do and adapt – that way, if something went wrong, he’d wing it instead of panicking. It had worked pretty well so far.

“So… Is the bath ready? Do I have permission to enter the premises, sheriff?” It was turn for his head to appear through the bathroom’s door, observing you, wrapped around your towel, testing the water with your hand.

“Permission granted, cowboy. Bath is ready and you’re sinkin’ in there until further notice.” You smiled back, sniffing your hand. It was better than you expected.

“What scent you opted for, babe?” And as he entered the bathroom you only observe how Dante could be so comfortable wandering around the way he was born into this world. It was an ability you truly envied, honestly.

“Both.” Your smile was certainly annoyed, and Dante couldn’t hold back his laughter.

“Well, it counts as a surprise! I wasn’t expecting that!” As he sank into the warm water filled with bubbles, you heard a soothed sigh from him. Who would’ve know the Legendary Devil Hunter just needed a good bubbling bath every once in a while to wind down? That made you smile contently. “Are you just goin’ to watch me or are you comin’ in, babe? I can always seduce you, ya know…”

“Oh…” And Dante started wiggling his eyebrows dramatically, performing the campiest sexy pose you had ever seen. And that was saying a lot – he had a weak spot for doing that from time to time. You held his hand on place by the side of the tub before he could continue. “Please don’t.”

Dante chuckled a little while you made sure your hair wouldn’t get wet. He always enjoyed watching you – there was something so ordinary on it, so human, that made him feel almost as if he wasn’t who he was. Almost as if he didn’t have demon blood in his veins, and all that mess going on in his family and his life in general. For a while, watching you, Dante could live a perfectly human life – even if it was for a few eternal seconds.

“Do you want me to go in or do you want me to just stay here with you?” Your question woke him up from his thoughts, though, making Dante tilt his head a bit, still processing it. “You need to start choosing and knowing what you want, cowboy.” You sat by the edge of the tub, playing mindlessly with the water. “Might as well start with me – I won’t get mad at any of the answers. Both work fine for me and I have all the time in the world.”

“Oh…” And there it was: your marvelous ability of leaving Dante speechless. That was quite a feat, and you could always do it masterfully. Vergil adored you for that. “Hmmm. I’d rather have you here with me, y/n.” Even though his words were certain, his eyes weren’t – as if Dante was asking you to stay. “Is that ok for you?”

“Of course.” As you smiled back, he watched as your towel was put aside and held your hands while you made your way into the bathtub. “I’ve already said it’s ok, both options.”

“Hey, it’s all brand-new for me, don’t shoot the apprentice.” Dante chuckled back, holding your hands so you wouldn’t risk getting hurt while getting comfortable in the water with him.

“I’m not shooting, just stating. You gonna learn how to put yourself first for good or for bad now.” And it always amazed him how you could threaten anyone so casually – you and Vergil were quite a pair in that department.

“Or else you gonna throw me at demons. I know, I know.” He raised his hands as if you had him at gunpoint, while you were only leaning against him and resting your head on his shoulder amidst giggles. “Comfy, lil’ angel?”

“That’s a given when I’m with you.” It sounded like one of your playful answers, but your voice was serious and serene, having your eyes closed as if you were ready to fall asleep in his arms.

And indeed, both of you could fall asleep like that. Dante observed while the sun tinged the sky with the last rays of rosé orange, before giving in to the darkest of blues. A few birds chirped outside, sometimes flying by the window in golden silhouettes. There wasn’t any other sound in the streets – every once in a while, a few people walked by, chatting words you both were too far to understand.

It was a kind of peace Dante wasn’t used to. He wrapped one of his arms around your waist, using his free hand to play with yours. You let yourself get lost on his touch, enjoying that peaceful afternoon while feeling his heartbeat calmly against your back – something so rare at the Devil May Cry.

“Hmmm.” You turned your head at him, kissing Dante’s neck to get his attention. He looked down at you – a serene expression, without his usual smile. It was so different, but as beautiful as he would always look. “I can always massage that bag of bricks you’re carrying in your back. You just have to ask.”

“If it’s that bad, you might need a hammer, babe.” And his smile was faint, but it couldn’t refrain from making an appearance. You didn’t want to, but nevertheless ended up chuckling with his words, planting another kiss on his neck. “Sure you can handle it?”

“Oh, yes. I’m on a mission now.” You kissed him one last time, sitting up straight so you could properly turn to look at him. “C’mon. Time to change positions.”

“It’s easy for ya, lil’ thing! Have you seen my size?!” Dante pointed at himself while still holding one of your hands, making you laugh more than you expected.

“I can try like this, but knowing us, we’ll end up with the ‘bathtub make-up time’ from A Star is Born then properly working on relaxing you!” As you answered, Dante raised one of his eyebrows, pulling your hand towards him.

“If you wanted to, I wouldn’t complain about it.” He shrugged, kissing your fingers tenderly, taking his time. You had nowhere to be and no reason to rush.

“Turn around, cowboy. First, we’re getting rid of those tense shoulders. Then, we’re getting to the make-up.” You watched as he continued kissing every spot in your hand, slowly trailing up to your wrist.

“My, my, you’re bossy!” And even though it seemed like Dante was complaining, he had a smile on his face that showed his enjoyment. He’d never complain about you trying to take care of him.

And soon enough you had Dante’s shoulders in your hands, his back exposed for you to work on. He knew he didn’t have to speak or keep small talk around you – interestingly enough, you were always comfortable around him not to need any words. That was also a new world to the Crimson Slayer – not used to have people comfortable near him.

As your hands glided through his back, breaking the tension on his stony muscles, Dante found himself slouching – closing his eyes and taking a deep breath; allowing himself to enjoy the moment. It was nice not being called names, not being treated harshly, not being in the middle of a fight, not being strong all the time… Being human, for a change.

Dante knew kindness was human’s superpower, but he was never one to experience it first-hand in a regular basis. He usually knew it by proxy – in your hands, though, there was nothing but kindness. Dante had a theory he was relaxing not by your abilities in massaging, but by having you take care of his heart so carefully.

“You know… I never really thought I’d have this.” He suddenly said quietly, a faint smile on his voice as his eyes remained closed. You kneeled behind him just so you could reach his shoulders better, working gradually on the knots in his neck. “I mean… I’d wish for it, sure. But it always felt like one of those Disney movies wishful thinkin’, ya know? The ones we pray for a star at night and hope no one’s around to listen.” You’d always let him talk, without saying a word. It was so rare to have Dante really open up about his feelings – so you’d let him speak until the moment was gone. “I know huntin’ demons isn’t easy… And I know it isn’t easy not knowing if I’ll be back or stuck in Hell. Again.” Dante’s head turned slightly back, while you left out a chuckle. That was a classic, honestly. “But I’m glad to have you around; for as long as you want to stay. Thank you, y/n.”

Your answer took a little time to form words, so you seized it to embrace your red devil, pressing your chest so tight against his back and resting your hands over his heart. Dante would be taken aback if he didn’t long for that kind of affection. With a comfortable smile coloring his lips, he took your hands on his, cradling them as much as he could, trying to look back at you. It was in vain, though: your face was peacefully rested on his shoulder, while you kept your eyes closed and enjoyed your time with the Crimson Slayer.

“I’ll stay forever, if you’ll have me.” Your voice was nothing but a whisper in that late afternoon, not giving Dante the chance to say he’d have you forever. “For there is no harshness in this or in another world worst than being without you. I love you so much, Dante – and I hope someday you’ll understand that. You saved me in all manners a person can be saved. This is a dream for me too.”

“You kinda sound like Verge sometimes, ya know.” He mumbled, making you snort briefly in his back. Dante laughed as well, playing with your fingers while one of your hands remained in his heart. “Also, isn’t that saving thing from Titanic…?”

“Oh my. I wasn’t expecting you’d know Rose’s lines by heart.” You quipped back playfully; internally grateful he couldn’t see how much you were blushing. If Dante was the Crimson Slayer, at that moment you’d certainly be the Crimson Apple. “Here was I, thinking I’d be seen as originally poetic.”

“You kiddin’ me? You know how many times Titanic has aired? It saved my boring nights!” He laughed quickly, suddenly pulling your hands while moving swiftly. When you noticed what happened, Dante found a way to turn slightly around so you’d find yourself in his arms, as if he wanted to carry you bridal style. Dante kept your head above water by having one of his arms on your back, while the other wrapped around your waist, keeping you close. Your hands were lost in his chest, in his heart. “I do think you’re poetic though. More than you give yourself credit for, angel.”

“Well, then you know where my heart is. And It’ll never refrain from giving you all the kindness in the world, as much as you need.” You placed your hand briefly in his face before pulling Dante for a kiss.

His heart would be glowing in golden knowing there was no time, no chores, no demons to kill – only you, him and the bathtub. Dante could cherish you as much as he wanted and that kiss could last forever, if he meant to. You were uncharacteristically vulnerable in his arms, completely disarmed by the Crimson Slayer – and he knew he was the only person you’d allow yourself to be like that around.

Life was never kind to both of you – but you could be kind to each other. And that was enough.

Vergil

The oncoming storm.

Vergil found it amusing that you used to call him like that when he wasn’t in the best of tempers, but you could look like a lingering chaos when wrathful feelings stirred in the depths of the ocean that was your heart.

His cunning eyes followed you as your presence made itself known back in the room. He was sitting by his favorite dark blue armchair, reading one more of his occult books – Vergil would never cease to search power, but now for different reasons than before – as your brooding form entered while carrying the Yamato. By the look in your eyes, it wasn’t the best of hunting days – and that he could understand beautifully.

You looked like the most perfect oncoming storm.

“I take your hunt was not just a simple job as it seemed when you left.” His voice echoed in the room while you left the Yamato on its designated place to keep it safe. You only looked back at your lover, more unsatisfied with the circumstances than with his comment. “If you feel like talking about it, do so. I’m not busy.”

He looked busy, though – and Vergil could read that thought in your eyes. As soon as he did, he carefully closed the book and left it on the desk by his side, taking a cup of warm tea while waiting for you to say something. You knew it was his way of saying he had time to listen to you – that you were more important than a book.

It was always like that between you two. You wouldn’t ask what was wrong, but you’d make yourselves perfectly available to listen to each other’s troubles. That way, sharing your feelings didn’t seem so scary or vulnerable – it seemed more like an objective therapy with someone who would never judge or run away from your words. It was the way you and Vergil found to become used to talking about the deepest emotions stirring in your hearts.

“It was much worse than we thought. I wasn’t ready for it.” You sighed, tiredly rubbing your neck while walking towards the closet. You needed to unwind, or you’d fall flat from stress. “Note that the demon wasn’t stronger. Last week has been terribly overwhelming and I thought a quick, easy job would blow off some steam. Turns out, this wasn’t a quick and easy job.”

“Hmmm… You underestimated it.” Vergil’s voice analyzed quietly while you confirmed with a gesture and proceeded to find your pajamas. “Sometimes, slicing demons is exactly what we need to get some adrenaline out of our system and get back to our focus…” As he spoke, Vergil got up from the chair and made his way to the closet, towering behind you as you chose your comfortable clothing. “Some other times, what we need is a little more delicate than that.”

“Delicate? That’s a choice of words I wasn’t expecting, honestly.” You furrowed your brows and, before you could take anything from the closet, Vergil placed a careful and loving kiss on the top of your head. That made you stop whatever you were doing, failing to understand his intentions.

“I know. We’re not ones to expect love and care, are we…?” He whispered in the slightly cold air of the night, intertwining his fingers with yours. “Come. The water of a bath can melt the tension in your body, love. This time, it will be better than slaying demons.”

You closed your eyes, smiling with a sigh. Vergil wasn’t one to show a softer side – but he always did when it was about taking care of the ones he loved, even if he wasn’t keen on admitting it.

“You know… You prepare the best baths.”

You were leaning by the door, resting your head on it, while watching Vergil working. As per his instructions, both of you were already covered only by silky bath robes, waiting for the water to get warm and the bath filled with bubbles.

“It’s not a difficult science.” He noted back – and even though it was a chastising comment, Vergil didn’t have a harsh expression. Au contraire, he kept on testing the water with his hand, focused on making it as bubbly as possible. He knew you loved it.

“No, but it is rare to find someone well versed in it.” You wanted to compliment him, and that man was usually so difficult to accept praises that didn’t surround his power. Vergil wasn’t one to see many qualities in himself, apart from his demonic heritage.

Taking him by surprise, your arms enveloped him from behind, while Vergil kept sitting by the bathtub. You felt him tense a few seconds before relaxing into your touch, melting like snow in the first rays of spring. One of his hands met yours, while the other worked in the water – he never wanted to show how much he cherished those displays of care towards him.

“It is because I have someone who enjoys it greatly.” His words weren’t more than a whisper, as his fingers entangled with yours and Vergil raised your hand to place a slow and gentle kiss in its back. “Now we should get to it before the water turns cold.”

You’d note it would take a while for the water to turn cold, but it was just Vergil’s way to ask you to get into the bathtub. He helped you take off your robe, setting it aside alongside his, and made sure you’d get into the water without any accidents. Soon enough, you were submerged between Vergil’s arms, your head resting on his shoulders.

“Comfortable?”

“Hmmm.” You mostly confirmed with your head, a faint smile coloring your lips. Vergil couldn’t help himself from mirroring your expression. “Which scent is this? The water is marvelous.”

“White roses.” His answer was simple and velvety in the quietness of the bathroom, making your smile wider. Vergil once told you about white roses being used by brides over time for its meaning of serenity, innocence and eternity – qualities he always saw in you.

You’d beg to differ, especially on topics like serenity and innocence – although, for a half-devil who spent a great part of his life stuck in the horrors of Hell, even someone like you could be an angel.

“You were reading about occultism again?”

“Hmmm. There are a few new things I need to grasp on energy work.” His answer was pensive, while you cherished the feeling of Vergil’s hand mindlessly drawing patterns on your thigh. “Although most of them is just new age foolishness.”

You tried not to laugh. Your eyes remained closed while your lips shrunk in a straight line, containing how much you found that endearing. Little did you know your lover stared at you with one raised eyebrow, ever so ready to scold you.

“At least someone finds that amusing.” As soon as his brooding voice echoed in your ears, you couldn’t hold your laughter any longer.

“The ‘new age foolishness’ is already absurdly annoying to me.” You finally opened your eyes, meeting his silvery gaze. Although, this time, Vergil watched you with amusement and care. “I can only imagine how much it vexes you.”

“Beyond description of any words.” His gaze turned into a playful sort of annoyed expression, sighing right after. “Through me you enter into the city of woes, through me you enter into eternal pain, through me you enter the population of loss. Abandon all hope, you who enter here.”

“Ah, yes. Alighieri clearly thought of new age’s take on occultism when describing Hell. It’s all a metaphor.” You couldn’t keep yourself from chuckling. Vergil wasn’t one to be playful, but he was one to be dramatic. And it amused you greatly how often those traits overlapped.

“Trust me. I do know a few books that certainly would belong into the freezing confinements of the 9th circle.” He rolled his eyes, making you laugh briefly and plant a kiss in his jaw. Vergil looked back at you, raising one eyebrow – but this time as a question.

“Well. You do warm my heart whenever you complain about modern stuff using your classic literature knowledge. You only get yourself to blame for unexpected kisses.” You smiled back, taking him by surprise with another kiss on his neck. Little did you know Vergil did his best not to blush with how much his heart was racing. “Actually, your literature knowledge in general should be blamed for my kisses.”

“Then I wonder what the result of a recital would be while I work on those tense shoulders of yours.”

His eyes were as intense as yours, always finding someone who could keep up to his gaze in you. It was true, you were not in your best of days – and Vergil knew that. But being in his arms made you feel safe in a way you never did before: your blue devil was the only one capable of making you feel protected, the only one who could make you relax.

“Why don’t you test it out…?” As your words left your lips, Vergil tried to contain a devilish smile that colored his own lips – not being able to fully hide it, though.

“One day, you’re going to get yourself in trouble with those witty words.” He whispered back, inches away from your lips before slowly kissing them.

“You do love my witty words.”

“Indeed.” Vergil kissed your lips once more before guiding you to turn forward and slipping his warm, wet hands on the back of your neck. He had a strong grip, but it never failed to make you smile how well Vergil could control his strength when dealing with you. That carefulness rarely showed – he reserved only to the most special people.

His brother definitely wasn’t one of those – neither was Nero, to an extent. But Vergil knew very well how to be gentle around you, Kyrie or Nico. The way he treated Kyrie was as if she was the most fragile of flowers in a secret garden.

“Hmmm… You know, I have no clue where you learnt to do this, but your hands are magnificent, love.” You had to comment as he kneaded the sore spots in your trapezius. “Midas would be jealous of your touch.”

“I cannot turn that which is already golden into gold. I can only help you not die out of tension.” His answer was sharp, making you giggle. It always warmed Vergil’s heart how you were amused by his dry sense of humor – Dante seemed to be the only one to laugh at his attempts of jokes before you arrived in his life. “You should ask me for these more often. I don’t mind spending time with you.”

“Even if you have to stop reading?”

“Books can wait.” And Vergil kissed the top of your head, calmly lowering his hands on your back. “Being with those we love, can’t.”

You closed your eyes, slowly sighing as you felt every knot from your back unravel under his skillful hands. Vergil took his time, without worrying about the water or how long you’d take in that bath. He wouldn’t leave until you were feeling at least a little better.

“Everyday you play with the light of the universe. Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and in the water.” Vergil’s voice started reciting a carefully chosen poem after he thought for a while, at first too quiet in the walls of the bathroom. Nevertheless, you’d never tire of hearing his words like that. “Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh, let me remember you as you were before you existed.”

There was something about those words that never failed to make you smile. Vergil knew that.

“You are here. Oh, you do not run away. You will answer me to the last cry.” Now his voice was like velvety dark chocolate, pouring into your ears like a forbidden song. You didn’t dare opening your eyes as his hands worked on your back. “Cling to me as though you were frightened. Even so, a strange shadow once ran through your eyes.” As Vergil spoke, you could hear the slight smile he had in his lips: you weren’t one to love easy, but when you did, you loved wholeheartedly. Just like him. “Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle, and even your breasts smell of it.” He planted a kiss under your ear, working on a tense spot in your neck. “While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies, I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.”

Vergil barely finished the sentence, and you could feel his teeth playfully nipping the tender spot in your neck. You giggled back, feeling little tears that formed around your eyes – if they were because of how much that spot was hurting or how his words could make you feel a myriad of emotions in your ocean heart, you did not know.

“How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.” The honesty in his words as Vergil’s hands lowered in your back made you breathless. It wasn’t just an empty poem he was reciting – it was one he could see himself on it. And you could feel it in the way he delivered the words like sweet honey dripping from his lips. “So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the gray light unwinds in turning fans.”

You couldn’t stop yourself from opening your eyes vaguely while Vergil guided you to stretch your neck slowly, moving your head gently. You smiled contently as he pulled you closer, keeping his mouth inches away from your ears.

“My words rained over you, stroking you. A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body. I go so far as to think you own the universe.” You had known that poem and always cherished it in your heart, but his delivery of the words made you shiver. Who would’ve known the Dark Slayer would have you as the owner of the universe? “I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels and rustic basket of kisses.” With those words, Vergil playfully kissed the top of your ear, making you laugh slightly – until you could feel his lips touching the shell of your ear, ready to whisper the last line for only you to listen; a secret to be kept only by your heart. “I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”*

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. Oh, damned devil – is all you could think. You could feel Vergil’s smile from watching your reaction and how much you controlled all your feelings not to arise in a sea storm, taking him whole into the maelstrom of your heart. He knew what he was doing.

“I have to say…” You slowly turned your head to your lover, finding Vergil’s triumphant silver glare ornated by a faint smile. You both were at the same level of emotion control, but he could never stop himself from feeling proud whenever he provoked such a havoc of feelings within you. “You have won more than a few kisses, devilish poet.”

“Hmmm. I’m afraid to point out, this poem is exclusively human.” One of his warm hands stroke your cheek, putting away a rebel strand of hair. Again, his voice fell into a whisper, only for your ears. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

For the first time, Vergil lost track of the warmth of the water – but what water could be warmer than the flame of love?

*Every Day You Play, by Pablo Neruda

#dante x reader #vergil x reader #dante imagine #vergil imagine #devil may cry imagines #devil may cry fanfiction #dmc imagines #dmc fanfic #devil may cry #dante sparda #vergil sparda #I could spend a lifetime inside a bathtub #plus Verge is getting softer #and Dante is getting serious #who would've known #also READ PABLO NERUDA PLEASE

[teddy06writes]

Of Little Love Poems, Secret Admirers, and Anonymous Notes

requested by this anon: "Heyyy! I was just wondering if I could request something, if your requests are closed you can ignore this and get on with your day~ Can I request a secret admirer trope with Steven Meeks hehe, where he sends mc little notes coz he thinks she's way out of her league 💕"

{Ahhhhh okay I'm such a sucker for this concept- I litterally love this so much}

Steven Meeks x fem!reader

trigger warnings: none <3

Premise: You've been getting these notes for ages now, and sure, who ever has been writing them has caught your attention, but not nearly as much as the shy red head from your English class.

{any poem not labeled with a writer is mine :)}

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

'To my lovely (y/n),

Shall I compare the to a summers day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate... --William Shakespeare (I couldn't resist)

I hope your weekend was just as perfect as you are, and I hope your week even better.

I wish you the utmost luck on ou- your next chemistry test, though I must say, I doubt you'd need luck.

Always yours,

An Admirer'

It wasn't the first note you had received, and you doubted that it would be the last.

They had began to appear, slid under the door of your dorm, a few weeks into the school year; Now it was almost November, and the soft red envelopes had become almost like a friend to you, greeting you every few mornings.

You turned the new letter over in your hand as you sat at your breakfast table.

"Another one?" Your friend asked as she slid into her seat next to you.

"Yup." Was all you said, quickly tucking the envelope under your plate.

She raised her eyebrow, "You know the more this goes on, the more I swear you almost seem disappointed to get one."

You shrugged, "I just wanna find out who it is... and I never seem to get any closer to figure it out."

"You don't wanna just find out who it is," You friend teased, "You just wanna know if it's Meeks."

Just at the accusation, you could feel your face begin to flush, "Shut up."

~~

'To my darling (y/n),

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. --Pablo Neruda

Something about those words feel right, for you and me.

Only you aren't the dark- your far from it.

If anything you are the light, the beautiful, flickering candle and I'm simply a moth drawn to the flame.

Always yours,

An Admirer'

The words of the newest note seemed to echo in your head, even hours after you'd first read it.

Who had written it?

You had read and re read the lines, searching for some sort of message or hint, but still, you couldn't find anything.

Sighing, you tried to focus back down on the calculus worksheet Dr. Hager had given out to fill the last forty minutes of class. It was honestly the last thing you wanted to be focused on, and your eyes couldn't help but wander off your paper and around the room.

After a moment, your gaze landed on the desk next to you, and Meeks' own gaze quickly whipped back to his work. You barely held in a giggle as his face went red, catching his eye just enough to send him a smile.

Later, as you stood in the hall, waiting for your friend to finish gathering her things, you shuffled through your things, surprised to find a new slip of paper:

'Your smile is brighter than the sun, setting off a heat that's almost scorching, yet I'd gladly bear that heat to see it everyday. --Your admirer'

"Did he give you that during class?" Your friend demanded, looking over your shoulder, "He's getting bold!"

"Not in class, I didn't find it till I was out here for a minute- it could've been anyone!"

It was almost exasperating.

~~ So far, the presentations in Mr. Keating's class had gone well, Knox had written about Chris, Hopkins.... , and Todd's off the cuff poem had been incredible.

But now it was your turn, and as Mr. K called your name to go next, you decided you no longer liked presentations in Mr. Keating's class.

"Go on, Miss (y/l/n); dazzle us with your words!"

You took a deep breath, slowly moving up to the front of the class.

"'I don't really know you, not in the way that you know me, but I try to understand in the strokes of your pen, the little things you do, but until then, I'll read them over and over again.'"

You finished reading, making a beeline back to your desk before the class could even begin to clap.

"Excellent, Miss (y/l/n)! Absolutely brilliant!" Mr. Keating cheered, "Another perfect example of one of our main themes: love!"

You only nodded, barley registering his words; there was something about Meeks' expression as you returned to your desk- surprise- shock- and something you couldn't name.

~~ 'To my wonderful (y/n),

I see a sweetness in her smile, bright light shines from her eyes, but life is complete, contentment is mine, just knowing that she's alive --Our very over Knox Overstreet

A poem about me? I must say, darling, I'm flattered.

Always yours,

Your Admirer'

You hadn't stopped to read the note at first, instead peering up and down the empty hall; you'd heard the footsteps this time, but hadn't made it to the door in time.

But now that you had stopped to read the words properly, your heart seemed to drop.

He was in your English class-

He was in your English class!

That narrowed the hunt down to a group of 18 or so.

~~

You weren't sure whose dumb idea it was, yours, your friends, or Sticks. Someone had suggested it at your study hall table, you knew that for sure.

So now you were sitting up at your desk, in the early hours of the morning, attempting to catch whoever was leaving the notes.

You hadn't been up all night, instead waking up early, and checking to find no letter; hopefully today would be the day.

After a while, you heard careful footsteps making their way down the hall, and you sat up from your hunched position, listening as they stopped before your door.

Carefully, you stood up, moving over to the door as quietly as you could, and listening.

After a muffled sigh, a note was slid under the door, and you hardly stopped to pick it up before you pulled the door open.

Meeks' surprised eyes met yours as he stumbled back.

Your mouth dropped open, "You..."

"Me." He responded with a gulp, face flushing bright red.

The hall was silent again, until he began to stammer out an explanation, "I- i- I'm sorry- I just- I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable- or anything- i'm just not good at talking- like talking talking- and- and- oh god- I'm sorry-"

"Steven-" You cut him off, your own face beginning to heat up, "I'm not- mad or anything. I uh- I was actually hoping it was you..."

"Really?"

You nodded, reaching back inside to grab the box of letters off your desk, "I- kept all of them. Just cause- they made me feel seen, you know?"

He seemed to breath a sigh of relief.

After another long moment you asked, "Why- why didn't you just talk to me?"

"Because you're you... your pretty, and smart, and incredible, and its like you always know what to do and say and just... I'm not like that- I'm just me. It was easier to hide..."

Slowly, you moved forward, cupping his face in your hands, "I think your wrong. I like just you... I like you Steven."

"oh." He mumbled, quickly bridging the gap between you, and pressing his lips to yours.

You broke away from him after a moment, grinning, "No more fully hiding behind notes, okay?"

"Okay."

#dead poets society x reader #dead poets society #steven meeks #steven meeks x reader #meeks x reader #teddy06writes #teddy06 writes #teddy 06 #teddy06

[sapphicellegreenaway]

forgetting is so long

elle greenaway x bau!fem!reader

moving on from the love of your life is harder than anyone could imagine

word count: 2.3k

warnings: spoilers for 1.22, 2.05, and 2.06, cursing, light allusion to sexual activity

a/n: it's angst city around here folks! heavily inspired by the line 'love is so short, forgetting is so long' from pablo neruda's poem tonight i can write (the saddest words)

⭒⭑⭒

She’s impossible to forget, no matter how much you want to.

Elle Greenaway was the love of your life from the moment you laid eyes on her. She joined the BAU from the Seattle field office, and rocked your world as soon as she stepped into your office to introduce herself. All kind eyes and confident smirks, she shook your hand and invited you to get drinks after finishing up so the pair of you could get to know each other better. The night had ended well into the morning, and you were inseparable from that moment on. The rest of the team was shocked, knowing how much it took for you to let people in, but something about Elle just made you feel safe.

Things progressed quickly, but naturally, and eventually she moved into your apartment because you were more established in the city. You fit together naturally, like two sides of the same coin, and you loved her with every fibre of your being. Elle reciprocated, protecting you fiercely and doing everything she could to show just how much she cared. Hotch and Gideon did their best to keep teasing from the team to a minimum but neither of you minded much — you had each other to get through whatever Morgan was going to throw at you.

Everything changed after the Fisher King case, though you understood why. While the situation had been hard on you it was exstruiating on her — after all, she was the one who got shot. You did all you could to support her through her recovery, taking time off work and making sure she didn’t do anything that could cause stress and slow her timeline down. Elle wasn’t shy about letting you know much she wanted to be back in the BAU, picking fights when you would return from the office and giving you the cold shoulder for days when you returned from cases. Despite her pain and hostility you thought the pair of you were working through the issues, and you had been waiting for the perfect time to put the ring your grandmother had given you to good use.

The plan disintegrated after Elle left, crumbled like dust in the wind. You had been away on a case with the rest of the team, only her and Hotch staying in Virginia to deal with the repercussions of her shooting the potential unsub from the previous case. No one had alerted you to her strange behaviour — whether it had been intentional or not you’re still not sure. When you entered the apartment upon your return there was nothing but silence and darkness instead of Elle’s laughter bouncing off the walls. She didn’t leave a note — just packed her go bag and left. No one could give you an explanation, doing their best to let you grieve your lost love.

Time certainly hasn’t made it easier, despite Spencer’s endearing statistics to prove the common saying, and you spend hours of every day reliving what you once had. She’s everywhere — coffee mug still in the break room and her favourite lipstick still stashed in the top drawer of your desk so she could make herself look presentable after a lunch-time make out session. She’s still in the apartment you once shared, trinkets and books and clothes left for you to pack up and donate. Elle Greenaway made it damn near impossible for you to forget her.

⭑

“I call dibs on the left side!” Elle shrieks, pushing past you and running full speed into the hotel room. Hotch knows now to book the two of you a room with one bed because neither of you will use the second one, after one too many times of finding the pair of you tangled together under one set of sheets.

You frown, upset at her for picking the side you always sleep on. “But I always sleep on the left,” you whine before realizing you sound like a child. Instead, you square your shoulders and enter the room while doing the best you can do pretend like it doesn’t bother you.

Elle laughs when she sees you, bright and bubbly in stark contrast to your broodiness. “Oh baby,” she coos, closing the distance between your bodies and wrapping her lithe arms around your waist, “I just want to be able to protect you, stay between you and the door.”

Her concern is endearing, and you’ve never been great at staying angry with her. Any and all negative emotions vanish the moment she kisses you. It’s tender, loving, but with a gentle buzz of electricity humming underneath to let you know her true intentions. You’d risk your life a thousand times over if it meant you got to kiss Elle whenever you wanted.

“Okay,” you sigh breathily when she finally pulls away.

“Okay?”

You look at her confused, as if she couldn’t have possibly forgotten what made you upset in the first place. “You can sleep on the left side of the bed, but only if I get to be the big spoon while we watch the news.”

She smiles. “That’s my girl.”

⭑

You’d do anything to have her call dibs on part of the room right now.

Instead, you open your hotel room door to find two double beds placed a perfect distance apart. You’re bunking with Emily, the new girl, and while she’s friendly enough and the two of you get along well, she’s not Elle. She’s not the one you want to be sharing a hotel room with in Wisconsin in the middle of January. She isn’t the one you want to brush your teeth with and make small talk about the case and any potential leads with.

There’s no real reason for you to slam your duffel on the floor beside the bed left to you, but you do. Elle isn’t here, isn’t coming back, and you need to get the fuck over yourself. Knowing doesn’t make it any easier, and when you face plant into the stiff mattress and let out a gravelly scream Emily gets incredibly concerned. She’s noticed you’ve been off since arriving at the hotel — it wouldn’t take an FBI profiler to see you’re struggling with something internally.

“What’s the matter,” she asks tentatively, worried her words might set you off further. “Case got you down?”

Emily doesn’t see you roll your eyes because they’re tucked so close to the blanket it’s suffocating, but you can’t help it. Of course she’d think your issue was the case — she didn’t know Elle or the history you had with her. You remind yourself it isn’t her fault and manage to muster up a response.

“It’s nothing, Prentiss. Sorry for making you think there was an issue.”

There’s no way she bought the lousy excuse, but Emily is also smart enough to leave well enough alone. If she hears you sobbing in the shower she doesn’t mention it. When you eventually step out of the bathroom and walk towards the left bed Emily gave you without a fight, you can't help but notice she doesn’t watch the news to unwind. It was something you did with Elle as a sort of grounding exercise, but you find Emily scribbling away in what appears to be a sudoku book. The silence in the room suddenly makes your ears ring and you cover them in an attempt to block out the pain and loneliness the sound represents.

She isn’t clueless and refuses to believe there isn’t something seriously wrong with you. “Okay, what the hell is going on? If you don’t want to room with me just say so. Hotch won’t have an issue putting me with JJ if that’s what you want.”

“No,” you sigh, so exhausted by the weight of your emotions, “I don’t have an issue with bunking with you. This is just the first time we’ve had a case that required travel since someone incredibly important to me left the team, and I’m having a bit of a hard time adjusting.”

Emily nods like she understands, and while you don’t think she really gets the gravity of your confession it’s nice to know someone is there for you. When she asks about Elle and what she was like you laugh — how do you encompass Elle Greenaway into a single sentence? The task seems impossible but Emily is patient, letting you talk as much as you want. Once the words run out and you’ve cried enough tears to fill a swimming pool the two of you turn out the lights and try to sleep. There’s still an Elle sized hole in your soul, but having someone not skirt around her in conversation was refreshing.

⭑

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

You close your mouth, open it, and close it again, but no sound comes out. Elle’s standing on your doorstep in a shimmery black floor-length gown that hugs her figure perfectly, red lips contrasting the darkness and knocking the breath out of your lungs. She had insisted on getting ready for the gala separately, to ‘keep the mystery alive’, and you’re glad she left early this afternoon to get ready at Penelope’s. If she hadn't, neither of you would have made it to the gala.

“Shut up,” you grumble, pulling her inside and kissing her with the fire of a thousand suns. “You look exquisite.”

Elle giggles, tosses her hair over her left shoulder, and reconnects your lips. “Me? This old thing? You’re the real smokeshow here, baby.”

The deep green long-sleeve dress you found in the back of your closest pales in comparison to what she’s wearing, but the way Elle is eyeing you makes it seem as though you’re wearing a tiara gifted personally by the Queen. A warmth creeps up the back of your neck and wraps around to your cheeks, fueling the fire for Elle to continue to marvel at you.

“Come on, you,” you sigh, looping an arm around Elle’s waist and leading her out the door. “We were supposed to pick Spencer up nearly fifteen minutes ago.”

She doesn’t speak, knows you’re right, and follows you willingly. Elle does the driving, always has, and when she opens up your door she steals another quick kiss. Your laughter bounces off the roof of the car the entire way to Reid's apartment.

⭑

The knock doesn’t belong to her. There’s no plan for her to pick you up for the gala this year. Hell, you don’t even know if she’s in the country. You know all that, and yet you can’t stop yourself from hoping Elle will be on the other side of the door when you open it. She isn’t — it’s Gideon, looking incredibly dapper in a tuxedo that must be over twenty years old but somehow still fits. A corsage rests gingerly in his hand, and you could cry at the sight of it. The small bouquet is made of lilies and baby’s breath, known by everyone in the office to be Elle’s favourite flowers.

“I thought you might want a piece of her with you tonight,” he says tenderly, and slips it onto your wrist. Tears well in your eyes, but they’re mostly the happy kind. Of course you wanted Elle with you, in any capacity you could get, and the fact Gideon didn’t hesitate to make it happen makes you love him more. Before his hand can leave yours you raise them both towards your face, placing a chaste kiss to the back of his in thanks.

He’s patient as you lock up and opens the car door for you like a true gentleman. Though you adore Jason Gideon and would probably follow him to war if he asked, he isn’t the person you want beside you. Your heart and soul yearns for Elle in a way no one else will ever understand. Gideon doesn’t pretend to share your pain, which you’re incredibly thankful for, and is the only team member who isn’t pressuring you to get past the monumental loss that was Elle leaving.

“I miss her so much,” you sigh when Gideon stops at a red light.

There’s a beat of silence before he responds, as if he’s letting you feel just how much you miss her at this very moment. “I know, kiddo. I know.” When you turn to face him, Gideon offers a smile and turns the radio up a little louder. It takes a moment for the sound to reach your ears, but when it does you begin to cry again.

Through the crackling speakers of the old truck is the song you and Elle shared your first kiss to. It had happened on the dance floor of the Hotchner’s vow renewal, in front of everyone, but it had been absolutely perfect. You still remember the cheering from Morgan and Garcia, and JJ and Spencer’s fond smiles. Time eclipses you, and you’re thrown back to that night for the rest of the song. You’re a little shaken up when Gideon parks the car at the event space, and he gives you a moment to compose yourself before he leads you inside and stays near the rest of the night, always there to cheer you up when the loneliness begins to hover a little too close.

⭑

Missing Elle Greenaway is something you’ll do for the rest of your life. You have no doubt about it — in fact, it’s about the only thing you’re certain of. The love the two of you shared was epic, one the poets couldn’t even properly comprehend, but when she left a hole formed in your heart. You aren’t sure it will ever be filled.

Time passes in the way only it can, but you still think about her constantly. Not a day goes by where you don’t remember her laugh bouncing off the bullpen walls, or the click of her heels across the hardwood floor of your apartment when she’d get home later than you and just wanted a kiss. Elle Greenaway was everywhere yet nowhere in your life, and will be for the rest of time. Loving her was so short, so bright, but forgetting her is so long.

⭒⭑⭒

consider reblogging and giving feedback if you enjoyed! it helps a lot x

#elle greenaway imagine #elle greenaway x reader #elle greenaway fic #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #this is: a fic #sapphicellegreenaway.writes

[sunjaesol]

love, between the shadow and the soul

chenford | drabble | post-canon | title: sonnet xvii - pablo neruda

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Look, Tim Bradford did not get attracted to rookies, okay? In all the years he had been a TO, none had grabbed his attention. Not when he and Isabelle were dating, or married, or when she disappeared into the night with a trail of illicit affairs and a shot of heartache for him. Dozens of young women had sat in that car beside him and never ever had he let their femininity distract him. He served his country. He fought wars overseas. He looked Death right in the eye every single day and never blinked.

But then came officer Lucy Chen. He instantly knew the type of cop she’d be the second she turned in her seat, meeting his gaze for the first time, and nervously smiled at him. Nerves were normal, he was aware, but the doe-eyed look and the hopeful grin sold her out. No mystery. Just another young cop that would either slip through the cracks by the exam by tanking their grade due to stress, or she’d become a desk duty cop — one that stayed far from danger, that handled life with a perpetual softer touch ‘cause of her shrink parents.

Nothing wrong with that, Bishop would chastise him. Every cop had its use, she’d add. Sure, that might be true, but Tim didn’t want to babysit an armed toddler waiting for it to cry and call for mom. With just a couple well-placed Tim-tests, she’d be out of his hair in no time and then he could cross his fingers for a better recruit in the following weeks.

Life had the ability to change in a snap though — their funny, yet stern reminder that the universe called the shots, not the gun in his holster, or the rulebook. He got shot. Officer Chen backed him up. Her stubborn, yet brazen, yet honest attitude reeled him in just enough to ignore her little quirks she always joyfully displayed in the shop. Whenever he didn’t nip her ramblings in the bud fast enough, she babbled on and on about her personal life, her personal issues and relationships, like they were best friends (They weren’t! Boots and him never befriended!), like their relationship was anything more than a transactional training period. They got each other’s six. That was it.

But fuck, man. She got under his skin, too.

Lucy wore this… really nice perfume. A lot of female officers had make-up and perfume on, allowed a small sliver of self-expression, and he and Lopez had spend countless hours in a shop together. He was used to it. But somehow, Lucy’s stuck in his nose and didn’t leave. He felt like a creep, thinking about the blend of cardamom and oranges and cherry blossoms mixing with her warm skin, uncontrollable while also wanted. He wanted to fantasise about that fucking perfume of hers, a realisation that took a long time to come to terms with.

That didn’t mean he liked her though — he quickly corrected himself the first time he caught the pattern of behaviour — all it meant was that Lucy had good taste in perfume. Case closed.

So why did he linger whenever her shimmery eyes flicked up at him, why did his breath catch in his throat when her voice dropped to that infuriating sincerity as she uttered words of appraisal? Why his heart go haywire when she recorded all those audio books for him; an out of line gesture and overzealous task for a boot, which would normally result in him laughing their face.

Tim never thought he’d get over Isabelle, nor did he ever believe he’d have his happily ever after with Rachel, but with Lucy he foolishly hoped for more. A more that came from such a stupid and deluded place, probably fostered through months of loneliness and the Pavlovian response to her perfume, but one he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop it. The man was always in control about everything, ran his own tests and went over every possible outcome every day, every hour — and yet he didn’t see her coming. Lucy Chen had been right under his nose and he hadn’t been prepared for the ground to disappear beneath his feet; something that should honestly get him fired. The callousness of his emotions while entertaining the idea of a relationship with his own boot sentenced him straight to P2 or desk duty, or whatever.

Lucy deserved someone better, anyway.

Someone that understood her love for sage and cleansing homes. Someone that liked veggie burgers, chai lattes, karaoke nights and social media lurking. Someone that wouldn’t hesitate for one second to open her door for a teenage girl in need of safety and a little bit of that Chen-love. Someone that wasn’t any of those firemen assholes, but wasn’t Tim either.

He never let his insecurities get the best of him, but after seeing her thrive as a P2 without him, handling undercover stints like a pro, conquering her trauma of being buried alive, it only showcased that she had more bravery in her index finger than some army members had in their entire body, all while staying innately kind. Of course Tim lost his mind over her. Of course he tried shaping officer Barnes to be more like Lucy — more sun and bite and charisma, less army BS. Of course, of course, of course. Even Rosalind, the person he hated most besides Caleb, had him figured out in seconds. He was obvious as hell.

Which was why he had to move stations. Away from the Mid-Wilshire Division and to another. He couldn’t be around her anymore and risk compromising missions or attacks. He didn’t tell Angela the details, though her knowing look said enough, and simply replied that she’d miss him and that she was sure the chief would happily reinstate him any time.

He should’ve known that information leaked through like a wildfire.

The morning of his resignment, uniform neatly folded in his locker, Lucy stopped him in the hallway with the most befuddled expression he’d ever seen.

“What?” he said.

“What the hell,” she exclaimed. “You’re leaving and I have to hear it from Angela? Why’re you…? You love this division. Is everything okay?”

Shouldering past her, he drawled over his shoulder: “Everything’s fine, officer Chen. I’d advise you to put on your uniform and get to roll call.”

“Don’t pull this crap with me,” she bit back, latching onto his arm before he was out of reach. His feet reflexively stopped in place, stupidly waiting on her to finish her train of thought. “Tim, you can tell me if something’s wrong. We’ve been through… way too much for you to act this cold with me.”

He scoffed, feigning mockery, and put his hands on his hips. “We? Chen, I was your TO. That’s it. Get it out of your head it was more.”

Lucy blinked, once, twice, a hurt expression crossing her features, followed by disbelief and a quiet contempt he had become awfully familiar with. Swallowing back the regret, he watched as she pursed her lips and took a step back. “Wow. Okay.”

“Don’t take it personally.”

“Hard not to, officer Bradford,” she muttered. Turning to the locker rooms, she added, “Talk to me when you’re ready to not be an asshole.”

That should’ve been his cue to let her go and resume his trek to sergeant Grey, but a whiff of her fragrance wafted in his face from her dancing curls and any sensical thought was knocked out his head. He wanted to embrace her and burrow his face in her hair, he wanted to hold her with intent, he wanted to kiss the scent off her skin. His feet followed her instead, both fully aware and totally impulsive at once. He chose the excuse of loving a good argument with her to then utter: “I’m not an asshole, Chen. I’m honest.”

“If you’re honest, you’d admit that we’ve been very close friends these past months,” she exhaled, refusing to look him in the eye. He supposed he deserved that. Stopping in front of her locker, she continued with, “Distorting your own reality to fit your macho narrative isn’t healthy. Also, this is the women’s locker room. Out. Now.”

Tim sputtered out a laugh and crossed his arms. “Macho narrative? Please.”

Lucy’s eyes narrowed, all air sucked out the room at the intensity of her stare, and Tim felt himself flailing, suddenly wondering why the hell he wanted to turn in his badge when the only place he could have moments with lucy was, well, here. Why was he giving up on this, how silly it might be?

With a resolute voice, she said, “Tim, why are you resigning?”

Nothing in his entire career prepared him for this. Tim Bradford had survived Iraq and Afghanistan, twelve years of the LAPD and counting, a deadly virus, hundreds of bullets taken by the vest and felt the power of death on the blue lips of Lucy in the quiet countryside. Fear got pushed aside. Pride pulled him forward, onwards. But right now, he had to take a leap of faith — the sole thing he never relied on, but Lucy did — and trust she’d be there after the fall.

(He wanted to be that amazing someone for her.)

“Because of you,” he whispered. His fight or flight told him to run for the first time in forever, but he kept his feet glued to the floor.

Her jaw fell slack in shock. “E-excuse me? Me?! I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“Exactly,” he spit. “You… you’re…” Tim sighed. “You’re the best, Lucy.”

Faltering, her brows furrowed in utter confusion, a grain of her fury replaced with compassion. He wasn’t sure if that was warranted. All he was trying to do was get it off his chest, confess, before it escalated to insurmountable heights. “I don’t think I understand.”

“Uh…”

“You’re resigning, because I’m the best?” she tried to deduce. “No offense, any other day I’d be dancing right now, but this is just…” She gestured at him. “So weird.”

Tim let out a miserable sigh and ripped the band-aid off. Fuck it. “I’m trying to be honest about my feelings, Lucy.”

She froze. “What?”

“I like you. A lot.” Her wonderstruck expression didn’t make him feel better, so he quickly added: “Which is why I gotta decrease the risk of this exploding in our faces and go.”

“Whoa!” Lucy’s hand wrapped around his, eyes wide and searching, like any empirical data would be found within his green irises, otherwise known as fondness and unresolved tension with every quiet moment they had. “Is this… another test? Are you getting back at me for pranking you?”

He quirked a brow. “You’re a P2 now. Tests are over.”

“Right,” she quipped, catching herself. She let go of him and nervously tucked a lock behind her ear. “Yeah. Okay. And you’re serious?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. O-kay. Let me, uh…” the locker swung open “… wrap my head around this.”

“It’s a pretty easy thing to—”

“Tim.”

“Yeah, okay.” He backed off, hating how the control was out of his hands now, how he practically shoved his heart in her grip and her pretty fingers could crush it to dust if she wanted to. “I’ll let you do that.”

Walking out the locker room, he took a deep breath and straightened up his face. Alright. He royally screwed that over. If his army buddies knew, they’d all laugh in his face and tease him for the rest of his life. But at least he told her and got his answer, that a relationship was off the table but that they could save their friendship once he switched divisions and some distance mended his twisted, inside-out heart. Lucy had rocked his world and all she had to do was exist.

“Tim!”

“Wha— wow!”

Her body crashed into him the second he turned around to her beautiful voice, Lucy’s arms wrapping around his neck and pulling him down to her level ‘til all he experienced were her sweet eyes and breathless smile and a kiss. Lucy kissing him, slow and tentative, but it lit his heart aflame and urged him to hold onto her. Her perfume was all-encompassing, nose full of the fragrance and the soft slope of her neck and long, brown hair and fuck, he was kissing Lucy Chen. Except he didn’t care if the entire precinct idly watched by, or if she yanked him out the building on impulse, or anything — ‘cause he was kissing her and it was perfect. Her plump lips were better than he ever imagined.

Her hands slid from his hair to his shoulders, arms and then his hands, squeezing. His forehead pressed against hers, embarrassingly weak in the knees from that incredible kiss that he didn’t dare to stand up straight. Two silly grins broke loose on their faces. He had no clue what to do now, or not do, but he did know he wanted her. He wanted everything.

Lucy decided for him.

“Don’t go,” she whispered.

Tim smiled. “Okay.”

#testing the waters... figuring out their voices... #chenford #the rookie fanfiction #the rookie x pablo neruda overlap is the funniest thing about this whole thing #the rookie

[laurensprentiss]

Jouska [Hotch x Reader]

Chapter 16:

Warnings: 18+!! Explicit smut, oral sex - M receiving, swearing, dirty talk. Shower sex, unprotected P in V, praise kink. Just filth, really. Enjoy this while it lasts because it won’t for much longer, oops!

———

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.” - Pablo Neruda

———

You sigh and let your eyes flutter shut at the gentle breeze fanning your face. The sun continues its slow descent below the clouds, dipping just enough to paint the sky in blooming oranges, pinks and purples. The Capitol sits in the distance and the traffic below you bustles, people continuing with their routines but you feel still.

Changed somehow.

Then the doors to your balcony open behind you and out emerges Aaron with his mussed hair, and his collegiate sweater that he’d found in his go bag, and a stupid grin on his face as soon as he catches sight of you. His breath hitches when he sees his shirt enveloping you, eyes scanning your legs shamelessly.

He knows you in the most intimate way possible, your legs still tremble with the aftershocks but there’s still a bashfulness in the way your cheeks grow warm with the way he looks at you. It’s like he can see right through you, into your soul, and while hope now rightfully blooms in your chest, you fear moving too fast in case you hurt him - and yourself.

“You look good in that,” He mutters in your ear, wrapping his arms around you from behind. He pulls you to him, impossibly close, committing this moment to memory.

You hold his arms close to you and allow yourself to get lost in his sturdy embrace. When you avert your gaze from the sunset in front of you to look at him, he tips your chin with his finger and brings your face to his for a sweet, lingering kiss.

“Hi.” He whispers against your lips.

“Hi.” You reply just as quickly, fighting the smile that works its way onto your face.

You drown in the smell of him around you, transported to the first time you’d met when he’d given you his jacket on that Spring day, the same spicy citrus smell flooding your senses.

Seemingly reading your mind, he voices your thoughts, “You’ve got a thing for views huh?” You raise your eyebrows quizzically. “The gazebo at your Dad’s. This.” He nods his head towards the view in front of you, “It’s beautiful.” He whispers, but he’s only half talking about the DC sunset.

A wave of something washes over you - tenderness, perhaps.

“When did you know?” You ask, running your hands over his arms that pull you to him.

“Does it matter?”

“Tell me.” You whisper, turning slightly to look at him.

He smiles earnestly, hands flexing against your stomach through his shirt. “Honestly? I don’t know when exactly.”

That was a lie, he’d always felt a pull towards you, something akin to a magnet.

Maybe it was the moment he first laid eyes on you or the day he’d found you utterly broken on the floor of that bathroom. Maybe it was the night you both stayed up talking or the gentle touches and stolen glances or maybe it was everything in between.

It doesn’t matter. All he knows now is that there are no more fleeting thoughts in his mind, no more emotions to bury deep down in his soul.

He finally allows himself to be in the moment, to feel it.

He was falling in love with you.

You pinch him, bringing him out of his stupor. “Aaron?”

He hadn’t realised he was staring, his eyes soft as he traced the curve of your lips while he was deep in thought.

He inhales. “I think I always knew there was something about you that was gonna stick with me. Those two weeks I lied to you about Barnes and desk duty?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I knew for sure then that I felt something for you, I just didn’t want to admit it to myself. With Haley gone, I didn’t trust myself around you.”

You swallow. For months you’d wondered why he’d lied so brazenly and rejected you, had you known his true intentions maybe you’d have cut him some slack. He wasn’t lying when he said he’d waited for this a long time.

You smile gently and turn in his embrace, wrapping your arms around his waist to hold him tighter, fusing yourself to the fabric of his existence. He hums and places a kiss atop your head, inhaling your scent.

“You know he told me you were dead?” You mumble against his chest.

“Hm?”

“He told me you were dead. When I was in that cabin. I think that terrified me more than being there with him.” Your chest tightens when you remember back to Jordan’s voice taunting you that he’d killed Hotch, your palms suddenly sweating.

He shifts momentarily to cup your cheeks reassuringly, studying your face for a moment. “You are not getting rid of me that easily, I’m around for a long time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He replies.

———

Your bedside clock reads 3:47am when Aaron is thrusted into consciousness with a burning need for water. He chances a drowsy glance down at you, sound asleep in his arms, your head against his chest. He surrenders to the warmth that spreads within him and the tenderness he feels for you.

The moonlight illuminates the curve of your lips, the scars on your cheek, the handprints on your neck. His knuckle gently traces the marks, heart sinking. He wishes with everything that he could take it all back for you, make it so you never had to go through what you did.

He’s afraid everything about you is burnt into him. He can’t deny the lump in his throat and the overwhelmed feeling he gets at your existence all while you rest comfortably in his arms.

He concludes that he doesn’t need a drink that bad, deciding instead to ignore the pins and needles in his arm and the dryness in his throat. He pulls your naked form closer to him, a tender hand brushing some stray hairs off your face.

Beautiful, he thinks.

You stir against him, half asleep, pulling him in close to you too, and he fights the smile that pulls at the corners of his lips. But before sleep envelops you again, you swear you hear him whisper something that lights a spark in your chest even in your semi-conscious state.

He whispers it so quietly, it’s hard to even be sure.

“I love you.”

———

You’re fast asleep when your phone rings. You groan at the abrasive noise and attempt to untangle yourself from Hotch’s arms and legs to roll over and answer the call.

What you get instead, is a drowsy Hotch who only pulls you closer to him with an arm and a leg in his half-asleep state. He groans and nestles in closer to you, his growing erection pressing in between your thighs, causing you to laugh dryly. You turn slightly in his arms, scratching his head next to you with a smile.

He’s always handsome and charming - but with his hair mussed and his face peacefully asleep, he looks years younger, closer to your age. You blink at him, unsure for a moment that yesterday wasn’t a dream.

“Morning, beautiful.” He mutters in his sleepy voice, nudging your nose.

You can’t help but feel the way it goes directly to your core, your insides fluttering. “Good morning,” You reply against his lips with a smile.

Your phone ringing again pulls you out of your dreamlike bubble with Aaron. You both groan.

“Aaron, I gotta take this, it might be my Dad or Em.” You whisper.

“Let it ring.” He grumbles, burying his face into the side of your neck. “Stay here with me.”

You scratch at his scalp, laughing. “Aaron come on, they’ll worry if I don’t answer.” He begrudgingly loosens his grip on you when you pat his arm, albeit a little chilly now that your body heat isn’t keeping him warm.

The ringing subsides by the time you get to it.

Emily

Missed call. (2)

Damnit.

You slide right on the notification when the bed dips behind you where Hotch turns to get out of bed. He pulls on a pair of boxers and begins rummaging in his go bag for his toothbrush.

“Make you breakfast?” He asks.

Your chest warms, not 24 hours ago, Aaron was ready to leave your life forever - and he stands in front of you now, offering to make you breakfast.

“Mhm. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” He replies with a kiss on your cheek that takes you by surprise.

You’re still caught up in your thoughts about the feel of his lips on your skin when the phone answers. It doesn’t register for a short moment because your attention lingers on Hotch’s strong back as he leaves for the main bathroom outside.

“Hello?”

“Hey Em, sorry I missed your call, I just woke up.” You tell her in a hushed voice.

“You just woke up? It’s 11pm. Wait - why are you whispering?” She asks.

You’re stumped for a lie to tell this early. “The painkillers I got when I was discharged are strong.” You clear your throat. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m still stuck in this hospital, and Mother won’t stop hovering and terrorising the doctors. They might off me just to get rid of her.” She groans. “Oh, McCall dropped by earlier.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Told me your Dad and my Mother stopped Jordan’s bail from going through, apparently no lawyer wants anything to do with his case. Senator Fitz is going crazy.”

“I can imagine.” You pause. “I went to see him yesterday.”

“You did what?!”

You roll your eyes. “Calm down, Em. Hotch took me, I just wanted to see him after everything that happened. He spent a year terrorising me, tried to kill me, kill you guys - I wanted to look him in the eye.”

“That was so stupid.” She chastises you. “You know how easy it is for him to get into people’s heads, into your head. He’s fucking crazy.”

“Look. I’m fine, you’re fine, everyone’s fine. I’m glad I went to see him.”

“Fine, whatever. I’ll deal with you in person, I don’t have the energy for this right now. Listen, speaking of Hotch, have you heard from him?”

You’re taken off guard. “What?” You stutter. “No. No, I haven’t heard from him, what makes you think I’ve heard from him?”

“Okay… now I definitely know you heard from him. What’s going on? Where is he?”

Your silence speaks louder than any words could. You brace yourself for what’s coming.

“Wait… did you do what I think you did? Did you take my advice?” You go silent. “Did you sleep with him?! Is he still there?” She asks with a finger between her teeth.

“No! Of course I didn’t sleep with him!”

She cuts you off with manic laughter. “You did! You so did, I can tell by the way you’re tripping over your words! Makes sense why nobody’s heard from either of you for the last 24 hours.”

There’s no use denying it, she’ll sniff it out of you soon enough. You groan, “Fuck, fine. Yes he’s still here.”

She cackles. “He spent the night? Scandalous! How was he? Is he, ahem, generous?”

“Emily… I swear to God.”

“What? I can’t ask? It's not like I’m getting any!”

You groan. “I’ll tell you in person later, but…” You rub a hand down your face, unable to stop the smile from spreading. “Em, I’m so… giddy? I don’t know how else to describe it, it’s like I waited so long for this, but I never thought it would happen, y’know? I’m happy, I’m just really fucking happy.” You chuckle.

“Honey…” She coos.

You take a cursory glance at the door to check for any shadows that could indicate Hotch’s presence. “I hate that I’m even saying this, I sound like a kid but… I think there might be something here. Something big.”

Unbeknownst to you, Hotch stands right outside of your door, listening to you confide in Emily with a small smile on his face and a glimmer of hope in his chest. The words he'd quietly whispered in the darkness of night yesterday still lie on the tip of his tongue, stronger than ever in the morning light but he wants to make sure you’re in a position to hear it.

By the sounds of it, that may be sooner rather than later.

“Oh you’ve got it bad.” She sighs. “Listen, I wanna hear all about it but I can hear my mother down the hall berating another doctor. I’m getting discharged in an hour, so I’ll be at home later on if you want to swing by?”

“Yeah, I will. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Be good, you deviant.”

“I hate you.”

You set the phone down on the nightstand and peer outside your bedroom door. You can hear tinkering in the kitchen, so you venture outside after quickly brushing your teeth and throwing on Hotch’s collegiate sweater.

You’re met with a shirtless Hotch cooking in your kitchen, who’s face lights up when he sees you. His eyes trail up your legs shamelessly when he sees that you’re donning his sweater, a dark smile pulling at his lips.

He pulls out a stool for you. “You gonna take all my clothes or what?” He murmurs against your ear. “Not that I’m complaining, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about this.” He cozies up behind you, pressing a kiss behind your ear, arms wrapping around your waist.

You lean into his touch. The last week had been non-stop, it had been one thing after the next, you’d felt like you were losing the strength to keep getting back up. But after the events of yesterday, your near-death experience had since taken a back burner.

Being with him is surprisingly easy. Simple.

“Oh wait! Coffee! I knew I was forgetting something. Almond and oat milk with a hint of brown sugar, right?” He asks, unwinding his arms from around you.

Your gaze softens. “You remembered?” You whisper.

He chuckles. “I’ve been buying you coffee for almost a year, I should hope I remember.” He places the steaming mug in front. “What is it?” He asks when he sees the affectionate look on your face.

Your breath hitches. There’s something bubbling up in your chest, something urgent and profound. You’ve only heard about this feeling, never felt it until now but you could swear it’s unmistakable.

You’ve known for a while.

You’re falling in love with him.

You clear your throat. “Nothing. Just can’t believe you remembered.” You whisper, cupping your hands around the steaming mug. “Thank you.”

He comes up behind you again, and brushes some hair off your neck delicately. He rests his chin on your shoulder and slides an arm around your waist. “I’ll make you all the breakfast and coffee you want as long as you keep parading around in my clothes like this.”

“Deal.” You tilt your head to face him and when he kisses you, you swear you can feel him smile. Your heart races with affection.

There’s a kind of comfort and familiarity that comes with Hotch. One that seems to be second nature as you both fall into a rhythm and you can almost imagine that this is your everyday life.

Slow languid kisses become more frequent and heated, meaning that breakfast is quickly thrown aside and you instead find yourself being pushed up on the counter with a pair of strong arms.

You’re so drunk on the taste and feel of him, so unaware of your surroundings, you can’t comprehend when and how the two of you ended up back in bed, clothes discarded with you straddling his solid form.

You don’t care. You just need more.

Aaron squeezes your ass hard enough to leave a pleasant sting as he lays a trail of kisses down your neck, his beard rough against your skin. His groans vibrate against the column of your throat where he leaves a trail of hot kisses, his knee bending to press against you.

The friction makes you break the kiss and you cry out. You trace his chest and abdomen lightly with your nails, leaning down to kiss his ear.

“I want you, Aaron.” You whisper.

As he goes to grip your hips, you grab his large hands and place them above his head, ghosting your lips over his. His eyes flash with something devious, he’s more than capable of overpowering you physically, but he plays along, wanting to surrender himself to you.

You desperately rub him over your folds, gathering yourself on his tip before seating yourself on him. You both gasp as he slips inside, your eyes rolling back.

The stretch of him still burns a little, a dull pressure inside you that soon gives way to warmth when you catch how his mouth falls open, a flush spreading on his cheeks and chest.

You roll your hips against him experimentally, feeling him jump inside you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his hooded gaze focused on yours, as he allows you to take control. He interlocks his fingers with yours, gripping them tightly as you ride him, setting a sure enough pace that has obscene sounds escaping the room.

“That’s it, sweetness. I want you to ride my cock until you come, squeeze me tight the way I know you can.”

His words make you lose your breath and a broken moan of his name in his ear, has him twitch inside you. He’s entranced by the way your mouth falls open in pleasure, by the sight of your pussy swallowing his cock, your arousal coating his thighs.

He tenderly brushes a knuckle against your cheek, allowing his thumb to slip inside your mouth before bringing it down to rub small circles on your clit the way he knows can make you fall apart. His hand palming at your tits makes you feel boneless, forcing you to fall against him. He wraps a strong arm around your waist as he takes your weight, snapping his hips up into you.

“You’re close aren’t you, sweetness? So fucking wet and needy just for me.” You cry out, surrendering to him. “Need me to make you cum? Hm? Need me to fuck you until you can’t walk?”

“Please. Please give it to me, don’t fucking stop, Aaron.” A string of expletives leave your mouth as you feel your release approaching.

“Good girl. Let me hear you when you come.”

And sure enough, two more thrusts from him snap the coil in the pit of your stomach, as you flutter against him, legs shaking. You bite down on his shoulder to muffle your screams as he fucks you through your orgasm, your vision going white.

He remains inside you, thrusting gently as you come down, chuckling when you’re able to take your own weight again.

“My God, you’re beautiful.” He brushes his thumb over your cheek and kisses you delicately. “I told you I wanted to hear you come though. Looks like I’ll have to try again.” He mutters against your lips.

In one fell swoop, he snakes a steady arm around your waist and he stands up, making sure to remain inside you.

Your forehead rests against his in a daze as he walks you into your shower. A cold spray douses the both of you when he turns the water on, causing you to shriek. It waterfalls down between both of your bodies, steam rising steadily and you tap his arms to release you.

“My turn.” You whisper against his mouth, gripping his cock.

You find yourself having to tiptoe now to reach him, as you lay a trail of kisses down his neck, and expansive chest while stroking him slowly. He throbs in your palm, warm and thick, his legs trembling a little when you rub a thumb over his tip. He shudders, cradling the back of your head as you continue your slow descent.

You kiss further down his stomach, kneeling in front of him to trace the faint muscled line that runs down his abdomen until you get to where he wants you. You grip him with your right hand, your left scratching his stomach gently.

Your fingers barely meet around him when you stroke once, twice, three times. You lick his tip first, making sure to keep your eyes on him and you can taste the faintest hint of yourself on him. The sight above you takes your breath away, Aaron with water dripping off of his shoulders and back, his hair floppy and wet, eyes fixed intensely on yours.

It exhilarates you knowing you have him right where you want him, knowing that you have the power to make him unravel. The look in his eyes makes you throb.

When you lick a longer stripe up his shaft, his eyes flutter shut, breathy groans escaping him as you wrap your lips around his tip.

A broken curse leaves his mouth, an almost-whisper. “God, that mouth. Good girl.”

You suck experimentally, your eyes flitting up to his face. The way his legs tremble is encouragement enough, so you take him further in your mouth until he hits the back of your throat, your hands working to cover what you can’t reach.

“Just like that, pretty girl,” He moans, his sentence fragmented.

His hands cradle your chin tenderly and gather your wet hair into a makeshift ponytail when you moan around him. The vibrations of your mouth work him closer to his release. “So fucking gorgeous on your knees, sweetheart. That mouth feels so good around my cock.”

You bob your head faster now, taking him as far down your throat as you can, your saliva helping your hands along. You gag around him, saliva running down your chin and your eyes watering but the look on his face frenzies you. You chase the need to make him feel good, working your hands and mouth.

His hands provide some pressure on the back of your head to take him down your throat faster. He groans breathily. “Such a good girl, just like that.”

His words propel you towards your own reawakening, your pussy throbbing around nothing at his heated words.

You can tell he’s close with the way the vein on the underside of him begins to throb, so you work to stroke him with more pressure and hollow your cheeks.

“You’re going to make me come if you keep going like that, sweetheart.” He goes to withdraw himself from your mouth out of courtesy but you take him deep into the back of your throat.

The sight of you on your knees for him, eyes glassy and desperate with a mouthful of his cock drives him to the edge as he finally comes, shuddering in front of you. He holds your head still as he releases into your mouth, his cock twitching in your mouth.

You eagerly chase the taste of him, hollowing your cheeks around his tip, unrelenting as he curses quietly, eyes squeezing shut. Your eyes gaze up at him innocently while he trembles, brows pulled together, his bottom lip between his teeth.

When he finally opens his eyes, he looks wrecked, a flush spreading on his chest and face. His eyes darken and he wipes the remnants of himself off your chin with his thumb, tucking it into your mouth as he gathers you off the shower floor.

You suck on his thumb innocently, before he pulls you flush against him, every inch of you pressed against him.

“Come here,” he mutters, snaking his arms around your waist. A large hand lays flat between your shoulder blades as he pulls you in for a desperate, messy kiss.

A clash of teeth and tongues, you’re both intoxicated at the presence of the other, the atmosphere heady with the added steam from the shower.

He releases you for breath, licking at your swollen lips. “Don’t think I forgot. I still want to hear you whimper my name when you come on my face.” He sinks to the floor, throwing your leg over his shoulder.

He makes you come undone twice more, revering you with his fingers and talented mouth, before washing you down tenderly, his nails scratching at your scalp, his fingers deft and gentle.

“All mine.” He marvels against your lips.

———

He has a young intern rush to his house and bring him some more clothes, something for the day and a suit for work now that he knows he’s been called in later.

The intern, who’s name you don’t quite catch, returns twenty minutes later, red in e face, nervously babbling about how he didn’t know which suit to grab him so he brought him three instead.

“Anderson, you need to brush up on your decision making skills.” Aaron tells him, taking a suit and a pair of shorts and a tee from him. “Take the rest to the office, leave them in my locker. Do not crease them.”

“Yes, sir.” And just as quickly as he came, the intern leaves.

You smile to yourself.

“What?” He asks.

“Suits you.” You reply, smoothing a hand over his chest. “Giving orders, being the big boss man. I like that for you, Sir.”

He cups your cheeks, kissing the corner of your lips. “Yeah? You keep calling me ‘Sir’ in that voice, I promise we won’t get anything done today.”

He changes quickly into his casual clothes, his t-shirt sitting perfectly over his shoulders and with a protective grasp on your hand, he leads you through the lobby of your apartment building.

“Where are we going?” You ask him.

He places a hand on the small of your back when he helps you into the car.

There’s a more pressing question, you know. You know you should probably sit down and talk to one another about what this is, what last night and this morning mean for you going forward.

You also know you need to figure that out for yourself before you initiate a difficult conversation with him.

So you settle for taking his lead. You can always talk to Emily later. She’ll know what to do.

“It’s a surprise.” He says, climbing in next to you.

“Are we going to be out in public? I still have these stupid bruises, not to mention I’m pretty sure I saw a reporter parked up across the street.

He peers into the rear view mirror. “I’ll take care of it.” He says fishing out his phone. “And for the record - I think you look beautiful.” He whispers, cradling your chin.

You feel uncharacteristically shy when he kisses your cheek.

He gets to typing rapidly on his phone for a moment. “Done. They won’t be bothering us anymore. Told you I’d take care of it.”

———

You’ve been walking on the trail for God knows how long and you’re miserable. You’re sore, from the accident and from Hotch’s precise work - you’re hot and sweaty and you need a drink. But when he grabs your hand tightly in his, and leads you off a beaten path, your heart flutters lightly.

“Over here.”

“What am I looking at?” You ask.

He leads you down a small hill, and to a clearing that almost takes your breath away.

“That.” He says, triumphantly.

Willow trees umbrella a trail that leads to a small deck in the distance. In front of it, is a small pond, the water, a sparkling cerulean. He leads you down the rest of the trail and shrugs off his jacket, setting it down on the deck so you can sit safely.

“What do you think?”

You stare at him. “It’s beautiful!” You chuckle. “How did you even come across something like this? It’s so out of the way.” You ask him, staring at the water.

He leans against a willow tree and pulls you close to him between his legs. You lean against his chest, as he speaks in a low voice, lips against your temple.

“I used to come here a lot, one of my cousins told me about it as a kid.” He replies, wistfully.

“I thought you grew up in Seattle?”

“Wait - you remembered I told you that?” You nod. “I had family - grandparents here. My mom’s folks. Whenever I needed a break away from everything and everyone, I’d come here.”

“This is the place you told me about the night you stayed over?” You ask.

He nods, placing a tender kiss on your temple. “Yeah. Beautiful isn’t it?” He’s fast developing a habit of delivering words that belie a double meaning.

You sigh peacefully against him. Something about him makes you feel serene. Like your chest bubbles up until you feel like you could cry happy tears or like you’re being rewarded for a past deed.

His touch is so tender, so delicate, but so passionate. You run your hands over the strong protective arms that bracket you in and allow the sun to warm your face.

You listen to him talk about how he and his cousin are surprisingly the only ones to know about this place. “-And now you, I guess.” He chuckles.

“Why me?” You ask.

It’s a strange thing, love. He’s loved before.

But this is different. An implicit trust that you could never break.

He pulls you in impossibly closer, taking in your scent. “Just felt right.”

———

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