#loser!reader

It wasn't often that you ventured out of the computer cave you shared with Penelope at the BAU. In fact, it wasn't often that you were even there, either. Your position at the BAU was not full-time; you were on call. Brought in only when another brain working on the digital aspects of the case was imperative, or when Penelope was called away on the case, and someone had to be on standby with the FBI computers, which no portable solution, even Penelope's, could compare to. Penelope would focus on extracting information from confiscated laptops, while you would run her usual database searches, your extra RAM making it a smoother process. Other than that, you were almost always at home, maybe the grocery store if there were no delivery people available. Having grown up isolated socially, not much about you had changed with age. You had the most fun at home alone, reading, gaming, and generally ignoring the rest of society, no matter how much Penelope tried to lure you to go out. It was lucky you'd gotten this job with the FBI, but the things you saw through your work hardly encouraged you to put yourself out there. You were happy the way you were, even if the rest of the BAU looked at you with varying amounts of pity after asking you what you'd been up to since they last saw you.

This was only the second time you had ever been brought out for a case. The jet was still a major novelty to you, something that amused Morgan to no end, unable to hide a chuckle when you marvelled aloud at the size of the bathroom while inside it. The current case involved what seemed like hundreds of hard drives found in an abandoned house where a victim had been dumped, labelled with dates that appeared to connect to other local missing persons cases. As likely as it was that the unsub was sending you on a wild goose chase, it was still necessary to check; clues to the identity of the unsub could still lie in the contents of these hard drives, even accidentally, and it seemed he was leaving intentional clues.

"Probably hoping for notoriety, it reminds me of the Zodiac Killer sending out his coded letters, which seems to have secured him a place in infamy. This unsub is likely after fame, probably from a sense of loneliness in his day-to-day life or a feeling of being overlooked and underappreciated," Spencer had explained, wringing his hands, his eyes sweeping the rest of the team on the jet for their reactions. "We're likely looking for someone in highly solitary work, almost certainly something involving coding; the lack of human interaction has eroded his sense of empathy and social norms, worsening any mental health issues that may have originated in childhood." You and Penelope had exchanged a slightly amused look, as if to say 'sounds familiar'. Penelope likes you too much to mean anything bad by it, but you very deliberately ignored the glances you get from some other members of the team, as you aren't sure they're all so understanding. Spencer followed everyone else's eyeline toward you, but simply shot you a polite smile, not quite understanding why everyone had gone oddly quiet now. Spencer was always sweet to you, never seeming concerned about the way you spent your freetime like the others did. He wasn't exactly the most social creature himself, other than playing chess at the local park, which he'd been doing less since the whole fiasco with his father, anyway. You two would often sit together when eating lunch, discussing interests or just sitting quietly. He always missed it when you weren't on call. There was a silent understanding between the two of you, a natural comfort he didn't feel much with others. At least, not as quickly as he'd felt it with you.

Upon landing, it was go-go-go. The team split up, some heading to the dumpsite, some to visit the victim's family, and others, you weren't even sure where. You and Penelope set up at the local police station in a dusty back room. It was far from glamorous, but they had outlets and Ethernet cables, so it would do. Trawling through the hard drives was boring and repetitive. You felt guilty saying so to Penelope, seeing as you had found several images of other victims in various horrible states, but the files on the drives were mainly filler, things designed to slow down the investigation and send the search in the wrong direction. A few helpful things were discovered, and calls were made back and forth between you and the various agents out on the field as they gave you names and faces to search for. By the end of the working day, you were exhausted both emotionally and physically. Then, another blow as you were waiting for the rest of the team to congregate at the police station. Penelope wanted you to swap rooms with Morgan. The two of them had recently deepened their flirting in a way you did not understand how they thought others could not see. Even you had noticed, and you were by no means a profiler like the rest of the team. Still, they tried to deny being involved, even though they wanted to share a hotel room.

"Derek just can't put up with Spencer reading all night," Penelope pouts. "We figured you wouldn't mind so much." It's a weak lie, even to your ears, but you feel bad denying your one true friend in the BAU anything. And… Spencer was pretty cute. You felt pathetic even thinking it; he likely saw you as a loser like everyone else did. It wasn't his fault; you did very little to dispel that image. You felt awful for some of the thoughts that crossed your mind at the prospect of sharing a room with him. God, what if you accidentally told him that you'd made him on your Sims save and that he was dating your simself? Penelope begins good-naturedly teasing you for the bright blush that has spread on your cheeks, and it snaps you from your thoughts a little. "He already agreed to room with you. Come on, it would be rude of you to say no to him," she teases, nudging you.

"Fine, but you owe me, Penelope," you grumble, slouching a little, trying to disappear within yourself. You prayed you hadn't packed that romance novel with the guy that looked like Spencer on the cover. What pyjamas had you even brought? No doubt nothing cute, probably your most stained, holey t-shirt, knowing your luck. You hide your head in your hands, not looking up as some of the team pile into the back room. They ask Penelope if you're okay, and she, to her credit, says that you were struggling with some of the stuff you'd seen that day. Luckily, the team accepts that explanation. That too, you weren't used to seeing so many graphic crime scene images in a day, even despite where you worked. Today was shaping up to be one for the books, something you would not forget in a hurry.

You keep curled into yourself in the back of the SUV on the drive to the hotel where the team was staying. There was a strong temptation to plead with Penelope to switch back. Technically, agents weren't supposed to stay in mixed-gender lodging; it was a HR violation for certain, but you could hear Morgan and Penelope chatting happily next to you and could not bring yourself to make them miserable just because you were. Spencer had agreed to room with you, so he could not be repulsed by you, surely. You would just have to immediately go to sleep and not say a word to him to avoid incriminating yourself. You were tired and upset; surely he would understand as much.

Once Hotch had handed out all the room keys, Spencer approached you with that familiar, awkward, tight-lipped smile. Not unhappy, just unsure. Nervous perhaps. He shows you his room key, the same number as on yours. He's already swapped with Morgan, who is heading with some of the others toward the hotel bar. There is a silent moment between you as you look down at your worn work shoes, feeling embarrassed by a peel in the faux leather. Cheap. You hadn't had money for much else before this job. Well, you had, you'd just spent it souping up your PC. At least it had paid off getting you this job.

"Do you want to uh… join them at the bar?" Spencer offers, fidgeting with the key in his hand. You swallow, feeling completely lame because, no, you didn't, as much as you knew it would be the sociable thing to do. You needed peace and quiet.

"No, but please, go join them, I don't mind if you get in late—"

"Don't worry, I didn't feel like it anyway, too much noise and alcohol," he chuckles to himself, eyes tracing the tension of your shoulders. He wants to ask if rooming with him makes you feel uncomfortable, but does not want to put you on the spot by asking you so. Instead, he's silent again, clearing his throat. After a few moments, you turn toward the elevator, and Spencer follows behind. As the two of you sail up to your floor, you catch sight of him standing behind you in the mirrored surface of the elevator. His hands are wrapped tightly around the strap of his satchel, the room key between his fingers. He's noticeably taller than you, and you look down to hide the blush that blooms at the thought. Some of the things you've read over the years flash through your mind, and you feel dirty for thinking these things so close to him. He follows diligently behind as you scurry down the hall to room 803. It's a twin room, a bed on each wall and a small bathroom near the room entrance. It's small, providing no relief from Spencer's presence as he stands behind you at the room's entrance, politely waiting for you to select your bed first. Usually, you would insist he chose first, but you're desperate to take a proper breath, so you scamper to the furthest bed, against the wall with the windows and place your bag on it. He makes his way to the other, satisfied with your choice.

The rest of your evening is spent trying your absolute hardest to pretend Spencer is not there. Though you would usually change straight into your pyjamas, you, of course, had not brought any bottoms, only an oversized t-shirt (luckily not quite your most well-loved one, although there did seem to be a mystery stain at its hem). You force yourself to go about your night routine in your work clothes, which feels abnormal and doesn't help you ignore Spencer's presence much. He seems content to do his own thing, unpacking his bag into the drawers of his bedside table. You brush your teeth and wash your face in the bathroom, trying your best to pull your hair back for bed in an attractive way, but feeling you look terrible whichever way you do it. In the end, you resign yourself to the messy bun. Some guys like that look, right? Spencer had changed into his nightwear while you'd been brushing your teeth. A flannel set. He looks cute, and you curse yourself when you notice you've been staring for a moment. He was more embarrassed than you were by far. He finally grew a little suspicious when you climbed into bed in your workwear.

"Did you not bring pyjamas?" he asks carefully, already looking through his bag to see if he brought spare to offer you.

"Uh… I did… sort of… I just don't have any… uh… bottoms," you croak, avoiding his eyes. Silence follows, then an audible swallow from Spencer, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Oh… that's okay… I can look away," he clears his throat, getting into bed and facing the wall, so close that his forehead is practically pressed to it. You almost want to giggle at the gesture, but you're too nervous. Fumbling, you change clothes under your covers as best as you can, then tuck yourself in so tightly you're certain no part of you other than your head is peeking out. At your signal, Spencer rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. After a pregnant pause, where both of you clearly want to speak but don't, Spencer sets up his clip-on reading lamp and selects a book to read. "I can turn the main light off?" he offers, his voice surprisingly fragile.

"Okay," you mumble, eyes flicking to him just as the room is plunged into darkness. It takes your eyes a little while to adjust, spotting the small glow of Spencer's reading light turn on, pages turning at Spencer's signature superhuman speed. You close your eyes and begin to count sheep, not knowing what else to do.

Several hours later, you still weren't asleep. Despite the exhaustion of the day, in the quiet and dark of the night, you were unable to shake the images you'd seen earlier that day from your mind. Typically, your job was just cross-referencing names on databases, breaking down firewalls, perhaps creating phishing links to fool particularly daft unsubs, not… what you'd been doing today. You were tired, painfully tired. Though you weren't sure of the exact time, it was certainly well past midnight, and the working day began again tomorrow at 8. You weren't used to this, and as the exhaustion grew deeper, your thoughts began to turn more defeatist, spiralling without an end in sight. You weren't cut out for this job, you wouldn't amount to anything, you were a disappointment, no one would ever love you. Late-night classics that always snuck in when you were at your most vulnerable. You knew what was happening, yet you were powerless to stop it, your mind prodding expertly at your weakest spots. In an effort to distract yourself, you turned to your usual nightly tactic, placing yourself in romantic scenarios, playing them out in your head. The first few attempts you made at settling on a scenario, it was Spencer who kept popping into your mind as the love interest. It felt a little shameful on a normal day, but with him lying mere feet away from you, it felt downright immoral to imagine him like this. With great force, you changed the man in your head into a character from your favourite TV show. Sure, the character was an awful lot like Spencer, but it was the best you could do for now.

None of your usual hits were working to keep you distracted from your darker thoughts. The 'one bed' trope, a usual favourite of yours, felt particularly dangerous at the moment, causing another wave of shame to go through you. God, if Spencer only knew what you were thinking right now, he'd hate you. He'd be knocking on Morgan and Penelope's door, willing to sleep on their floor to get away from you. You felt pathetic. Wrong. It was a feeling that had come over you many times during your life, but now it felt especially suffocating. The idea of quitting your job at the BAU after this case even crossed your mind, just to save Spencer from you. You weren't good enough for this job anyway. You weren't sure how you had tricked Penelope into taking you on as her on-call substitute, but you had somehow. Surely, your house of cards would crumble any day now. No more job, friends, money, anything.

A whisper of your name snaps your eyes open. It's Spencer, voice soft and concerned. His reading light is still glowing weakly in the dark, an open book on his chest. He'd heard the change in your breathing, the sniffles you'd been trying to keep quiet. It was only then that you processed the wet tracks on your cheeks. You'd been crying. For who knows how long now. The thoughts had certainly been spiralling for a good while. Out of embarrassment, you try your best to even out your breathing, but it's too little too late. You take a gulp of air, flinching at the hiccup that leaves your throat. A long exhale from your mouth.

"Yes?" The weak quality of your reply makes you cringe. You clear your throat. "Yes?" It's a little less shaky now, but still, it is obvious that something was the matter.

"Are you… crying?" he asks as delicately as he can, trying to pick out your expression in the dark. You're mostly hiding behind your duvet, so he can't make out what's going on. He certainly heard you crying, as bad as he can be at reading moods sometimes, he is fairly certain of that. A long silence stretches between you. You can't exactly deny it; it's obvious that you have been crying, but admitting it out loud feels far too embarrassing, so you elect instead to stay quiet. Traitorous as ever, your body forces you to sniffle, demanding a clear airway to breathe through. Hidden behind your duvet, you carefully wipe your nose. "Please… what's wrong?" Spencer sits up and switches on the main light. Both of you immediately recoil at the harsh artificial sun, and he switches it straight back off, electing instead to turn on his bedside lamp, which is far dimmer, its light funnelled downward by its shade. He's looking over at you, and you feel pathetic hiding behind your duvet like you are, but you feel unable to face him like this. Subtly, you try to dry your cheeks.

"I just can't sleep," you mumble. It isn't a lie; you have been trying to sleep for hours now, and you were very tired. But of course, it wasn't the main reason behind your tears. Spencer's eyes remain on you. You can't tell if he buys your explanation or not. He seems to take a moment to think.

"That can be… very frustrating… is it my lamp that's keeping you up?" he fretted, rustling around to turn off his portable reading lamp. You shake your head, because frankly, in all your ruminating, you'd hardly noticed the light at all.

"No,"

"Well, I'll turn it off anyway, just in case," he swallows, tucking the lamp away into his satchel by the bed, desperate not to be the cause of your upset. Then, he turns to look at you properly, smiling at the sight of you peeking nervously out from beneath your duvet, like a shy little creature. A kitten, perhaps.

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment, although Spencer repeatedly glances away and then back to you. You worry you're making him uneasy, but really, your gaze is making him nervous. In a good way. He realises that he's managed to distract you from crying, which is an improvement, but you still need to sleep. Uncomfortable in the silence and wanting desperately to help, he can't stop himself from opening his mouth.

"If you’re having trouble with sleep onset, we could try a somatic relaxation technique to lower your cortisol, or I could see if they have any chamomile tea around here since the apigenin binds to brain receptors to reduce anxiety. It usually works for me when my mind won't quiet down, which is... fairly often. I like to read as well… when I can't sleep. I could lend you one of my books! Reading can reduce cortisol levels by 68 percent because it forces the brain into an altered state of consciousness that eases muscle tension and lowers your heart rate—" he cuts himself off when he hears another soft sniffle. You hadn't meant to interrupt him; you liked his little rambles, but you'd needed to clear your nose. In the dim light, you can't see the blush on his cheeks from the realisation that he'd just been talking at you when you really needed to sleep. He clears his throat, turning to look at you again. With his eyes now more adjusted to the dim lighting, he can see the exhaustion on your face, the need for distraction from whatever it was that was clearly on your mind. There's a warmth in his chest, a wholly unfamiliar urge to crawl into that bed beside you. It reminds him of something he read the other day. Like usual, the words slip out without much consideration. "A 2007 study published in the Journal of Sleep Research found that the release of oxytocin and prolactin during physical intimacy significantly reduces cortisol and accelerates sleep onset—" He finally hears himself, his cheeks going bright red and his voice falling away. "Uh… I mean…" he coughs, trying to hide the squeak in his voice. He did not just say that. He was having a bad dream, surely.

"Physical intimacy?" you clarify, voice soft and confused. Was he…? No, it was just a fact he remembered, you were reading too much into it, cursing yourself for the images flashing through your mind. He wouldn't want to do that with you. But boy, did you want it. It was disgraceful how fast your body was reacting to the idea of physical intimacy with Spencer, but you couldn't stop it. You were touch-starved, desperate. It took significant effort not to start whining and begging. Just as you were beginning to consider excusing yourself to the bathroom to get off (Spencer was right, it would help you sleep), he spoke again.

"I'm so sorry, that must have made you really uncomfortable, I—" he's clearly panicking, and even through the haze of your sudden arousal, you feel the urge to reassure him.

"No, it's okay, physical intimacy would probably help… that's just science, right?" you joke weakly, trying not to make it noticeable that you are clenching your thighs together beneath the duvet. Spencer exhales heavily. Relieved? You hope so.

"Yeah, that's the science, the Journal of Sleep Research is pretty reputable," he chuckles, fiddling with the edge of his duvet. The urge to join you in your bed from before is stronger now at your casual reaction. He could see the shape of your body under your duvet, shifting slightly. As he remembers that you aren't wearing any pyjama bottoms, he's mortified at the speed at which his cock decides to wake up. You'd always had this strange magnetic effect on him. When he found out he'd be rooming with you, he was worried this would happen. He'd been doing so well, staying so in control… until now. He pulls up his knees in the hopes of concealing the predicament from you. "Uh… do you want to try it?" he blurts, a simple question that knocks the air out of both of your lungs. The implication is clear, and once again you must fight to keep in a whine. Is he messing with you? He's not the type, but this suggestion… it also seems unlike him.

"What?" you stammer, trying to figure out if you just hallucinated those words, as it seemed the most plausible explanation. Spencer coughs, strongly considering pretending he said something else. But the way your body is shifting, the tiny glimmer of hope is enough.

"I could uh… touch you," he offers nervously.

"Yes," you can't stop the response from shooting out of you like a bullet. Perhaps you had fallen asleep and were now in a surprisingly vivid wet dream. At the very least, you should be allowed to enjoy it. With comparable speed, Spencer is crawling into your bed, slipping under the duvet with you. His forwardness makes you tremble in excitement. He smiles down at you, nervous sweat beading at his temples. This isn't something he normally does, but he feels desperate; he wants to touch you, take away whatever is paining you, help you sleep soundly. The way you're looking up at him makes his stomach swoop, nervous, excited, expectant. Emboldened by the thought that you may simply be dreaming, you wrap your trembling arms around Spencer's neck, to which he responds in kind by wrapping his arms around your waist. His whole body jolts as if electrocuted when his palm makes contact with bare skin, where your sleep shirt has ridden up. He smiles shyly, his hand hesitating before settling there on your skin. His heart is pounding, breathing growing shallow from sheer excitement. His body is tense, deliberately not pressing against yours, but he melts immediately as you shift closer, pressing himself against you. The feeling of him against your thigh, warm and hard, has a pleasant shiver running through you. He's into this, into you, you can feel it. You're not dreaming, and Spencer is really here, slowly and anxiously trailing his hand down from your waist to your thigh. He wants to touch you, feel you, make you feel good. "You want to touch me," you exhale in disbelief. Ordinarily, you'd be humiliated by the outburst, which so obviously reveals your lack of sexual activity, but Spencer is just smiling that timid yet earnest smile.

"I do," he chuckles breathlessly, toying carefully with the slightly frayed edge of your panties. It comforted you greatly that he didn't seem to mind your state of dress. In fact, he was looking at you like you were the most desirable thing on this earth, like he could hardly believe he was worthy of touching you. It felt ridiculous to you how he could be so excited by you, but you didn't want to discourage him. Not when you'd been thinking about this practically every day since you met him, even when you'd been trying to convince yourself you weren't. You reach down, wriggling yourself out of your panties, relishing in the stutter in Spencer's breath. He moves away the duvet, wanting to see you, which diminishes your confidence just a little. As the duvet ruffles the air around you, you catch a whiff of yourself. It's nothing offensive, but it is stronger than usual from your arousal, and you flinch, embarrassed by the scent. Spencer takes a deep breath, the scent going straight to the primal part of his brain, his cock twitching against your hip, his arousal deepening. "You smell good," he mumbles, his hand finding your waist again. "I've never been this…" he trails off with a shy laugh, not quite ready to say it. There's always been something about you, something special, that brought out that primal part of him. As much as he wanted to give in to those new urges, he knew the point here was to help you sleep. He would have to be gentle.

Slowly, his hand travels down to your stomach, then your abdomen, and then even lower. Despite extensive anatomical knowledge, he's a little unsure whether he'll be successful in pleasing you. He takes another deep breath and looks to you for confirmation that he can continue. You look back up at him, eyes wide and pupils blown, even in the dim light. As his fingertips trace a little lower, you whimper, and he cannot hold himself back, desperate to hear more. His hand slips between your thighs, finding you wet and warm, clearly aroused. His touch featherlight, he runs his fingers up and down your folds a few times, acquainting himself with the area, his whole body shuddering. You can't stop the gasp you let out at his touch, the way your body immediately leans into the contact as if quenching a years-long thirst. Finding your clit with surprising ease (why did most men complain about this exactly?), he begins gently rubbing the pads of his fingers back and forth, gentle, but firm enough for it to do something. He drinks up your little moans, soft and breathy, your legs parting just a little to better accommodate him. Your body was tense, hips already lifted off the mattress and twitching with his touch.

"Relax," he urged softly, his back and forth blurring into a soft circling motion. "Just breathe, I want you to feel good." You nodded, your body still wound tight with anticipation. You forced yourself to relax onto the bed, letting the moans spill from between your lips. The touch was soft, yet overwhelming, pleasure radiating out from your core into your entire body like sweet thick syrup. You could think of little else but Spencer as he looked down at you, his breaths short, eyes twinkling as he watched you with rapt attention. As much as Spencer wanted to let go, he knew this would be the most relaxing pleasure he could offer you, and at this hour of night, as much as he wanted more, his priority was helping you sleep. He focused his circles a little tighter, still not pressing too hard. "Close your eyes, there you go, you look so pretty," he whispers. "Does it feel good?" he urges, his fingers working deftly, never letting up, never faltering. Trying your best to nod, you whimper, whimpering once more as his free hand hooks around your waist to hold you close, briefly adjusting his angle. The gentle hold on you feels almost as arousing as the delicious pressure on your clit, the closeness, the feel of his heartbeat against your arm. His fingers trace maddening circles on your skin, his forehead falling to yours, drinking in every shiver and moan you have to offer him as he finally picks up his pace. The change is enough to drive you crazy, your hips beginning to twitch once more, legs shaking. "You're doing so well, just let it happen," Spencer whispers, feeling the tension spreading through your body, the slightly higher pitch of your beautiful moans. He keeps his fingers moving whichever way makes you react the most, determined to give you your much-needed orgasm. He can feel you pulsing beneath his fingertips, the feeling bringing him the lewdest thoughts he'd ever had in his life.

"Spencer!" you moan in desperation just as your body thrashes, your hips snapping up from the mattress, tremors running through your body. Heat spreads through you, along with a feeling of bliss so heavy it's like nothing you remember. Spencer keeps his forehead to yours, telling you over and over to breathe. His fingers remain circling your clit, but slower, gentler now. Your cunt pulses, twitching at each delicate brush over your swollen clit, a hum starting from deep within your chest. Once your body has finally ceased its jolting, you relax into the mattress, trying to gather your breath. His hand sits motionless against you, feeling the radiating warmth, his eyes closed. He wants nothing more than to sink inside of you, imagining just how warm and wet you'd feel around him, but he controls himself, because it's worked.

He can hear your breath slowly but surely deepening as you lie there together, your muscles relaxing. Your exhaustion is getting to you, just as he'd planned it to. He has a million things he wants to do, a million things he wants to ask, but he has to stop himself. You need sleep. He needs it too, but he will have to give himself a while to lose his erection first. That will be difficult with you curled up beside him, but his arm is still under you, holding you close, and he finds he wants to stay close, even if it means putting off his sleep. Your voice jolts him from his thoughts.

"Thanks, Spencer," you slur with a tired smile, tucking yourself against him as he doesn't seem to be pulling away. "It was very generous of you to help me sleep like that."

"It was selfish, actually," he chuckles, his nerves slowly returning.

"There are many more selfish things than getting someone off," you giggle, eyes drooping. "Sorry, I can't return the—"

"No, the point was for you to sleep," he cuts you off, though, based on what time it is, neither of you would be much use at work tomorrow, no matter what. Still, you deserve the rest.

"Can I come to you every time I can't sleep from now on?" you tease, drowsiness lowering your inhibitions. He nods against your hair. "That would be like… every night, you realise?"

"That's alright," he swallows. "I usually sleep pretty late anyway, I'd be happy to stay up and uh… help," he smiles to himself, a little smug as what he's done sinks in. You've practically fallen asleep already, head on his shoulder, mouth hanging ajar, soft purrs puffing out. "From now on, I only want to room with you," he whispers into the dark night, before closing his eyes as well.

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You gulped at the rather ominous aura he was emitting but gathered all your courage nonetheless and pointed a shaking finger on his book.

"Do you...do you like the book?"

"What?"

Hugo did not know if he found this situation incredulous, stupid or both. But, he proceeded to roll his eyes and continued reading.

"Why do you care? Do I know you?"

"No. Right, sorry."

And with that, you looked like a kicked kitten and started tottering away, probably regretting or feeling guilty about disturbing his peace until...

'BARK! BARK!'

"AHHH GO AWAY! Bad dog!! This is mine!"

A random dog barked at your direction, eyeing the peanut butter cracker in your hands. And well, as if you could not have ruined his day even more, you jumped and tried to run from the dog (which was a bad idea, but hey, you were panicking). In your jumpiness, your leg then hit the trash can beside Hugo's bench and in turn spilled its contents on the man's pants.

"What the fuck..."

"AHHH NO, I'M SORRY!!"

You, who just threw your little snack on the opposite way as far as possible which made the dog chase it, looked around only to find yourself in another horrendous situation.

Welp, life doesn't want you to have wins for atleast once, huh?

As if his glare could not become colder, Hugo's eyes were even sharper, as if they were out to kill you just through a glare making you panic. So, you did what you do best, grab a ton of your wet wipes and your whole wallet and spilling it on the bench beside him.

"Here you can have them! Uhhh as payment for the pants! Oh goodness, I'll clean it-"

You picked up a few of the wet wipes to start cleaning his pants, but he just dismissed your hand before standing up, dusting off the food residue on his pants that came from the trash bin.

And so, that is where the rest continued on.

Usually, in romance books and dramas, the main female lead would fall into either the arms of her love interest, or atleast ontop of him, inciting a kiss right?

Well, let's just say you would have preferred either one of them much better rather than your current position.

Hugo was facing the floor, and you were ontop of him...with your face on his butt. After catching yourself and the very VERY embarassing position, you stood up and started to curse yourself in your head before turning to the poor mysterious man.

"I'M SO TRULY SORRY SIR! I don't know what's going on with me today! Let me help-"

"No. Leave me alone, god fucking damn it. You are a hurricane of a woman. Just... get your clumsy ass out of here before you do something worse."

You watched as he picked himself up before truly walking away, leaving you kneeling on the floor. Half angry and half ready to cry.

Yes, what happened was unfortunate and all, but he didn't need to be so rude! Sniffing and telling yourself to remain strong, you stomped on the floor, glaring through angry and glassy eyes at his direction.

"He's such a jerk. I'm so happy I don't know him in real life. Hmp!"

No, no, NO.

Hugo could not help the glare of disgust and annoyance that left him the moment his eyes caught a familiar figure.

It was a Sunday, meaning he had no practice and for a small treat, he decided to take his lunch on a nearby restaurant around town.

Until, his eyes glanced at the table beside his. You. You suddenly appeared out of nowhere and decided to take the table beside his!

He was ready to bolt and find a new seat, only to find the place already full. And he already placed his order.

...

He sighed and just accepted his fate. Surely, that day he 'met' you was just a bad day. Bad first impression, whatever.

Though, he does cringe a bit at your order. A pile of pancakes with fruits and syrup as toppings, a huge milkshake, a piece of strawberry cake and a box of macarons.

Can someone consume that much sugar and not die?

Hugo just turned his head, deciding to focus on his phone rather than the familiar stranger beside his table. Until, well, a head hit his, hard.

"What the..."

"Ow- Ahhh! I'm sorry - Wait - it's YOU!"

Seeing as both your chairs and his were back to back with each other, just one tilt of your head backward had your heads bumping to each other.

You turned your head to apologize only to grow pale the moment you noticed the familiar pair of glaring eyes.

"Yeah, its me. Now go focus on your food, dumbass."

"Hey! I just wanted to say sorry! Atleast I'm being polite, like you!"

"Is moving like a caterpillar and tilting your head back hard knowing someone is behind you considered polite? I didn't think so."

"Well, glaring and cursing a normal citizen who wants to help you is not polite either, so you can't talk."

"When did I say I was polite? Besides, who could blame me, a victim of a clumsy hurricane like you?"

The rest of the customers and even some of the waiters started watching the spectacle as you two started getting quite heated, well at least you were, seeing as even in anger, Hugo's voice remained ever cold, almost calm.

How did this encounter end, you may wonder?

Well, it ended the moment you both were kicked out of the restaurant for disrupting the peace. And well, the video may or may not have gone viral, with Hugo receiving tons of calls from the Team's PR manager and his own personal manager.

"Do not EVER call her my friend."

"Geez, my bad, man. I just thought since you both are always together-"

"Not by my choice. She just always happen to be where I am. I'd be convinced she's my stalker if I didn't know she's an idiot who gets lost because she doesn't know left or right."

Loki laughed at that. He has never seen Hugo this infuriated or talkative before. But you just seemed to know how to get under his skin and boil his blood to the point that the midfielder could not help but just rant it out.

The two watched as you and Charled started laughing like little gremlins as you mixed dozens and dozens of candy packs into one popcorn bowl. Speaking of, where did you two even- Whatever.

Hugo glared at your figure, watching you exchange slaps on the back with his fellow midfielder. Tsk, not only were you clumsy and nerdy, but you were also childish? Color him shock, note the sarcasm.

Hugo had never felt this much...annoyance at someone's mere existence. He prided himself in being logical, in control, and adaptable.

But dear God, do you make his spine crawl in uncomfortable anger. Just seeing you, made his blood pressure rise seemingly. Heck, even the mere mention of your name had him glaring.

And the hate was not unreasonable. Oh no, he had two reasons.

Firstly, how in the word are you always there wherever he is? If he knew you were not directionally challenged, he would have long hired a private investigator to see if you were in some way, a fan turned stalker. But no, it was all pure coincidence.

After all his years of acknowledging fate, this is his reward?

And finally, how can someone be so clumsy, so unlucky, so...destructive? Like he remembered that one time where you were doing nothing, just sitting and all until a cat suddenly passed by and pooped on your shoes.

Or that one time you let your curiousity win over you and you put your head through the gap of a balcony bearing that ended in him having to call the mall maintenance crew to have you freed.

Or that time you spent five hours. Five hours straight yapping his ear off with the history of the Roman Empire. Even getting down to the nitty-gritty details like how the Ancient Romans used the bathroom.

Truly, you were a rare specimen. One that should not be experimented or observed, but avoided to hopefully not get oneself involved in the aftermath of whatever shenanigans may happen intentionally or unintentionally around you.

He tried avoiding you. Rarely leaving his house, pretending you never existed when he saw you, heck even praying to anyone to stop the fateful encounters. Yeah, it was that bad.

Though, did anything happen?

Well, considering that you were literally here infront of his eyes, doing peacock dances with his teammate, he considered that a huge no.

Meanwhile, in Loki's mind, this whole thing was not only entertaining, but also beneficial for Hugo.

The man is well...him. So closed off, so strict on anything and everything, so reliant on a predetermined fate.

But now, here he was, facing you. A hurricane of life that Hugo could never predict or adapt to. Maybe that was why he supposedly 'hated' you, the striker hypothesised.

You are an enigma. Something Hugo's eyes and brain could never understand nor adapt to fully. Just as the midfielder thought he had everything about your intents and mindset calculated and noted down, you would suddenly do something entirely new that would rewire his system causing it to shut down and restart progress again.

Though, contrary to the midfielder's own belief, Loki could see that the challenge was deeper than just him finding you annoying.

"Oi, don't go there. There's tons of stray cats there, your shoes might get shit on it again."

"Oh pft! That's nothing! That was just conincidence."

You shrugged it off, leaving a glaring Hugo who caught the back of your shirt and started dragging you the oppositw way letting you yowl out about how he could not control your choice to want to be with the cats.

Loki snickered at the interaction, his eyes filled with an expression that feels like he knows something no one does.

Or maybe, it was something everybody but you and Hugo does not know of.

"I like her. She's so fun. Though, I don't know why Hugo doesn't like it when we meet her. Does he hate her that much?"

Charles wondered beside Loki watching you be dragged away by an exasperated Hugo. The team captain just shrugged, patting the blonde's shoulder.

"Its not that he hates her. I think its quite the opposite really, but I don't think Hugo is ready for that conversation yet."

"Did you know that Romans had public bathrooms where everyone does their business next to each other-"

"You told me that many times before. Now, shut up."

You frowned at his words, before following his figure that started walking back to the mall. It was one of those days again where fate seemed to toy with both of you.

He was just out on a jog, before prompting to head to the mall to pick up a few of his necessities until he bumped into you. You just left the bookstore, having found a few comics and mangas to your liking when you met the midfielder again.

And of course, you approached him. Truthfully, no matter how rude he was, you still liked his company. All your life, you never had any friends because of well...because you were you. Clumsy, dumb and destructive you.

Yes, you have long accepted that you will be a lonely loser for your whole life, but that did not mean that you never felt lonely.

Until he came along. Yes, Hugo was an asshole, a piece of work, but atleast he was genuine. He said the things people say behind your back, but he would say in front of your face.

His tone, emotionless, but there was no poison behind them. He did not mock you nor did he feel disgusted by you, instead, it just felt like he was stating facts about yourself when he mentioned how clumsy and annoying you were.

Maybe, this whole thing was toxic or not sustainable, that you were probably reading things too optimistically. But, for the first time, you weren't alone. You weren't mocked. You weren't nonexistent.

So, you clung to this. To him.

"Booo, you're boring! No wonder Charles complains about you!"

At the mention of Charles' name, his glare deepens, his back turning to face you even more to hide the clear annoyance in his face.

"Then go talk to Charles or whatever."

"Oh, I soooo will! He's so much better than you anyway. He actually talks with me and listens to what I say."

"Ugh, you annoy me."

And of course, he walks away again. Like a fucking coward-

Wait, what? A coward? What was he even afraid of anyways?

Hugo does not do scared. He does not back away when he knows he can face the situation, that has always been one of his strengths.

But, why can't he face you right now? Why is it that every time you mentioned how better Charles was compared to him, he recoiled in his own mask of nonchalance?

All his life, Hugo acknowledged that he was not born to be the best of the best. No, he was an important stepping stone to those who had the talent to be one. A supporting character to the eventual main character.

That was not so bad, in his mind. To be the key to the prodigies of the world. After all, without a stepping stone, they would fall. Without a supporting character, the main character will fail. He was just as important as those who are in the lead.

Yet, why is it that he always feels more annoyed when he was not the main character in your eyes? Why did he feel like grating his teeth earlier when you kept mentioning Charles?

Truly, you were such an enigma that he has yet to solve. But, he will. Oh, one day he will solve your stupid self one day.

And hopefully, solve this stupid, grating feelings too. Because, as much as you do get under his skin, this...thing feels painful, more bitter than the fluttery and buttery emotions he felt for you.

"AHHH!"

You squealed the moment you saw a dog pass by you and started growling at your figure. Ah of course, you just had to ruin his self-reflection moment, huh?