Angie Flynn hated Valentine's Day, but maybe this year was going to be different. Fluff.
So I was going through my old stories and came across this one, written ages ago. Not sure why I never posted it, but anyhow. Just one simple moment during Christmas.
Everything changed in one week. Monday, he placed his hand on the small of her back. Tuesday, he held her hand. Wednesday, whenever he stood next to her, she couldn't breathe. Thursday, he kissed her. And Friday, nothing. But sometimes nothing can lead to smut. One-shot.
It's Christmas time and our favorite detectives have to work. Good thing for presents and mistletoe.
She had her flaws and he had his faults and neither of them was perfect, but they were perfect for each other. Flynn and Vega One-shot.
He knew instantly that tiger lilies were the right choice, knew the moment the florist had informed him that they meant 'dare you to love me,' and that was exactly what he was going to do; he was going to dare Angie Flynn to love him. (FLUFF)
He loves her, and that is the beginning of everything. This is what he will tell his daughter, when she asks about her mother...
Giving up didn't mean she was weak, it meant that she was strong enough to let him go, or so she told herself.
Oscar Vega liked to pretend that he was an opened book, one in which, he wished Angie Flynn would read.
He was actually jealous of a pen. How ridiculous was that? A god-damn pen, which he might add, dangled deliciously between a sexy pair of lips.
She is an island, he the shore. What lies between them, no less, no more.
The end of a case causes Flynn to reexamine her feelings for her partner. One-Shot. Fluff.
They never talk about it. There's nothing to say, really. She hates to sleep alone and he likes the way she feels in his arms. It's that simple.
It began just as sex. Two friends finding comfort in one another, but it quickly involved into something deeper, something real, and it resembled something that could promise forever. A Five Part Arc on the evolution of the Flynn and Vega relationship.
He could only describe it as gravity; that force that always drew them together.
She is small and needy, and he is everything that feels like home, and everything she doesn't deserve.
He stared at her vacant chair, wondering yet again for about the millionth time, if he should leave the letter on her desk. It just wasn't them, to be so impersonal, but she was barely speaking to him these days, leaving him little choice; he had to at least try, he was desperate.
How does one move forward when all they do is stand still?