#anyway. I’m hoping to finish him up tomorrow | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nereidprinc3ss · 4 months ago

Text

hourglass

in which spencer disappears from fem!reader's life entirely for three months, right as it seems they were finally about to make things official. when he comes back they reunite, all the while knowing things can't be the same as they were.

18+ (smut, angst) warnings/tags: oh god so many. NOT canon compliant in the slightest, i make shit up, softdom!spence, nipple stuff prob, fingering, oral f receiving, piv sex, unprotected sex, pet names, tara mentioned, depression, mentions of trauma cause its the prison arc duh, passing mentions of alcohol, mentions of spencer losing weight, reader mistakenly thinks spencer tried to kill himself BUT ONLY FOR A SECOND, where is diana reid, nobody knows or cares, probably filming glee, optimistic ending a/n: haven't posted smut in forever but this wip required it and the angst was so angsty i just had to finish it. it was started in jan or feb and subsequently added to and changed months apart and then edited so the writing quality varies from section to section which i apologize for. originally based on good guy by julia jacklin... also the odyssey by homer? can't really explain that one you'll just have to see for yourself anyway byeeee ilysm!!! PLS tell me if you liked it! or if you hated it! but preferably if you liked it! MWAH! wc <12k

It’s been about three months since you last saw Spencer Reid.

About three months since you had an early Valentine’s Day celebration (even though you weren’t a couple) complete with champagne (even though he doesn’t usually drink) and slow dancing (even though you swore you’d be terrible and he spent the first ten minutes laughing at you as you stepped on his toes.)

About three months since you finally settled your head on his shoulder and let the warbling vinyl carry you somewhere distant as the two of you danced slow circles on the parquet floor for what felt like hours.

You’d have liked him to stay later that night. You’d have liked him to stay all night if you were being honest with yourself, but at 11:45 he gently pulled away and told you he had to go.

“Curfew?” you joked, the corner of your mouth lifting a little and you hoped you were hiding your disappointment well.

“Actually, I’m going down to Texas for a few days to speak with one of the leading doctors in experimental Alzheimer's and dementia treatment. I’m going to see if he can get my mom into a clinical trial. I leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing, Spencer! What are you doing still here? You should be at home getting ready to go!”

A rosy blush stains his cheeks and he looks down at the ground, laughing that little self-deprecating laugh of his. It makes your heart dance to see him so happy, makes you want to wrap your arms around him and never let him go so that he knows how much you absolutely adore him—but you settle for an affectionate squeeze where your hands have come to rest on his biceps.

“I wanted to see you tonight because I won’t be here for Valentine’s Day... but I still really wanted to spend it with you,” he admits meekly.

If before your heart was dancing, it is now melting.

The dreaded ‘what are we’ talk has been lurking in the dark corners of every conversation you have with each other lately—at least, in your mind it has. What you have with Spencer is not easily defined, and near impossible to explain to your friends—you act like a couple, you go out on dates, he introduces you to his team like you’re his girlfriend without ever putting it into so many words—but this validation that your pseudo-relationship might be evolving is better than any flowers he could have gotten you (although the peonies he brought will look very nice on your bedside table.)

“Four whole days... what will I do without you?” you whisper, brushing a hand along his face, and your chest aches with the heavy truth of it—despite the fact that he often is gone for stretches about that length. They don’t ever start to feel shorter.

“Well, you can start by reading that copy of The Odyssey I annotated for you.”

“Depressing,” you admit. “And a little ominous, considering you’re about to embark on a hero’s journey.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he smiles.

You chew on your bottom lip, looking up at him as you think.

“Give me something to look forward to,” you say, earnestly.

“I—well, honestly, I just really want to kiss you and I’ve wanted to for a long time now and, you know, if that’s something you’re maybe also interested in then we could, uh, figure out a time to—”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Wh—you couldn’t tell?” Spencer says, like he can’t believe it.

As if on reflex, you lunge up and capture his lips with your own. It obviously catches him by surprise, but when you lower from your tiptoes he follows you, pulling you in closer and holding your face in his hands.

It’s too natural, too right, to be exhilarating. There’s no rush of adrenaline—it's more like stepping into a hot bath or warming your freezing hands at a fire. Like pieces clicking into place. It’s a relief.

You breathe into it, letting more and more of yourself melt against him. He keeps coming back to you deeper and deeper like a rising tide, and you want more than anything to keep getting closer to him—but then he stops. He stays close enough for you to breathe his air, but dodges your kiss gently before supplanting it with a gentle one to the corner of your mouth.

“I really have to go,” he breathes, before moving away from your mouth to kiss your forehead and speak softly against your skin. “If I don’t leave now I’ll be here all night.”

Which is exactly what you want, and the implication does little to make you want him less. But you care about him too much to be so selfish.

At some point, his hands found their way into your hair, and you gently grab his wrists.

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

At first when he stopped answering texts, you’d assumed he just had too much going on down in Texas. Which you could understand—you knew how stressful this situation with his mother was.

Even when four days came and went without even an alert from him that he was back in town, you thought, okay, maybe he’s been called away on a case. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s disappeared because of his work. But even then, he’d at least text you enough information so that you would know he was alive. Now, radio silence.

So you tried not to be clingy. You tried to act like an adult, to focus on school and your life outside of Spencer, but when Tara Lewis cancelled your weekly meeting due to an “unforeseen work-related emergency”you called her immediately. Tara was something of a mentor, and it was she who had connected you and Spencer to begin with. You had met the other members of his team by that point, yes, but none who you knew as well as Tara.

When she had informed you that Spencer had been arrested in Mexico and was now facing prison time for murder, you laughed.

Laughed until you realized her end of the line was silent.

Realized it was not at all a joke.

In a catatonic state of tranquility, you asked her for more details. Beyond assuring you of his innocence, she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) provide them. Asked where he was now. Asked all the right things that made sense to ask.

Then you hung up and had a panic attack because Tara said something about 25 years and you saw Spencer evaporate from your future like an apparition.

Slowly, you felt him evaporating from your past, too. Those memories from the night he left, became visions of you swaying with a ghost. Holding nothing but light between your hands as you kissed the peony air of your apartment.

He doesn’t want to see you, she had said into the phone one night, her tinny voice cutting in and out. You’re not on his list of approved visitors.

“You asked him about me?” you had whispered, curled up on top of your made bed in the dark.

I tried. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I know more.

All your days melded together like a muddied smear of paint. Suddenly you felt you had nothing to look forward to. No anchor, no goal. Yes, a PhD... and then what?

The only thing that punctuated one 24 hour period from the next was the time you spent crying because Spencer was in prison and he didn’t want to see you and by the looks of things you may never see him again. When you weren’t crying, you were thinking about how your life was a big cosmic joke. An unfortunate statistical anomaly that didn’t mean anything to anyone else, and that you couldn’t do anything about.

That copy of The Odyssey, which wasn’t even bound and instead was a thick stack of printer paper organized by a single black clip, became something of a manifesto for you—a tome that your poured over, reading and re-reading each note in the margins, each word beautiful and imbued with meaning because you knew Spencer had selected every single one specifically for you. You traced the letters reverently, because in a way this was the last thing he had said to you—about Lattimore’s faith to the original text, Merrill’s strict use of dactylic hexameter, the stylings of Wilson and Lombardo, and how he thought you would enjoy Hammond’s prose just as much as he did.

Day by day it was becoming more prophetic than fictional, and you allowed yourself to sink into madness. You would rather be a deluded zealot than be nothing at all.

He didn’t want to see you.

He might as well have been dead, for all that you were grieving him. And you started to hate him, because he wasn’t dead, but wouldn’t do you the kindness of proving it. Like a festering wound, scratched open day after day so as not to ever heal, you had to live knowing he was less than an hour away. So no, you weren’t exactly over it. You lived day by day, waiting for the occasional call from Tara to keep you updated on Spencer, but either she didn’t want to share much about how he was doing, or he had specifically barred her from doing so, because she was always sparse on the personal side of things. That thought actually lifted your spirits, because it meant he was at least acknowledging your existence in some tiny way.

But your routine was becoming more regular, and so you staid on top of your classes and your non-Reid related meetings with Tara once a week, and you learned to dip your toes into existential dread and the oily black pool of depression every night without ever fully submerging yourself. You learned hope, because it was pretty much all you had, and the BAU had confidence that they would get Spencer out one way or another so you did too.

So you didn’t really think about it when you missed a couple of calls from Tara some evening in May. You were preparing for finals and had way too much on your plate academically to think about anything else which was a welcome relief so you fully embraced it. I’ll call her back tomorrow, you think, as you clean up from dinner before going back to the living room where your textbooks and papers are completely covering every available surface. Maybe I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life after school, but I’ll be damned if I don’t even make it that far.

Hours later, well into the night, you’d all but forgotten about the calls. A knock at the door takes you a bit by surprise, and you frown as you stand again, tugging your Georgetown sweatshirt down over your shorts as you shuffle to the entrance of your apartment. You’re not expecting anyone, so you crack the door, peering around the edge of it.

And you couldn’t even consider trying to hide that shaky inhalation of dead air when you see Spencer standing on the other side.

Surely you’re hallucinating.

Surely this man in front of you who looks like he just got back from a day of work didn’t spend three months in prison pretending you didn’t exist.

He looks the same. Hair a bit longer, maybe—and gaunter even more than is normal for him.

But it's him.

You can’t think about the apprehensive look on his face—you can’t think about the impossibility of him being here. You can’t think at all. Without your explicit permission, your body surges forward into his, and he’s real, and alive, and warm, and he is an anachronism in the hallway as he accepts everything you pour into the embrace, doesn’t flinch when you move your arms from around his waist to loop around his neck and back to his waist again with crushing force because you just can’t get him close enough.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters into your hair, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, he keeps saying, rubbing your back as you try to find a solid grip on the sleek material of his suit—try to gather all the pieces of him, already afraid he might fall apart and float away again.

“You—dis—disappeared,” you hiccup after an eternity, pulling away enough to look up at his pretty face. Tears blur your vision and darken the front of his jacket, bending the florescent lights so they form a kind of halo above his head.

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

You scoff.

“You have no fucking idea, Spencer. What the fuck is wrong with you? I—I'm—”

The hot anger is such a relief for a second, boiling the oceans of your despair into a wrathful, scorching fog, but as soon as you try to tell him how you feel, the barbed wire cuts into your throat again. You shove him away, skin burning where his hands had been.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, hands hanging uselessly at his side. There’s that kicked puppy look about him—and it’s familiar, but now there’s more damage. You don’t know anything about his time in prison, you haven’t heard a damn thing, but beneath the glassy desperation in his eyes there is an unfathomable void that seems to be preventing him from being fully present—and you realize for the first time that he is different.

It chills you.

Before, you and Spencer shared everything. There wasn’t one part of his internal machinations that you didn’t understand, nothing you kept from each other. But as you study him now from a few feet away, you realize there might as well be a yawning chasm between the two of you.

He is so different.

Those eyes look deeper. No gears turning just behind the slashes of gold and brown anymore—only an endless dark corridor that goes places you will never go.

Gone is the perpetual boyish up-turn at the corner of his lips that always made him look slightly vacant in a way that you found incredibly amusing. Something you had been so fond of, even if you teased him.

He seems to have aged ten years—if not physically, then in demeanor. And now you feel like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

You cross your arms, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

You’re embarrassed. And pissed. And relieved. Everything is worse and better. You want to fall back into his arms, but you have been jarred by the revelation that this might not be the same Spencer. It might not be the same relationship. You have no idea where you stand.

He says your name gently, with so much familiarity you’re briefly jerked into the past. It makes you wish you could look up to find him as he was three months ago. Wish this was just a bad dream. But that’s not fair to him.

“Sorry,” you mutter, studying the grey carpet fibers instead of looking at him.

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says immediately, “you’re right. I don’t—” he clears his throat— “I’m being incredibly selfish. I shouldn’t have just shown up, I’ll just—I'll leave. I’m sorry.”

A silent moment passes.

You don’t look up as he turns and swiftly begins to move down the hall toward the stairway, leaving as quickly and silently as he had come, like a few bars of a song sighed in and away on a fleeting breeze.

Your bare feet are concretely planted, imagining him jogging down the steps and speed-walking away from your building—

And suddenly you’re sprinting after him, feeling like you might puke because Spencer was just here and you let him go again—and even though you’re still so mad and confused and hurt, the realization that he is leaving again makes the entire building spin and lurch.

“Wait!” You yell, almost wiping out as you run down the stairs and whip around corners in your slippery fucking socks. “Please, wait!”

The lobby is already empty as you spill out into it, and cold dread tightens around your neck like a fist as you shoulder your way through the double doors and right into Spencer.

“Please don’t leave again, you just—I'm sorry, I really need you to not go—” you blabber, lachrymose once more, gripping onto his forearms for dear life.

“I’m not going,” he breathes shakily. “I tried to leave because I think you were right and maybe I should and maybe it would be better for you but I can’t.”

“You can’t,” you agree, more sob than spoken word. He cups your jaw, then your cheeks, wiping tears and brushing away hair like he can’t figure out how to hold enough of you between his hands. The wild kaleidoscope of his eyes, bright and alive and real as he scans you desperately captures your attention enough to slow the tears to a trickle. He notices this and stares back, entranced.

A silent agreement is made, or maybe an inevitable fate is accepted—either way, something was set in motion three months ago and it matters to see it through. Spencer kisses you and you’re ready for it. You don’t need slow or tender. You need to feel how he feels. You need to know what he knows.

You sling your arms around his neck and he pulls you closer until you almost tip backward, chasing the bruising kiss even as you regain your footing. You want to drink him in and you do your best, breathing deeply as he kisses you deeper, backing you inside and toward the elevator.

“Is this okay?” he manages, only after blindly reaching for and mashing the up button on the wall panel.

Ideally it wouldn’t happen like this, but the world you live in obviously isn’t ideal and your personal situations as they coincide are far from ideal, so this is how it has to happen. But it’s hard to explain, and you’d rather not admit that this is so far from what you wanted for both of you and follow up with the fact that despite that you need him like you need water. So you don’t say a word as the metal doors slide open promptly. Instead you pull him in and let him press you to the chrome wall as he hits your floor button, and that very hand comes back to grab your ass like you didn’t think Spencer Reid capable of. It almost aches as his fingers dig into the flesh, but it’s a good ache because it means he’s real and he’s there.

You gasp as he hitches your leg up, arching into him. The shorts that you’re wearing leave very little to the imagination to begin with, but they become downright indecent like this.

Quickly the elevator stops and the doors hiss open. You don’t hesitate to pull Spencer by the hand down the hall. When you notice you left your door wide open, you don’t even care. Neither does he, apparently—once you’re inside he slams it shut, flipping the deadbolt while his eyes are glued to you like you’re already naked. Now Spencer is shameless in the way he drags his eyes over every curve, every place your clothes and hair are disheveled from his touch and eye-fucks you so obviously it makes your face warm. Three months ago Spencer would have at least been bashful about it when he met your eyes again, but this Spencer is far from apologetic as he pins you with his burning gaze once more. His hand stays stuck to the door like he’s holding himself back.

“Is this what you want?”

There’s an undercurrent of sorrow below the gravely arousal, like this isn’t what he wanted for the two of you either. But you’re both at the mercy of fate. This is all you have, and it might be all you can do for each other anymore. So you don’t need to say that, because he understands.

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

For just a second more he watches you from his place by the door, and there’s an unexpected softness to it. He looks at you the way he would have looked at you before. Like as long as he stays there he can entertain the idea of being that person again.

Need wins out quickly, though, and he surges forward. Immediately you’re caught in the riptide of him, helpless as he kisses you all the way to your bedroom.

He’s never been in here before. You find yourself glad it’s relatively clean—one of the pastimes you’d picked up in his absence was keeping everything tidy. It was something you could control.

A lamp glows at your bedside. You lean against the footboard of your bed, hands timidly behind your back and suddenly shy to have in him in your intimate space. Both of you set aside the heaving desperation long enough to catch your breaths, and for him to scan the room like he too is being forced to reconcile with the innate and unexpected intimacy of the moment. He cuts a harsh, dark gash in your sweetly decorated bedroom, radiating something wild and powerful and unsure of himself like a chained bull as he takes in the soft, pale bedding, the paintings and photos taped to the walls, the woven rug and the sheer drapery. His breathing slows as he studies it all—eyes eventually catching on something behind you. Looking is unnecessary. You’re sure he’s spotted the dried peonies in their ceramic vase. Or maybe the now worn stack of papers that is his Odyssey, marked up and soft around the edges from constant flipping-through.

Then Spencer looks at you, and that softness seeps in again. Along with something like... fear? Grief?

In some other universe your first time with Spencer is sweet and giggly and kind and he smiles at the decor in your room and looks around with wonder because it’s another way he gets to know you. It’s a different way to learn you from the inside.

You sense that he’s caught in between universes right now as well, painfully aware of what he would have given you that he can’t anymore.

He breathes your name like an apology, and foolishly you let a second go by in which you think he might offer you one. But he doesn’t. Not with his words, anyway. His eyes tell a different story.

“It’s fine,” you say unprompted on a whispered exhale, then a little louder as you push off the footboard, crossing the space until your hands are on his chest. You focus on his tie, not making eye contact as you rush to undo it. “It’s fine.”

He lets you do this for a few seconds before finally covering your trembling hands with his own. You still can’t meet his eyes.

“We don’t have to do—”

“No! No, please. I want to. I need—I need us to be okay.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your chin and forcing you to look at him. “We are okay. Me and you are fine.”

It’s a pretty thought, but it’s not true. In fact, it’s a hideous and abject affront to the truth. Sure, maybe you’re fine in comparison to last week. Maybe anything feels fine compared to an eight by six cell. But it would be impossible for you and Spencer, for your relationship, whatever that relationship may be, to be fine. It’s especially impossible for him to make that claim, after all he did or rather didn’t do while he was gone. What you need is for him to stay anyway. What you need is to find a way to be with him, to exist with him, even when you are so clearly not fine.

“I just need you to stay,” you whisper, and he’s already nodding, wide-eyed like he’d do anything for you. You ignore all the bitter venom rising in your throat. You pretend this isn’t all happening after he cut you out of his life with a dirty switchblade. Instead you focus on his hands on yours, the familiar smell of him, which invites you to let go of each and every thought and worry. He must’ve showered before coming here, you realize. How long has he been out? What happened?

“Okay. Okay, I can stay. What else can I do? How do I make it better?”

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

He hesitates, then nods some more, fingers working under yours to undo the tie around his neck.

“Okay.”

A moment goes by and after that final whispered word, the tension begins to build again. Spencer senses it in the way your fingertips linger on his chest and you step even closer, dragging them down to his belt. The metallic sound of it unbuckling, despite being your own doing, still manages to flip your stomach. How many times have you pictured this? When was the first time you realized you wanted it? You’re sure you haven’t stopped wanting it even once since then.

Spencer tosses the tie away and is shrugging off his jacket now, then before you see it coming he’s kissing you again, ducking down to do it. He feels taller this close up, and especially in your bedroom, where he just seems rather out of place. But you want him here. God, you want him here.

You break the kiss, forced to look down as you fumble with his belt.

“Sorry,” you gasp, embarrassed by your lack of dexterity. The light is barely sufficient to see what you’re doing, especially when he’s wearing black on black and your eyes are still bleary.

“You’re okay,” he assures you, and it’s so Spencer a fresh round of nerves electrifies the tips of your fingers. That thing is happening—the thing you’d hoped to avoid if you hadn’t lost momentum partway through, where you’re allowing your actual feelings for him to get in the way rather than getting swept up in the pathos of the moment and letting everything be easy and mindless. “Here, can I help you?”

But he doesn’t actually wait for an answer before he’s finishing off the belt for you, tugging it loose from his hips till it’s a leather coil in his hands. Your fingers brush the material and he lets you take it as if it were your prize. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be, and you just feel the weight of it in your hands for a moment, your dropped head brushing his chest.

You have a terrible feeling that if you do this now, it doesn’t mean everything will be alright. Because it can’t just go back to normal. Spencer has told you nothing of what must be an enormous trauma, and you haven’t spoken about it at all, but you sincerely doubt that after this he’s going to be ready to just jump into that committed relationship the two of you had been toying with for months before his absence. You’re almost... scared of him, now. Scared of where he’s been and what he’s endured—things you’re sure you couldn’t have taken. What that does to a person, you can’t imagine. He seems so solid and real in front of you now—but you know that’s not always enough. Maybe you’re just scared that somehow whatever he’s been through will have made him care for you less. That you were too far removed from the whole ordeal, and now you’ll never understand. If you could understand, maybe you could fix it for him. Maybe he’d stick around.

Still—even if you do end up pushing him further away in the long run—won't it have been worth it to have had him so completely, even just once?

You toss the belt to the ground, compressing all of these very complicated thoughts and feelings into a few seconds so short he can’t ask you any questions about them. Instead you find his top button, and just as you manage to undo it with relative ease he’s gently grabbing your wrists. You look up at him, immediately surrendering.

“If we’re going to do this I need you to relax a little bit.”

Gears grind in your chest. You feel need and anxiety comingling in every square inch of your body. It’s a sick buzz—a high on an empty stomach.

“I can’t,” you admit.

“Yeah, you can,” Spencer gently disagrees, slowly lowering your hands. When he’s sure you’re not going to try ripping his clothes off again, he releases, and his eyes lower to the zipper of your hoodie. His fingers follow, warm against the soft triangle of revealed skin at your chest as he grips the small piece of metal between barely shaking fingers. “You can.”

You match his eyeline, breathing shallowly and watching as he slowly drags the zipper down. You wonder if that sound has haunted his fantasies the way the sound of his belt has haunted yours. If he’s seen this hoodie on you and wondered what’s underneath, staring at you and daydreaming during movie night with you none the wiser.

Both of you have your eyes glued to the span of skin as the zipper parts. Spencer stalls with the zipper at your sternum, just below the band of your bra.

Right. No shirt.

You look up and find his eyes already on you, tinged with a curious kind of humor.

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

The words come out shy. Spencer’s chuckle has its own nervous airy quality as he resumes tugging on your zipper, leaning down until your noses bump.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Then he kisses you again, a little sweeter now. Sweet enough to give you butterflies and for them to flutter right out of your stomach and spill from your lips in a little whimper against his.

It comes as a surprise when he pushes the fabric from your shoulders without looking or asking. Not that you’d have said no—you're just underprepared for how assertive he is in this foreign context.

Left just in your flimsy shorts and your thin bra, you feel quite exposed—but Spencer’s hands are as demanding and hungry as his mouth. They skim up your sensitive sides and sweep lower, suggesting less proper placement over your ass and pulling at your bottoms until you gently put a stop to their wandering.

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

It’s a struggle to get any words out at all when he keeps chasing your lips, nipping at you like he physically can’t stand not kissing you, but they catch his attention and he laughs airily, pulling back to let his gaze pour over your less clothed form. It lingers and catches and lights you up everywhere it touches, drops of heat soaking into your skin and making you feel all fuzzy and needy.

“We are,” he acknowledges, tone low and colored with the faintest smile. “You’re a lot prettier without your clothes on than I am.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The challenge comes immediately and thoughtlessly. Spencer’s golden eyes flash up to yours. He’s breathing a little harder than usual.

“You want me to show you what I mean?”

If that means getting him naked, then yes, absolutely.

You nod, but rather than immediately stripping, he takes your hand and holds his own open next to it. A thick pink scar bisects some pretty significant palmistry lines, but you don’t mention that. Instead you swallow—your thoughts, your words, your nausea.

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

It sounds almost like he’s challenging you—there's a kind of tremulous force in his voice, despite the perpetual softness there, like he’s inviting you to say it’s ugly. And you realize he’s referring to more than just the glowing scar cutting an asteroid trail against the flesh of him palm. The scars he obtained in prison must form a constellation over his body.

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

Spencer swallows, cupping your face with the scarred hand once more. You can’t feel it against your cheek but you know it hasn’t gone away.

“I’m sure you think you do,” he permits, and that’s where the conversation ends for the moment—with his hand on your face and his lips back on yours. “For now why don’t you let me worry about you?”

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

This is, for whatever reason, amusing to him. The brief levity dies as quick as it comes like a snuffed-out brush fire as soon as he lets his hands fall back down to your hips.

“I want... I want to give you slow. But...”

But slow is for people who didn’t lose three months of their life. Slow is for people who don’t know what it’s like to be starving. Slow is not for the desperate.

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

You’ll let him use you up like quick-burning fuel if that’s what he needs. You’ll go as fast and as bright and as hot as he tells you.

“But you want slow,” he murmurs, a secret acknowledged into your own waiting mouth. You’d keep it there forever. You could be the object he hides his soul in. “I know you do. You deserve to get what you want.”

“I can go fast. I want whatever you can give me.”

Spencer’s shuddering exhale is like a drug, dizzying as you inhale it and your eyes flutter at the high, pressed head-to-head with him. For so long you’ve needed him so badly. It’s overwhelming to have him now, all over you. If only your walls could breathe him in the way you are, if this room could remember what it feels like to hold him the way you will, if any inanimate object could bear witness to how you’ll give yourself, any part of yourself, over to him, so willingly.

“I’m going to try.” Spencer’s voice is hoarse as he walks backward to the bed, taking you by the hips as he goes. “I want to do it right. I want to do this the way I... the way I imagined it, before...”

Now he’s sitting, and you’re standing between his legs as he finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it, his fingers a comforting pressure where they ghost down the slope of your back. Your heart is pounding at the confession, at the way his tongue darts over his bottom lip and his fingertips journey back up to your straps, looking up at you with haloed irises as if he’d find anything other than the most dangerous kind of smoldering devotion in your eyes—the kind cult-leaders seek and spend years nurturing, and he’d earned with a mere brush over your bare skin.

The fabric slides down your arms, and as it falls to the floor, you watch something like despair flash-flood his eyes. It is a deep, distinctly human grief. The ineffable kind where something is almost too beautiful; so perfect it offends the mortal senses because it should be permanent, but nothing is, and the clash of divine beauty with unstoppable time which oxidizes copper and covers marble with vine is almost as grotesque as metal rending delicate flesh. It is the grief that drove the first poet to write and the first parents to press their baby’s painted hands to the walls of a cave. It is the desire to do the impossible—to capture ephemeral perfection and make it eternal, and the knowledge that it is hopeless. You recognize it because you’ve felt it for him.

“I thought about you all the time,” he whispers, doesn’t bother calling you beautiful but you don’t mind because he’s telling you with his hands and his eyes and the waver of his voice. “When I was gone, I thought about you—”

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

He doesn’t get to tell you about when he was gone. Not now. Not after he acted like you didn’t exist.

“Okay.” He swallows the things he’d wanted to tell you like you choked on the things you needed to tell him for three months. “I’m sorry.”

But his hands—his hands are perfect over your waist and his lips are perfect where they kiss your ribs like they’re his homeland. You could forgive a thousand wrongs for each kiss he puts to your skin. Light from the full moon stretches over the room like a blessing from the cosmos, and you have every intention of making the most of that gift, how the silver gilds the planes of his face and highlights curls like they were carved, and invites you to search for something in each shadow.

Some of his kisses land over the sensitive skin of your breasts though you doubt he has much intention or that there is any sort of end-goal with the trail he blazes—in fact, you have to root your hand in his hair and pull gently back when he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s making you wait again. His eyes are glassy and cheeks slightly pinkened—you weren’t expecting this wave of fondness to knock you on your ass but here you are, falling all over again.

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

A slow smile splits the heart of his mouth at your bashful tone and he’s emboldened to bring his hands higher for a moment, thumbs brushing particularly delicate though not downright indecent spots. Nonetheless, your breath catches.

“Impatient girl,” he scolds, and though it’s lighthearted it still inspires heat to dance across your face. Oh, I think I’ve been plenty patient, you itch to say, but you bite it back because it’s only sad and true and unkind.

Still, he gives you the beginning of what you want, really only the tip of the enormous iceberg that is your desire for him, by slipping his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down. His hands slide up the fronts of your thighs, tracing the trim of your underwear, and you’d swear he’s not even breathing. The moment one of his hand loops behind your knee and pulls forward until it’s pressed to the mattress and you’re half-kneeling, half standing, desire begins to truly cloud your mind. Manhandling never seemed like Spencer’s style, but when paired with how softly he reveals your hip, pulling gently down on the fabric of your underwear just to admire you up close, you don’t mind it.

More kisses are littered over your stomach, and he takes you by surprise a second time with a quick maneuver landing you on your back and him on top of you.

“I wasn’t doing you justice with my imagination,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t have known what?” you pant as he shamelessly digs his fingers into the plush of your ass. You almost hope it bruises.

“How pretty you would be,” he coos like he means it, and you dissolve, slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. “You were holding out on me.”

It’s a tease, not at all serious, but you manage to hit him with a, “Was not, asshole,” and he chuckles, placating your little hurt with another sticky kiss, and you get another disorienting glimpse of some other timeline where you’re both a little less damaged. Where it’s a little easier.

But in this timeline, his touch becomes starving and ragged and urgent, and you accept the drag of his thumb up your thigh and between your legs, gasping when he runs his knuckles up the center of you. This touch is metal on screeching metal. It does not pretend to be anything more than what it is—brute, powerful, executed to elicit sensation. You get the sense that Spencer’s never touched anyone this honestly, and while you do envy the girls who got to have him gentler, you’ll take this as the compliment that it is. A kind of vulnerability that is nearing primal.

His lips, though—always his lips—are kind when they brush and land on your skin guided by some invisible map. A dip down your neck and chest and then a plunge, his tongue dragging over your hips, chasing the fabric of your underwear as he almost pulls it off and then reroutes, making room for himself between your legs and pushing lace aside to mark the hinge of your inner and upper-most thigh. Your chest heaves and you don’t dare move for fear he’ll stop leaving signs of himself on your body and you won’t be able to reassure yourself that it was real and he was here and it was not another dream.

Because something in you knows, if only consciously recognizing it for the first time now, that he will disappear again. That this may be your only chance.

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

He’s clearly losing himself to something, eyes shutting blissfully. You wonder when the last time he let his guard down even a little was. You’re okay with being the thing he gets lost in, even if you’re not exactly okay with him—something you are becoming more acutely aware of as each touch makes a part of you want to cry. Maybe you still have some things in common. A strange pain that doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to you, for one thing.

You slam back into your body as his nose nudges against you through fabric, and his lips catch on cotton as he drags himself up, eventually settling a kiss against the little bow at the waist of your underwear. There he stays, eyes closed, mouth pressed to you.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow, buzzing. Is this really what he wants? After everything?

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

Nothing more than an airy whisper, you reply, “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Being emotional at this point seems wrong, but it’s difficult to ignore the fact that you have thought about this before and it’s finally happening but it’s not exactly as you’d imagined it. There is an indelible sadness to it, to the way he’s so hungry for you because he’s been deprived, to the desperation with which he touches you because he’s had everything taken from him.

For a moment, before he tugs your underwear down, he pauses, and you wonder if he’s freezing one moment in time, this moment, and grieving all the other ways it could’ve been, and accepting that this is the way it is going to be. You are.

These higher realms of thought abandon you as he finally pulls the last barrier down your legs and encourages you to spread them further. You don’t have time or energy to be embarrassed, not even by his staring, or the way his eyes dart up to yours and back down again, wide and shining, as if to say, have you seen yourself? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

All you feel is the lack of him on you, the pull to have him closer so strong it’s almost sickening because he could be gone at any second. Maybe he understands that because he doesn’t waste anymore time before he’s kissing the most sensitive part of you. The drag of his tongue has you loosing a shuddering cry.

His mouth wanders, making connections you wouldn’t have realized the value of until you feel them on your skin. Your hips buck as he traces you and you’re unable to stop yourself from tangling your hands in his hair. Speech fails you—hell, you can hardly breathe as you watch his with a furrowed brow and parted lips, only expelling air from your lungs in the form of little cries and gasps and failing to hold your hips down to the bed.

The tip of his tongue teases around your entrance and he catches your leg as your foot rises off the bed, slinging it over his shoulder and consuming you more fervently until you have no choice but to moan though you’ve never been one for theatrics. Nobody has done this for you like he’s doing it for you. Locks of hair fall in front of his face and you hold them back for him, shuddering as he shifts his weight and presses the tip of his finger to your cunt.

“Ah—please,” you manage, your first words since he started. Spencer groans against you and the sound is so wonderfully unexpected, so much better than in your dreams. You cant your hips up in further invitation, chirping as he takes it, pushing two fingers into you at once. Your eyes screw shut and you bite back a whine at the slight stretch, unconsciously writhing your hips either to get further away or take him deeper, you’re not sure.

Spencer pulls back, kissing your hips and thighs and pumping his fingers very slowly as you adjust.

“’M sorry,” you pant, “it’s been awhile, I...”

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says like it’s simple, his own breath coming quicker. “How’re you feeling? Need me to stop?”

“No! No, it feels really good, I feel good.”

He holds your burning gaze, matching it with his own, and his hair is tousled and his cheeks are flushed as he continues to move his hand.

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

This little show of obedience, of call and response, has him smiling before he occupies his mouth with something else once more. It’s a different smile than you’re used to from him, but you decide you don’t at all mind it.

Like that, with his tongue and fingers working tirelessly, your orgasm comes on quickly. The feeling is rare but not entirely foreign, and in that brief moment of utter disconnect between your brain and reality, of sheer white-hot pleasure, you don’t feel you’re missing out on anything at all. How could you be, when you are here and Spencer is here and for a moment all your neurons are lighting up and flashing neon? How could there be anything more to life than the searing feeling of him slowly withdrawing his fingers from you, than your hips between his hands like he’s cradling the world, and his lips, indiscriminate with where they kiss because every part of you is worthy of attention?

You’re reeling, and your legs are gelatinous as he so affectionately sucks the darkest mark yet onto your inner thigh like a parting gift, like he’s signing his trembling work. If you could clamp your legs shut around the almost painful aftershocks you would, but he’s climbing back up your body, so all you can do is wriggle against him and release delayed, stunted little moans. He stops to kiss your neck before he makes it to your mouth and drinks down all your sounds until you’re gentle and pliant for him like you haven’t been yet.

His voice is soft and sympathetic when he speaks. “Better?”

Wordlessly you nod, both comforted and unsettled by how well he knows you. What, exactly, has been made better, you’re not sure. Not trust. You don’t trust him anymore. Something cheaper, but temporarily effective. A sense of permanence, maybe, however fleeting it may be. You’ve completed something with him now, and he’s still here, still sweet.

He looks into your eyes, then, for a moment—and there is just enough light in the room for you to tell yourself that the shadows dancing there as he looks at you are love.

They morph as you watch into haunting, wild hunger. Pained even now.

He sits up abruptly and so do you, scooting back against your headboard and pulling your knees to your chest to protect your pounding heart as Spencer takes you in with darting eyes and quick breaths. His fingers find the collar of his shirt and he begins to unbutton.

“I need you to remember it’s all going to heal.”

He swallows, and you hardly have the wherewithal to study the way he unbuttons his shirt, a way he exists in the world that you had previously not been privy to. The words are too distracting.

“What?”

Sometimes he reminds you of a deer, with those big brown eyes that can’t help betraying anxiety. Moreso in those old pictures he’d shown you from his early days at the BAU—but it shines through occasionally even now. It’s reassuring to know that something inside of his has remained soft.

“Just...” his fingers don’t stop at their task, and you come to the disturbing realization that his knuckles are bruised. “Please don’t freak out, alright?”

Your mouth goes dry, eyes glued to the lengthening span of revealed skin.

And before he even has his shirt fully undone, something isn’t right.

He’s like a Pollack of bruises—starbursts and watercolor blots of discoloration blooming over his side and stomach.

You’re glad the light is off for two reasons: one, being that you don’t think you could handle the bruising in all its glory, and two, you hope the look of horror painted on your face is at least partially obscured from Spencer.

But you can’t. You simply don’t have the gas in the tank to freak out, as he’d said—at least not externally. Those bruises shouldn’t be there, but 96 days is a long time to be gone.

You drag your eyes back to his—nervous, deeply insecure and mistrustful. A deer. Just like those pictures of a 24 year old Spencer in an FBI jacket that was too big for him.

It’s enough to have you scooting on your knees across the mattress to him. Those big eyes stay glued to you as you draw near, falling as you carefully push open his shirt, cautious not to bump any tender spots as it falls to the bed. A flash of white gauze wrapped around his forearm that makes your stomach flip. How? You want to ask. Why?

He doesn’t seem to know what you’re going to do, and neither do you, until you’re grabbing his hands, bruised knuckles and all, and just... holding them for a minute.

“I lost weight,” he says quietly, as if that’s the most shocking thing about his current appearance, though it is noticeable.

“You’re still pretty.”

He smiles at this—a true Spencer Reid smile. Flattened lips, eyes tinged silver with sadness, voice quiet and anxious and wavering.

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

“I’m not going to ask you about them,” you promise, though you care so much and you want to know but you already understand that he won’t want to tell you.

Another moment. It doesn't surprise you to watch the shiny vulnerability in his eyes to freeze over completely. But he squeezes your hands once in thanks, and you know it’s still the same Spencer.

“Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

You do as he says, taking a deep breath to try and exhale the concern twisting your stomach like a poison. Somehow your room feels so unfamiliar, so new with him in it. Even the whorls on your ceiling look different as you study them, trying to time the pattern of your breathing with the pattern of the paint and plaster and not let the sound of Spencer further undressing quicken your heartrate too much.

Soon he’s coaxing your legs apart again, reverently, and kneeling between them, studying every part of you—lingering not on the parts you’d expect. He traces the scar on your knee with his thumb, follows a line down your thigh to the freckle on your hip. The scrutiny is unnerving and warms you everywhere. Perhaps he senses the microscopic clench of your thighs as you imagine pushing them together, if he weren’t in the way.

“You alright?” He asks, still stroking your hip. Tender again. It’s so hard to keep up.

“I...”

Suddenly your heart beat is a deafening echo in your own ears. The tide of your breathing is too powerful, too in and out and whooshing, leaving you always too empty or too full but never comfortable.

Maybe he’s changed, and he’s harder to know now, but he is the same Spencer. He is the Spencer you’d fallen in love with. The hard part is knowing that now you may never get a chance to tell him that. You don’t know if he’d be able to hear it.

There are things you can’t have with him anymore. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever. But you can have this. It will be different, but you’d rather him be different and here than the same and only in your memory.

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

Tangling your hand in his hair once more, you pull him down into a kiss. It’s hesitant, at first—maybe he can taste your thoughts, where they’d been balancing just on the tip of your tongue. But the uncertainty fades and he kisses you deeper, harder, in a way that is hard to keep up with. You like the messy overwhelm of his lips, teeth, tongue. That’s the only way he knows how to want you.

When you go to wrap your leg around his waist he catches it, running his hands over the soft plush of your thigh. The hard line of him presses against you like memory foam and you gasp and he breathes it in deeply as your brain short-circuits, as you realize this is really going to happen, that you’re going to have him like you’ve never had him before and in ways you’ve only imagined and immediately felt ashamed for.

“Spencer,” you whisper. He ducks to leave open-mouthed kisses along your neck and your eyes flutter shut, craning your neck but not losing sight of your objective as you reach down blindly. When you find what you’re looking for he freezes, groans against your neck at the same time as you breathe the tiniest whimper. Just in your hand he feels impossible, hot and imposing and hard. Your heart palpitates.

Without thinking, you angle your hips up and encourage him closer, until the tip of him is smearing through your folds, and you both go utterly silent like the breath had been stolen right from your lungs. The moment crystallizes, time around you hardening like preserved amber to keep you frozen there forever.

And then he rolls his hips, catching the underside of his cock on the crux of you, and then he does it again, and you choke out a moan and so does he, and it’s beyond perfect—it's nirvana, more than you could ever have conceived of, with his weight pressing you into the mattress, arms caging you in, his heavy breaths hot against your neck and vice versa as you twine together like serpents on a rod, your foot floating in the air as you widen your legs to make more room for him.

And you’re not even fucking yet.

“Oh my god,” you whine, just for him, barely audible under the heavy cloak of night, the thickened air in your bedroom and the sound of panting and fabric shifting. It’s like your heart is trying to reach through your chest to his own where they’re pressed together—that is how hard it’s beating.

Spencer only breathes a long, low curse and shifts so he can grasp himself. Your fingers drift down the shaft of him as he slots himself at your entrance, notching half an inch in and you hold your breath, and you brace yourself—and then he’s kissing you again, but gentler this time. Reassuring. You soften, you can’t not, releasing all your air in a soft gust through your nose, and then he’s pushing in.

Your lips part at the stretch as it fuzzes your mind, but he stays right there, nose pressed to your nose, lips ghosting over your own. He’s not going anywhere, you think, and you’re glad for it, when it burns ever so slightly, and the tiniest whine escapes your open mouth.

“Shh,” he soothes immediately, low and soft, only fractionally louder than you had been. “You’re okay.”

Spencer. Your Spencer.

For a moment, you’re living in that alternate universe. The kinder one. The flash of pain you feel then has nothing to do with the way he’s opening you up.

This is the closest you have ever been, and in some strange way, the furthest apart.

Together, fingers brushing, you guide him until he settles at not quite your deepest point. You can feel that he’s not giving you everything yet, but you’re okay with that, as you adjust to the full feeling. Spencer again senses your desire to close your legs against the deep intrusion, and gives you the best he can by encouraging you to wrap your legs around him.

“Good girl,” he whispers tenderly, nudging at your jaw with his nose and dragging kisses along the ridge of it. Your stomach flips at the moniker and your brain turns to warm sludge as your eyes flutter shut. It makes you feel all light-headed and you flutter around him. Spencer chuckles into the junction of your neck and shoulder and the vibrations send a chill down your arching spine. “I thought you might like that one.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

“You’re ready?” His tone is dripping sarcasm and faux-disbelief as he pulls back the slightest bit only to push right back in deeper, this time. Your toes curl, one thigh sliding higher up his waist as you cling to him.

“Fuck,” you manage, a pitiful, high pitched curse tossed to the wind. He echoes the sentiment.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, continuing with that slow pace, “you feel so good, angel.”

You grapple at his back, searching for purchase as your brow knits. “Faster.”

This inspires another breathy chuckle, but he obliges, and you cry out softly. It’s almost unreal, your head buried against his neck, drunk on his scent and the drag of him like a shock felt in the far reaches of your body, again and again.

There’s nothing you can say that will accurately demonstrate what you’re feeling, so you elect not to speak, to remain silent and try to get a grip on this cacophony of sensation and emotion. But it’s too much to be alone with. You feel you have to get it out, to seek understanding. You can’t do it alone.

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know...” the sentence trails off into a gentle keen. He moves to kiss you, speaking against your lips.

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

It’s like he can sense your need for comfort. For something grounding.

And while this topic was off-limits earlier—you're softer now. The stone walls that form your boundaries have been chipped away and lowered.

Spencer continues unprompted.

“I thought about you every day. Every night while I was falling asleep. You were always on my mind, angel girl.”

You whine. Whether it’s pleasure or distress is anyone’s guess—including your own.

“You were gone so long,” you whisper, eyes shut.

At this, Spencer slows again, and the tension that was building settles back to a simmer.

“I know. I wish I could—I wish I could change that. But I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you.”

Then he makes sure you feel every last inch, and it takes your breath away. If your thoughts were any more coherent, they’d be something along the lines of: but for how long? How long until you leave again?

“You’re here.”

You say it like a mantra, once out loud, and then again and again in your head, timed with every clash of your hips. With each repetition he becomes more real. Every little ache, every tingling, head-emptying brush against that most sensitive spot inside proves to you that he could not be any closer. This can’t be faked. It can’t be another dream to wake up in tears from.

“You’re here,” you gasp as it hits you, as it truly sinks in.

“I’m here,” he breathes.

There’s so much you want to say—three months of words you need him to hear, of things you need to talk to him about, things you need to yell at him for and things you can only say crying in his arms and things you can only say laughing or whispering or drunk or half-asleep—and in this moment you can’t manage any of it. Every word condenses into one drop of salt water, drifting away from your eye and down your cheek. Spencer doesn’t tell you to stop crying. He only kisses the tear away, and murmurs I’m here I’m here I’m here over and over again against your skin until he’s not even speaking it out loud anymore. But you feel it. With every brush of his lips, every breath, every movement, you feel it.

Soon he’s adjusting his angle, gradually picking up the pace but retaining that unforgiving depth, and your nails bite into the skin of his back as your jaw drops. Spencer hisses, pressing impossibly closer.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

“Please,” he begs, low and hot against your jaw, just beneath your ear. “Do it again, honey.”

Honey.

You’d do anything for him if it meant he calls you that again.

When he shifts his weight to one arm and reaches down between your bodies to play with your aching clit in exactly the right way, you don’t really have a choice. You arch and moan wantonly enough to feel embarrassed as your nails scratch down his back. At the same time he’s making noises of his own, and you almost feel guilty for marking him up like this only you think he likes it. The most perfect and troubling tension is building in your core, so taut you almost fear the inevitable rebound when it snaps. But you’re driven to be exactly what Spencer needs right now, and to let him try and be what you need. Even if it scares you. Even if you’re not sure how.

Spencer groans, head tucked to the bend of your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last.”

Any response you might’ve been about to muster is annihilated by a sudden, deep bolt of pleasure.

“’M gonna cum,” you mewl like it’s a secret.

“Are you?” he asks, coming up breathless. If your eyes were open, you’re sure you’d see him above you.

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

It is unmistakably a command—one you fight to follow.

You cry out as you meet the intensity of his gaze, those shadowy corridors suddenly ablaze and alive. They are not unending, like you’d thought. They are a door thrown open to let the light in, or maybe to let the fire out. They’re open in this moment for you.

No more words are spoken after that—you cum hard, gasping as you fall and spin. Spencer follows very shortly after, like he was holding it together just for you, and your eyes are still locked though everything is a bit bleary.

“Fuck,” you whine as he continues to fuck you for as long as he can, despite your writhing hips, but you’re entranced by him, unable to look away now that you’re hooked. Until he slows to a halt, glances down at your mouth, and you just have time to pray that he’ll kiss you before he does. You whimper against his lips—a plea for understanding. A plea for him to stay, even though this is over. He kisses back so soft and sweet it’s like he can read your mind. Echoes of I’m here I’m here I’m here still buzz across your skin. His eyelashes tickle your cheek. Your heart stops beating quite so quickly, melting and warm like the rest of your body.

Soon the kissing ceases and you’re just breathing together, trapped and faced with the knowledge that it must end just the same as you had waited for it to start.

Eventually the air between you becomes mostly carbon dioxide and you let your head fall to the side, dizzy and giggling breathlessly as you nearly avoid asphyxiation. Spencer laughs too, letting his head fall to your shoulder once more, and you finally let your eyes flutter closed. To do something as simple as laugh with him again is its own small euphoria. It’s unexpected, and a soft landing once all that tension breaks underneath your combined weight.

It can’t last forever, you know that well. But the slow fade of it makes the next parts a little easier.

Spencer presses a kiss to your neck. “Is your bathroom through that door?”

You hum a confirmation and are only slightly disheartened when he pulls out and rolls off of you. You’re further disturbed when you see there’s gauze around his thigh, matching what’s around his arm, and you wonder how you missed that. Spencer scoops up his clothing and disappears into the adjoining restroom, assuring you he’ll be right back and leaving you alone with your thoughts and the whorls on the ceiling which have seemingly shifted into entirely new constellations.

He leaves the door cracked which is oddly reassuring—the sliver of warm light and the sound of the sink running. Only a few moments pass before he’s returning clad in boxers once more to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing away the sheet you’d just pulled over your chest and pulling one of your legs over his lap. Your face warms as he brings a washcloth between your thighs. As soon as he glances up at you and catches your eye you’re looking back to the ceiling.

“I should’ve asked first,” he says quietly as he cleans up the mess he’d made of you.

You speak just as softly, like you’re both afraid of disturbing some peace, of waking some sleeping giant. “It’s okay. I would’ve told you if I didn’t want it.”

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

When he’s done, he rises to toss the dirtied cloth in the laundry bin, and with his back to you (as scratched up as it might be) you feel braver.

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

It was a mistake. That’s clear by the way he turns around, brow knit deeply and grimacing slightly like even the suggestion offends him.

“Am I going to hate you?”

Again you pull the sheet up, and again you look away, studying the pattern of moonlight stretching out over the floor and scooting to make room for him when he steps in it.

“Not hate, I just...” the bed dips beside you and you are indescribably glad he’s not immediately running out the door. “I’m not dumb. I know what this was.”

He pulls you into him and you settle against his chest. It feels good. “I never thought you were dumb.”

This is your first real conversation since he’s gotten back, you realize. And how quickly you’re falling into familiar patterns, familiar syntactical beats. You know when to speak. You know when to bite your tongue and keep him talking.

The silence goes on longer than you’re used to. Maybe he got good at not speaking while he was away.

Eventually your eyes wander, falling to the white strip over his thigh where it is parallel to yours on the bed, only over the sheets.

“What happened?”

You said you wouldn’t ask, but that was then, and you’re upset again. You almost want to hurt him. To piss him off. You don’t know.

But it doesn’t work.

“Do you really want to know?” There’s a note of something heavy in his voice, and you look up at him. It’s a privilege to have him this close—his beauty is a constant surprise that you’d become unaccustomed to over the months. You say nothing, and he takes that as the yes that it is. “I... I did it to myself.”

He may as well have reached down your throat and grabbed for fucking heart for all its clenching. Tears well almost immediately, though they’ve been waiting in the wings all night.

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

“No! No, honey, no.” You wilt as he gathers you closer, a deeply confused frown still contorting your features, too heartbroken even to cling to him, or to appreciate the ease with which honey slips past his lips again. “No. I was—it's complicated. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, but I had to—I had to do it before someone else did something worse.”

The bruises covering his abdomen.

You sniffle and pull back enough to look up at him tearfully. “Why would they want to hurt you?”

Mist fills his eyes even as he’s looking down at you, a layer of separation, as if he’s two places at once. Even as he goes to brush your hair behind your ear, to stroke your cheek.

“I’m... not... the same, as I was.” It’s not an answer to your question—but it’s the beginning of the answer to a question you’d been too afraid to put into words.

“Don’t say that,” you beg, because you know where this is going. He keeps smoothing your hair like it’ll make this easier.

“But it’s true,” Spencer says gently, the slightest waver betraying his own emotion.

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will,” you insist, like a child crying to a parent come to comfort them after a bad dream.

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough.

You cry on his shoulder. He kisses your head and doesn’t tell you to stop.

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes.

“We were so close. Before you… we were almost there.”

You’re sure of it. You’re sure that if he hadn’t gone when he did you would’ve been a real couple. You would’ve told him you loved him.

“We’ll get there again,” he promises, rubbing your arm. “I just… I need a little bit of time. I think you do too. But we’re going to get there again.”

Maybe it will never be like it was.

But as so often is the case—Spencer is right. Difference doesn’t mean it won’t ever be good again.

You have to believe that, just as you had to believe you’d see him again.

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table.

The sun has been obliterated from the sky, and an unlucky darkness invades the world.

But the sun has a habit of rising, time and time again, after the longest nights, after the darkest storms.

You feel the beginnings of its rise, see the golden tips of it lighting the room as he holds you. Even now.

#spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x you #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid angst

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pathologicalreid · 8 months ago

Note

hiii I love ur fics <3 I am OBSESSED with the prompt “can you come get me?” bc h/c makes me 💥💥💥 so I was thinking:

reader has been kidnapped by the latest unsub and the team is trying their hardest to find her but all the leads keep coming up empty until one day Spencer gets a call from her and the first thing she says is “can you come get me?” she sounds extremely upset and afraid so Spencer and Hotch leave to go find her. when they get there, she looks like she’s been through hell so they rush her to the hospital to be checked out, all the while they can’t seem to get any info out of her about what happened.

Spencer & reader could be platonic or romantic, whichever you like. (also I was thinking maybe hotchner!reader ? if that wouldn’t be too many things to ask for lol)

I love how you do angst and h/c, so keep up the good work and have a wonderful day <3

can you come get me? | S.R.

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: kidnapping, hospitals, stitches, blood draws, catatonia, disassociation, brief mention of sa, ohio mentioned, general cm violence (let me know if i missed any) word count: 4.56k a/n: i have no idea how this got so long but i love the plot of it so much that i couldn't cut any of it! i'm such a slut for the "you came"/"you called" trope that i couldn't help myself! i wrote this with the idea that it would be in place of the m*eve storyline (which means our lord and savior blake is here)!! anyways anon i hope you enjoy this - i love you!

Any external sound was completely ignored as Spencer flipped through the same file for the eighteenth time that day. In his periphery, he saw JJ and Rossi nod at each other before Rossi split away, walking up the ramp to where Hotch’s office was.

It took him a moment to realize JJ had made herself comfortable by sitting on the edge of his desk. She had her jacket neatly folded in her arms as she eyed the file he had, grief filling her eyes as she registered what he was looking at. “What are you doing tonight?” She asked, trying to keep her voice as light as possible.

The question was entirely pointless, she knew exactly what he was doing tonight, but in an attempt to get her to leave him alone, Spencer humored her, “I’m working late tonight,” he answered simply.

JJ’s smile faltered ever so slightly before she shook her head, “You’ve been working late all week, what if you come over tonight? Will’s making dinner. Garcia’s coming after she finishes her system update,” the attempt to get him out of the office didn’t go over his head, but it wasn’t going to work. “Henry would love to see you – maybe you could teach him a new magic trick.”

Peeling his eyes off of the paperwork, he looked up at the blonde, “You know I can’t.” He felt so close to an answer, he couldn’t possibly leave.

“Look, Reid, I get it, but you’ve been working crazy hours for the past month. Maybe taking a night off would be good. You can start fresh in the morning,” she tried to coax him into leaving the case be.

It hadn’t been a full month; it had been twenty-seven days. Almost four full weeks since you were taken. It had been one week since Section Chief Cruz had told Hotch that the BAU needed to start taking new cases, as the trail to you had run cold.

Considering you were Hotch’s daughter, that discussion had gone rather poorly. Cruz had been able to give the team leeway. Both Spencer and Hotch had fully intended on taking advantage of that leeway, and the rest of the team helped when they had the capacity.

Turning back to your file, Spencer shook his head, “I’ll go if Hotch goes.” He knew there was no way Hotch would be leaving the office tonight, the only reason Hotch went home anymore was for Jack, and he was at a sleepover tonight.

JJ’s shoulders slumped in abject disappointment as her eyes followed Dave as he exited Hotch’s office, the slamming of the door enough to make the lingering BAU agents flinch. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, defeated.

Rossi wagged a finger at Spencer, “Go home at some point tonight, kid,” he instructed.

Waving a quick goodbye, Spencer resumed making notes in the margins of the papers that were making a permanent home on his desk. He looked up when Hotch exited his office, eyes following him as he brewed a pot of coffee in the kitchenette. The two of them acknowledged each other with a nod before continuing on with the hunt.

Both of them knew the odds, that you had been gone this long and there was a good chance that they’d never see you again. Despite that, Spencer would head up to Hotch’s office in about an hour, and the two of them would confer.

Eventually, the sun set, and a thunderstorm rolled in, the flashes of light coming in through the windows as he began to consider going for another cup of coffee.

Wiping a hand down his face, he inwardly groaned as his phone started to ring. Half expecting it to be JJ, he was surprised to find that it was an unknown caller. Clicking the answer button, he lifted the phone to his ear, “Hello, this is Dr. Reid.”

There was an eerie silence on the other end of the call, if he strained his ears, he could hear the pattering of rain. He tried to greet the other person again, but when there was no answer, he started to lower the phone to hang up.

“Can you come get me?” Your quiet voice came through the receiver, effectively knocking the wind out of Spencer’s lungs.

Fiddling with his belongings, Spencer gripped your file, “Where are you?” He asked urgently.

You sniffled, “I don’t know. A payphone off of twenty-eight.” If he strained his ears, he could listen to the rain. Spencer wondered if he could calculate how far away you were by the sound of the thunder where you were compared to where he was.

His chest ached at the exhaustion in your tone, imagining you had gotten approximately as much sleep as he had recently. That is to say, little to none. Pulling the phone slightly away from his face, he called out for Hotch, getting his attention and waving him over. “Y/N, can you see any mile markers or exit signs anywhere?” Spencer asked, bringing the phone back up to his ear.

“I can’t see much of anything,” you admitted. That made sense, your glasses had been recovered at your abduction scene. Spencer kept them in his bag with the rest of your belongings that had been released from evidence. “I feel lucky enough that I was able to find a pay phone,” you said, and for the first time, he noticed that you were whispering.

Glancing at the inside of his wrist, Spencer checked the time. JJ had mentioned something about Garcia staying in her office for a system update – what were the odds the tech analyst was still there? Stalking out of the bullpen, he made his way to her office, Hotch hot on his heels.

After knocking on the door, her voice rang out, “Enter, mere mortal.” Once she had recognized who it was, she greeted Spencer directly, “Ah, Dr. Reid, did you need a ride to JJ’s?”

“Can you locate a payphone based on the phone number?” He asked hurriedly, the longer you stood out there in the rain, the more danger you might be in.

A confused look was plastered on her face, but she turned back to her screens and started click-clacking away. “Most def, boy genius. Run me the digits,” she responded, pulling up some sort of database that Spencer didn’t recognize – probably for the best.

She typed the phone number just as quickly as he recited it, turning around and telling him that the pay phone in question was approximately thirty minutes away. You had only been thirty minutes away this entire time. “Send the coordinates to Hotch’s phone,” Spencer instructed, stepping toward the door. “Tell the rest of the team to come in,” he continued, “it’s Y/N.”

Each stage of grief flashed across Penelope’s face as she nodded assuredly, scrambling for her phone as she took care of notifications.

Impatiently, Hotch held the elevator door open as Spencer entered, keeping the phone up to his ear, “Stay on the phone,” he told you.

A desperate whimper came from your end of the call, “I don’t have any change. I found a few quarters on the ground, but I don’t have anything on me.”

“Stay on as long as you can, angel,” Spencer amended. “We’re on our way.”

The rain was worse than he had initially thought, but Mother Nature was no match for Aaron Hotchner. They were only about five minutes from the coordinates that Garcia had shared, and the phone call had dropped off before they were even on the main highway. The dropped call certainly didn’t help the rising tension in the SUV.

“Did she sound scared?” Hotch had asked for the nth time.

Not taking his eyes off of the map, Spencer nodded, “She sounded like she was stranded in the middle of the woods in Virginia, in a thunderstorm, and was using a pay phone as a lifeline.” His entire body was thrumming with nervous energy as they sped down the road, “but she’s alive.”

He didn’t miss the way Hotch’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. You being alive would have to be enough of a comfort to the both of them for now, but Spencer knew what your life meant to your father.

“There it is,” Spencer said, interrupting his thoughts with the recognition of a phone booth on the side of the road, in front of a seemingly abandoned gas station. In a moment of uncharacteristic recklessness, Spencer clambered out of the vehicle before it came to a full stop, an umbrella and jacket in tow.

Hesitantly, he approached the crumpled heap of limbs underneath the pay phone. It wasn’t a full booth, it had just enough coverage to prevent the payphone from short-circuiting. You had jammed yourself underneath it, trying to keep yourself as dry as possible.

Kneeling in front of you, he swept his sopping-wet hair from his face, “Y/N.” His voice was no more than a breath, he didn’t dare reach out to touch you — lest you not want to be touched. A strike of lightning lit your surroundings enough for him to note the bruise that had bloomed on your cheek.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he watched as your lips parted in recognition, “You came,” you whispered.

He nodded, “You called.” His heart soared as you shuffled yourself closer to him, allowing him to wrap the FBI-issued jacket around your rain-soaked frame. “Let’s get you out of this rain, alright?”

Standing up on shaky legs, Spencer helped you walk to the SUV where your dad was waiting, shining a flashlight to help guide you to the vehicle. Based on how heavily you were leaning on him, he could tell that your left leg was injured. Despite your injury, you stepped away from Spencer to hug your father.

For a moment, Spencer felt like he was intruding on a family moment, but he recalled all of the times he had been invited to join in Hotchner festivities these last few years and allowed his eyes to meet Hotch’s.

The two of them shared an understanding look as Hotch pulled away, “We should get you to a hospital,” he said, cupping your face with parental gentleness.

Spencer helped you into the SUV, unable to put any pressure on your leg, you depended on the handles to pull yourself up. As you maneuvered yourself, he tried to determine what your injuries were. His eyes scanned your body until he made his way back to your face, “Angel, keep your eyes open.” He felt as if he was asking a lot of you, but he didn’t know if you had taken a hit to the head. Falling asleep could do more damage. “Hey, Y/N?” He said, watching as your eyes fell shut and your head slumped forward. “Hotch,” Reid said urgently from the backseat.

Understanding perfectly, Hotch hit the lights on the SUV and turned on the siren. Flashes of red and blue signaled to other drivers that there was an emergency.

You were silent.

As soon as they had gotten you to the emergency room, your entire demeanor had changed. Spencer guessed that you had been in fight or flight when they had picked you up from the phone booth, and now that you were getting the help that you needed, all of the fight had vacated your being.

In the white fluorescence of the hospital, he could see how drained you looked. Once the doctors got their hands on you, you refused to let him or your dad near you.

Hotch was in the hallway, talking on the phone with your Aunt Jessica while he tried to arrange childcare for Jack so he could stay with you - the leader of your care team estimated you’d be in the hospital for at least a few days.

While you had been mobile when they came to get you, your energy had left along with your adrenaline, and eventually, the best course of action was to just let you sleep. That was how Spencer ended up sitting cross-legged in a stiff hospital chair, watching over you as you slept.

Respectful of your wishes, he kept a fair distance from you, but you’d be hard-pressed to convince him to let you out of his sight. There were tubes and wires going every which way from your body, oxygen, an IV, and electrodes monitored your life. Boiling you down to a collection of numbers that showed Spencer just how alive you were.

The doctors suspected you had bacterial pneumonia, but they were still waiting on the results of your chest X-ray to make a formal diagnosis. Your presumed leg injury had turned out to be a bruised hip bone – part of a sickening pattern that reflected that of someone who had been thrown down a flight of stairs.

A knock on the window to your hospital room caught his attention, causing him to turn his head and come face to face with Rossi and Blake. Opening the blinds so that he’d be able to keep an eye on you from the hallway, Spencer stood up and joined his colleagues in the corridor.

“What’s the report?” Rossi asked, nodding in the direction of your room, and placing his hands on his hips.

Spencer rubbed the back of his neck before responding, “The doctor said that all things considered, she’s in good shape, but…” Shaking his head to wake himself up, he crossed his arms in front of his chest, “She’s sick and was beaten. Right now, she’s sleeping. We have no idea she was running in the woods, so it’s not surprising that she’s exhausted.”

He continued on to list other maladies that the doctors had provided, dehydration, malnutrition, one cut on your arm that needed to be stitched, and that was just scratching the surface. Dave nodded understandingly, “but the sooner we get to ask her questions, the better.”

Shrugging, Spencer looked over at your father, and then back to you, “When she wakes up on her own,” he murmured, watching as a nurse checked on your IV. He didn’t want to risk waking you up or asking too much too soon of you. “Can I ask you a quick question?” He lifted a finger inquisitively to the nurse who was walking out of your room, scribbling something on your chart.

The nurse hummed in response, raising her eyebrows as she waited for him to ask.

“Do you think the infection has anything to do with her silence? She might be hurting so she isn’t talking?” He asked, it wasn’t unheard of, when people were in a lot of pain, sometimes they coped with silence.

While the nurse might have an excellent bedside manner, the three profilers took note of the concern in her eyes. “The silence might have more to do with her psychological well-being than her physical well-being,” she responded, it was a healthcare way of trying to appease them. Really, they didn’t know much better than the members of the BAU did.

Blake’s eyebrows shot up in curiosity, “Could it be catatonia?”

“In order to diagnose catatonia, she’d need to display three of twelve symptoms. Those are stupor, catalepsy, waxy flexibility, mutism, negativism, posturing, mannerism, stereotypy, agitation, grimacing, echolalia, and echopraxia. So far, she really only meets one of twelve,” Spencer answered.

Shrugging, the nurse pointed at Spencer with her pen, “What he said.” She looked down at the chart before continuing, “Her care team leader called for a psych consult, but we won’t really know one way or the other until she wakes up.”

Nodding, Rossi nodded in acknowledgment, “What else could it be?”

Pursing her lips, the nurse tilted her head to the side, “Peritraumatic disassociation is another possibility, but again, we won’t know until she wakes up.”

The waiting game began. As luck would have it, an FBI agent being abducted created a lot of paperwork, so Hotch was holed up in a conference room while Rossi and Blake worked on the profile. JJ and Morgan stayed back at Quantico with Garcia to look back at what information Hotch and Spencer had been gathering over the past twenty-seven – now twenty-eight – days.

Spencer stayed with you, tucking your blanket around you when he watched goosebumps sprout along your arms. He paid close attention to everything that the doctors and nurses said about your condition, relaying everything to Hotch via text message. They ran a kit on you, and the only solace was that there was a chance that they could DNA match whoever did this to you.

He left that last part out of his message to your father.

As soon as you started waking up, Spencer had to leave the room, watching from the hallway as medical personnel flurried around your bed. At first, he had assumed your aversion to himself and your dad was an overall aversion to men, but you didn’t flinch when it came to the male doctor who was checking your vitals manually.

A nurse peeked out from the door, “Are you Dave?”

Furrowing his eyebrows, Spencer cocked his head back in confusion, “No? I’m not – why?” He asked, gaze flickering back into your room as you scrawled something on the piece of paper that a nurse had handed you.

“She said she’d talk to Dave,” the inquiring nurse shrugged, turning back into your room, and adjusting your pillow beneath your head.

Still confused, Spencer slipped his phone out of his pocket, nimbly typing a message to Rossi before returning the phone to its home in his slacks. Trying to respect your peace, Spencer remained in the hallway, leaning back against the wall as he heard the familiar sound of Italian leather boots turning the corner. “Are you sure she didn’t mean Aaron?”

Spencer shook his head, mirroring the older man’s confusion, “She physically wrote your name out. She’ll only speak to you,” he answered, trying to hide his own pain for the sake of ridding you of yours. If you wouldn’t talk to your father or himself, it made the most sense that you’d talk to Rossi. You’ve known him the entire time your father worked in the BAU.

Shrugging, Rossi walked into your room and approached you with the care of a man approaching a deer. He remained this way until he made it to your bed, and Spencer watched as he smoothed your hair away from your face affectionately.

You leaned into his touch, and Spencer didn’t miss the cue. When was the last time anyone had touched you with love in their heart?

He had kissed you goodbye before you went on your run, just thirty minutes before your location turned off and your usual Thursday route turned into a hunting ground. With what you did for work, you switched paths frequently, but someone had been watching you, or at least, that was the conclusion the team had drawn.

Watching as Rossi spoke with you, Spencer noticed one anomaly – you weren’t speaking to him. Instead, all of his questions were answered with blinks or scribbling on paper.

The two of you went until a nurse came in, telling the both of you that they needed to run a few more tests. Taking his leave, Rossi told you something that Reid couldn’t quite make out and rejoined him in the hallway.

“What did you say to her? Just now?” Spencer asked, his need for any sort of contact with you becoming so desperate that he’d now accept it secondhand.

Frowning, Rossi placed both of his hands on his hips, “I called her piccolina, I used to call her that all the time when she was just a little thing running around the old BAU bunker.” Taking a moment, Rossi pulled out his little notebook and read through it. “White male, late twenties to early thirties, sometimes gone for days on end citing ‘work,’ but she never figured out what he did for work.”

Spencer’s eyes burned at the realization that you had been working your own case while being victimized, he peered in through the window as a nurse drew your blood.

“She said he drove a dark American sedan, making it either blue or black,” Rossi continued to list off, eyes following Blake as she approached the two of you. “Y/N said the car was filthy like he had been living out of it when he couldn’t get to her in the woods. The car had an Ohio party plate on it with expired tags.”

Blake arched a brow at the new information, “Party plate?” She said quizzically, looking at Spencer for clarification.

Nodding, Spencer looked over at his friend, “That’s the colloquial name for restricted license places. They’re given to people who are convicted of DUIs, which is actually called an OVI in Ohio. In Ohio, they’re yellow with red print, and the only state to have something similar is Minnesota where they call them whiskey plates because they all start with the letter W.”

“Well, he’s confident. Maybe too confident, driving around with expired tags and a license plate that already puts a spotlight on him,” Blake said thoughtfully, adding to the profile in her mind. “We should get this information to Garcia, maybe look for people who recently relocated from Ohio with those plates,” she suggested to Rossi.

Rossi nodded, skillfully flipping the cover back over his notepad and gesturing for Blake to follow him to the conference room, effectively leading Spencer to his own devices. When the nurse left to bring the vials of blood to the lab, he returned to your room, taking his seat on the edge of the room – as far away as he could get while keeping his eyes on you.

He looked up to your bed, catching you staring at him. As soon as you knew you had been caught, you turned your head to the other side, averting your gaze toward the window.

Every thirty minutes or so, Spencer moved the chair approximately five inches closer to you, by four in the morning, he had closed half of the space between you. He kept his eyes on you, watching as you stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. You had that crease between your eyebrows that told him you were thinking too hard, and he had to sit on his hands to stop himself from reaching out and touching it as if he could soothe all of your bad thoughts.

In the doorway, Rossi had appeared, garnering your attention as you propped yourself up on the flat hospital pillows. “We got him,” Rossi announced to the room, a reserved smile on his face.

Spencer watched as you visibly relaxed on the bed, your face softened as your eyebrows relaxed. Rossi explained some next steps, but he was only half listening, he could only focus on you.

Once Dave was gone, Spencer took a leap of faith and shuffled the chair to your bedside, “How are you feeling, angel?” He asked, taking up a muted tone.

You stared at him, blinking at him until, eventually, your face crumpled, and you leaned toward him.

Not missing a beat, Spencer stood up from his chair so that he could sit on the edge of your bed, meeting you in the middle, he gently wrapped his arms around you, rubbing small, soothing circles along your back with the flat of his hand.

In the past twenty-eight days, Spencer thought that being reunited with you could fix all of the hurt in his chest, but this, right here, was a different kind of pain. Tears sept through the fabric of his shirt just as soon as they fell from your eyes, and all of the hurt that he had felt before just morphed into a different kind of suffering.

His heart ached at the sight of you in this much pain, so much emotional turmoil that you had silenced yourself. What was he supposed to say in order to comfort you? ‘You’re okay,’ was wholly false, and ‘it’s alright’ felt like a cruel joke. You very clearly weren’t okay, and none of this was alright.

“I’m here,” he reassured you, his voice no more than a croak as he tried to swallow his own emotions. “I’m right here,” he repeated, continuing his ministrations on your back until you had cried yourself to sleep.

With your body in its weakened state, Spencer carefully adjusted you onto the bed, making sure none of your tubes or wires were kinked before settling back down in his chair and taking your hand in his.

Around the time the sun came up, your care team came through for morning rounds and woke you up to thoroughly inspect your status. Once they left you to your own devices – with the promise of food in half an hour – Spencer focused all of his attention on trying to coax you into speaking to him.

Tenderly, he dragged a finger across your forehead before continuing down the bridge of your nose, “I’d really like to hear your voice, sweetheart.” His voice was gentle, maintaining a subdued tone in the early hours of the morning.

He watched as you sighed, deflating all of the air in your lungs as you tipped your head to the side, interrupting his movements. “I asked him to do it,” you murmured, voice raspy from lack of use.

“To do what?” Spencer asked, heart beating a little faster at the sound of your voice. He watched how you nervously gripped a fistful of sheets and looked at him. Only you weren’t looking at him, it was more like you were looking through him.

You took a deep, shuddering breath before you answered, “To kill me.”

The confession weighed heavy on his shoulders, but it wasn’t regarding anything against you. It was in the realization that you had been in so much physical and emotional turmoil while in captivity that you had asked for your own death. That even for a moment, you sat in front of a killer and asked for him to end your life as an act of mercy.

Noting Spencer’s lack of response, you continued speaking, “That’s why he let me go. I begged him to just end it and that took away any appeal for him.”

Last night. You had pleaded on behalf of your own demise last night. Carefully considering his next words, Spencer met your eyes and replied, “That must’ve taken a lot of courage.”

You faltered for a moment, evidently not having expected those words from him, “What are you talking about?”

It made sense to him now, why you wouldn’t talk to him or your dad. He felt like such a fool. You had been ashamed because you felt like your abductor had diminished your worth by breaking you down. Spencer knew better, “You stood your ground. You faced your own death, and you chose that over further suffering. Dying isn’t an undignified act, no matter how it comes upon you,” he reminded you, smoothing your hair away from your face as he watched your lip quiver.

“Thank you for staying,” you croaked as emotion closed your throat.

Spencer hummed thoughtfully, swiping a rogue tear from your cheek, “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid angst #criminal minds angst #margot's requests #spencer reid hurt/comfort #criminal minds hurt/comfort

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pumpkin-cake · 4 months ago

Note

begging for ANYTHING fix it related for the most recent season !!!

five x reader and they are married?? it would be nice if the reader had a more relaxed job in comparison to five in the CIA (the reader used to also work for the commission but wanted a calm life)

like maybe working in a daycare or flower shop?

i’m honestly begging for anything sweet please if you’ve got the time !

THIS HAS ME IN A CHOKEHOLD. YES, I WILL WRITE THIS FOR YOU <3 I ALSO HATE THE WAY THEY CHARACTERIZED FIVE IN THE NEW SEASON. This will be very domestic :3 And it's been a while since I've written Five, I hope he's not too out of character, let me know if you have any pointers :3

The door to your apartment creaks open and heavy footsteps enter, the jangling sounds of house keys hitting the ceramic bowl reaching your ears with a sigh following.

"Good evening, Jerome." You coo.

"I did not pick that name, quit calling me it." Five huffs as he shrugs off his suit jacket, entering the living room. He looked tired, but he was okay with that. He didn't want to settle for some repetitive job he'd be bored as hell at. Even if they gave him stupid aliases like Jerome.

"You could have at least asked. That's embarrassing, telling people your name is Jerome. What about...Ethan? Or even something that's close to Five. Like, Finn, or something." You answered with a chuckle, while Five crumpled on the couch next to you.

"There isn't any point. It's not like you need to go around calling me that name." He said, taking off his tie and laying it across the arm of the sofa. "Anyway, how was work?" He asked, taking off his brown Oxfords and laying them nearby but out of the main walkway. He reached over to the stack of papers on the coffee table and looked at the first page. "Jesus, this is the sloppiest handwriting I've ever seen."

"Ah yes, because children who still have shitty motor skills are going to be writing in perfect print. That's why they only have to write their names, not write full-fledged essays." You said sarcastically, plucking the piece of paper from his hands. You looked over the assignment your kindergarteners were given. The instructions were to count the different types of bugs on the paper. There were no more than 9 of each bug. 4 butterflies, 7 caterpillars, 1 beetle, 8 spiders.

"I was never that dumb." Five said a little snarkily, pointing to the answer spot that said there were only 5 caterpillars.

"Don't be such a prick." You huffed, getting out a blue pen. You didn't like to use red, too harsh. You circled each answer wrong, not making any corrections.

"How are you even meant to teach them this? It's basic counting." Five asked, sort of actually curious.

"We'll just go over it in class tomorrow. Everyone will count together."

"Then what's the point of the homework?"

You groaned. "We are not having this conversation anymore, old man." You pulled out a pack of stickers, putting one on each sheet of paper.

"You're just as old." He countered with a smirk, leaving you to roll your eyes and continue 'grading' the papers. He did shut up and drop the subject, letting his hand stray to your hand that wasn't busy grading papers. He wasn't ever one for physical affection in the past, but ever since getting to this place? He was more lenient. He was never hanging off of you, but his touches were gentler. Each contact of skin was a small way of saying 'I love you', because it was hard to say it out loud after years of isolation.

The biggest way of him saying he loved you was twisting the ring that nicely fit on your finger like he was doing right now. Like he was making sure you were aware of its presence and meaning.

You finished the papers in less than five minutes. You did not envy the fourth-grade teachers who had actual homework to grade. "Your dinner is in the fridge." You told him, taking his other hand and playing with the black band that adorned his ring finger.

"Not hungry." He said shortly, like he was offended you'd ever assume he wanted to do something aside from this. He wouldn't ever say that out loud, of course.

"It's sushi. Made by yours truly." You added, holding back a chuckle when he sucked in a deep breath, very torn between the options. It was weird, able to sit and think about something. He wasn't rushing home to eat and go to bed, he got to do domestic shit with you and fuck did he love it.

"..." Five stayed silent like a brooding teenager.

"I'll come with you." You reasoned, and he reluctantly sat up. You smiled and got up with him, the two of you traversing to the kitchen. He opened the door to the fridge and grabbed the small Tupperware of delicious looking sushi. You were not a fan of Commission cafeteria food, and you took pride in buying the best ingredients for you and your spouse. You were already grabbing him a pair of chopsticks, sitting with him at the kitchen island.

"...thanks." He said after eating a roll. He was stubborn, but he really did appreciate you taking the time to make more for him when he got home late. It was so nice to come home to a homemade meal. It reminded him of Grace.

"Of course, honey." You smiled, sitting in silence while he ate. He savored every moment. After being in the apocalypse for forty years, he really grew to appreciate the things he didn't have. He swore he would never take this life for granted.

He never questioned why, because the whole reason was sitting right next to him.

#x reader #gn!reader #the umbrella academy #five hargreeves #five hargreeves x reader #fluff #aidan gallagher #umbrella academy season 4

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iamred-iamyellow · 4 months ago

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⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Gangsters Wife

♥ masterlist | request rules

♥ pairing: mafiaboss!carlos sainz x fem!wife!reader

♥ synopsis: things start to change for you and your marriage-of-convenience husband after you stitch up his wounds

♥ one-shot - as always none of the pictures are mine <3

♥ warnings: swearing and vague descriptions of smut - p in v (wrap it before you tap it) !!!

♥ a/n: i wrote on my vacation lol. i’m a little nervous to post this since it’s uncharted writing territory for me but i hope you enjoy reading it <3

You sat on the black satin sheets of your bed, waiting for your husband to come back from business. You knew you should probably be asleep; that he wouldn’t want you up worrying for him, but here you were wide awake.

It wasn’t like the two of you married for love, anyway. It was much more out of convenience. His job was… interesting, but you weren’t complaining about the luxury that you now lived in due to the arrangement.

Your breath hitched as you heard the door unlock, assuming it was Carlos. He made his way towards the bedroom and immediately locked eyes with you. His hair was slicked to the side and he had a couple of cuts on his face. He was wearing a red shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, black dress pants, some black shoes, and an expensive watch.

“Go to bed,” he demanded, removing the ticking object from his wrist and laying it down in a drawer with the rest of his collection.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you admitted, rustling in the bed sheets.

“I’m alright if that’s what you’re wondering,” he swiped his thumb over the blood on his bottom lip. “Get some rest.”

You slowly stood up and strolled over to him. Your gaze dropped down to the ripped fabric on his side, presumably from a fight.

“Were you stabbed?” you asked in a whisper.

“Lightly.”

“Lightly? What does lightly mean?”

He began unbuttoning his shirt, though it didn’t take long before it was off of him. The moonlight from a small open window illuminated his body, his muscles were strained, covered in sweat, and there was a wound flooded with blood on his abdomen.

“It’s not that deep,” he murmured.

“Literally or figuratively? Because it looks like the knife went in pretty far.” You softly grazed his skin with the light touch of your fingertips.

You walked over to your nightstand and pulled out a small stitch kit.

“Sit down,” you commanded him, nodding towards the edge of the bed.

“I’m fine. I can do this on my own.”

“I said sit. down.”

He took a deep, agitated sigh and did as you told him. You dampened a rag in the bathroom and returned to clean the blood off his wound.

You threaded the needle and pierced it through his skin, beginning the first stitch.

“Are you sure you’re qualified for this?” he asked.

You nodded, “I wouldn’t have married you without knowing how to do this.”

He hummed and your left hand went to his waist to hold him still. He could feel the coldness of the silver wedding ring he gave you only a few months ago.

You finished pulling the last part of the thread and cut the excess off.

“There,” you said, pressing your palm gently against his abs.

He pulled you onto his lap and his hands firmly gripped your thighs. You made a soft sound and ground down onto his belt.

“Tomorrow, amor.” he stopped you and whispered. “Let’s go to bed.”

You woke up first at 7. You had rolled over to find your husband awake, messaging someone on his phone.

“Go back to sleep cariño,” he mumbled, running one of his hands over your hair.

You grabbed his hand and kissed his palm, slowly making your way up his arm.

“Amor,” he warned.

“What? You said tomorrow… it’s tomorrow.”

The next thing you knew he had you pinned down by your neck. His phone rang on the nightstand and he used his free hand to pick it up, still thrusting into you as he did so.

“Leave us alone,” he said and hung up instantly.

Leave. Us. Alone.

You woke up again at 9, this time alone in your bed. You wandered into the kitchen to see your husband making breakfast.

“Carlitos?” you ask, a faint smile teasing your lips. “Where’s the chef?”

“I sent him home.”

“You’ve never cooked for me before,” you took a seat on the barstool at the counter.

“I’ve never cooked for anyone before,” he admitted.

He set some pancakes on a plate and handed it to you.

You hummed, “No syrup?”

He shrugged “I don’t think we have any. I usually eat mine just the dough.”

It was odd having a conversation like this with Carlos. The two of you weren’t used to making small talk.

“Uhm, how do you feel? Are any of your cuts infected?” you asked.

“No, I feel fine,” he said putting cooking supplies away as you ate. “The stitching you did is good but i’ll probably still get my doctor to look at it.”

“Yeah that’s a good idea,” you replied, picking at your food as his phone rang.

He flipped it open to answer a call from an unknown number. From the muffled spanish voice on the other end you assumed it was from Fernando.

“Sí, I’ll be there soon.” Carlos said and hung up the phone.

“I’ll be back,” he told you, walking out the front door without a goodbye.

Your eyes caught the abundance of bodyguards that entered the room to block the exits and entrances. You sighed and slouched, tapping your nails on the marble counter. Great. Just when things were starting to get good.

#𝒍𝒊𝒗'𝒔 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 ౨ৎ #carlos sainz jr x reader #carlos sainz jr x you #carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz drabble #carlos sainz jr drabble #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz jr fanfic #mafia au #mafia!f1 #mafia!carlos sainz #f1 x you #f1 x reader

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gentaro-kinniecom · 8 months ago

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Oh..I think you’re holding the heart of mine..

Characters: Solivan Brugmansia/gn!reader

Cw: fluff, mentions of marriage, crushes, love at first sight (?), mentions of kidnapping, yandere themes…

A/n: This is based off day two of The kid at the back :] hope you guys enjoy!

(E/c) eyes lingered across the room, trying to distract themselves from the crimson orbs that stared at their figure, drawing it with a smile. Portraits aren’t that difficult when you know how to draw, except, their skills were quite rough, unlike Sol who was nearly finishing it, looking back and forth between y/n and his paper. Blush covered part of his cheeks, placing his sketchbook down while locking eyes with them

“Is it done?” Y/n asked, sighing as the bell rung across the hallway

“Not yet, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow” He responded with a soft smile, one they’ve rarely seen the times they saw him.

Going their separate ways, y/n found their group in the hallway making small talk as they arrived. It wasn’t long until Sol and his friend appeared, chatting as Sol’s gaze landed on them. Feeling a bit curious, Y/n excuses themselves, parting away from their friends while approaching Sol.

“You must be Y/n! Sol’s told me about you..he’s right, you are kind of cute..” The guy before them spoke while chuckling as Sol sighed, blushing while glaring at his friend

“Anyways, I’m Hyugo! We were just about to eat lunch on the roof, would you like to join?” Y/n looked back briefly at their group. Perhaps something different wouldn’t be so bad today. Crowe however, noticed their sudden disappearance, his sad gaze lingered as they left with the two boys walking across the small corridor.

“I’d love to..!” Hyugo chuckled as the three of them headed towards the roof. Upon arrival, Sol handed Hyugo a bento box filled with his favorite food. It didn’t take long for them to dig in as Y/n looked around the roof, admiring the city and the view it provided.

“Have you eaten yet, y/n?” Sol inquired, staring at their hands that fidgeted around their shirt. ‘hm, cute’ he thought. The sudden question returned them back to reality while answering.

“I didn’t get to eat anything but it’s okay, I’ll grab something later-“ Before they could finish their sentence, Solivan had already taken out the other box he had saved for later.

“I made three boxes today, just in case Hyugo’s appetite was insatiable so..you can take it”

“Are you sure? I mean..” Without any hesitation, Sol had already opened up the lunch box, handing them the tasty food he prepared while smiling, reaching for some utensils.

“You made this all by yourself? It looks so good..!” Y/n praised, taking the utensils Sol provided for them as Hyugo chimed in, swallowing his food gently while speaking

“Sol’s cooking is the best! He’d make a good househusband, don’t you think?” Hearing this, Sol blushed after seeing them nod, maybe being a househusband for Y/n wouldn’t be such a terrible idea after all..

“I think so too, maybe even one day, we could get married as well” They half-joked, watching as Solivan’s smile widened, taking hold of Y/n’s hand and bringing it forth, kissing their knuckles gently

“I’d..love that, no one could ever keep us apart.” Y/n’s eyes drifted to Sol’s gaze, watching as he pressed his cheek against their hand lovingly. Hyugo was nowhere to be seen as the bell rang. After packing everything up, Sol’s hand remained intertwined with their own

“Me and Hyugo were thinking of ditching class, he wanted to see a movie..what do you think?” Upon reaching the corridor, Y/n turned, facing Sol’s body that nearly towered over theirs while leaning forward

“I..-” Looking back at the door of their next class and Crowe who had suddenly exited the room,y/n nodded “-Fuck it, let’s skip.” With that, Sol escorted them towards their secret escape place, not bothered by the glare Crowe had given him as they left.

Due to Hyugo’s request to see the latest movie in theaters, the trio arrived at the cinema shortly after. The movie itself was great, though all y/n could think about was how close Sol was, his arm in their own while sharing popcorn and some small talk. Solivan was over the moon as he walked with them around the nearby park, Hyugo had retuned home afterwards, saying something along the lines of “I’ll leave you two lovebirds be, see you tomorrow” was spoken from his behalf.

The afternoon sun had already settled down, as colder it got, a shiver ran down Y/n’s spine. Sol noticed this, feeling a bit saddened by the fact he couldn’t lend them one of his jackets. Instead, he opted on holding their hand once again until the remainder of the walk to their apartment. Sol already dreaded the look of their place, if only he could take his beloved back to his home, maybe that way he wouldn’t have to worry for any creepy onlookers. As y/n took their keys from their bag, Sol quietly wished for their lips to mest in a kiss before they would lart ways. In that same moment, they leaned forward, kissing his cheek while entering their apartment

“Thank you for today, hopefully we’ll spend more outings like this soon..!”

“Like a date?” He chimed in, making them chuckle while tilting towards him. Their gaze flickered between his eyes and lips

“I wouldn’t oppose to such idea..goodnight Sol, text me when you arrive home” With a nod, Sol bid his goodbyes and left the apartment complex, his heart racing softly while replaying tge memory of their lips caressing his cheek

“Soon..soon enough you’ll be able to see just how much I adore you, my pumpkin”

#solivan brugmansia #sol brugmansia #solivan x reader #solivan brugmansia x reader #sol brugmansia x reader #tkatb sol #the kid at the back sol #tkatb

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starcandybby · 4 months ago

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8:15 a.m. - haechan x fem!reader

warnings: reader has she/her pronouns, haechan is in love, fluff , dreamies scold and annoy haechan, might be typos.

minors pls dni ♡

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

The practice room doors burst open as Donghyuck swiftly walks into the space.

“Lee Donghyuck!” Renjun was the first to scold him, barely giving Donghyuck the time to set his stuff down.

“I’m late, I know I know.” Donghyuck had mentally prepared himself for the lecture he knew he’d get when he arrived at practice late…again.

“This is the third time you’ve been late in the last month, Hyuck.” This time, Mark’s voice addresses Donghyuck, uncharacteristically serious for the leader.

“I know, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” Donghyuck sits up straight and playfully salutes his leader, hoping to ease some of the tension in the room.

“What made you late anyway?”

Donghyuck internally sighs at Jisung’s question; he was hoping that they could all just forget about his tardiness and get to practicing….which was supposed to start 15 minutes ago.

“I was just..you know…” Donghyuck was struggling to come up with an excuse that was both vague and believable to the members that know him so well.

But before he could even complete his sentence, Chenle cuts him off.

“You were with her, weren’t you?” Chenle shouts and points an accusatory finger in Donghyuck’s direction.

The mere mention of you brings a smile to his face. Donghyuck doesn’t say anything, but the tilt of his head downward, to avoid eye contact, and the smirk on his face, tells his members all they need to know.

Groans and murmurs of frustration can be heard around the practice room once the rest of Dream realizes the reason their beloved member was late.

“Man! I knew it!”

“Our Haechannie is in loveee!”

Donghyuck rolls his eyes, but his annoyed demeanor quickly dissolves as a bashful smile eventually makes a way on his face amidst the teasing.

“Yeah Yeah. Get it all out now.”

A few more teasing comments and Dream finally gets to practicing…only 20 minutes later than planned.

Hours and hours later, Donghyuck anxiously taps his foot as he listens to the choreographer wrap up the practice session. He’s sure the concluding points and improvements are important for him to know, but he can’t draw his attention away from the clock hanging above the mirrors in the practice room.

The sooner they finish up, the sooner he can get home to you-

“Alright, I think that’s all we’ve got for you today. We’ll meet back here tomorrow at the same-“

When the choreographer’s concluding words, Donghyuck jumps up and grabs his stuff, darting out of the practice room.

Mark jumps up to follow him. “Don’t be late tomorrow!” Mark calls after him, but it’s a lost cause, Donghyuck is already too far down the hall to hear his leader.

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

Earlier that morning - 7:45 a.m.

“Please don’t go.” You nestled further into the crook between Donghyuck’s neck and shoulder. He chuckled and pulled you closer, if that was even possible. His legs tangled with yours, arms draped over your waist. Donghyuck doesn’t think it can get much better than this.

“You know I don’t want to baby.” Donghyuck can’t see your pout, but you know you’re sporting one as soon as he finished speaking. He strokes your back in an effort to comfort you, long fingers scaling your back rhythmically, almost lulling you back to sleep. Donghyuck knows you’re not really mad at him; you’ve long accepted his schedule as an idol. It doesn’t make it any easier for him to leave though.

“When do you have to leave again?” You murmur as you lift your head to look at your boyfriend. Heart eyes are practically popping out of Donghyuck’s head as he looks at you. Sleepiness still very evident on your face, but he loves it. He loves you.

“In a few minutes.” An absolute lie. He was supposed to leave about 10 minutes ago. But, he wasn’t ready to leave you, not yet.

“They’ll be mad if you’re late again.” You murmur again, leaning into Donghyuck’s hand that had come up to cup your face.

“They’ll be okay. They can miss me for the first few minutes of practice.” He reassures you with another lie. This will be the third time he’s late to practice within the month. He’s sure he’ll get reprimanded by both his leader and his captain, and he might even have to have a meet with their managers. In the moment though, Donghyuck doesn’t care about any of that. He’s feeling more like a ‘in the moment guy’ right now anyway.

It isn’t until a few minutes later, at 7:55, that Donghyuck finally rolls out of bed, much to your and his despair. He makes a stop in the bathroom to clean himself up a bit- to at least try to look presentable.

Donghyuck gives you one last kiss on the forehead- you both exchanging sleepy ‘i love yous’. He lingers longer than he should have (like he did all morning). It takes all his willpower to leave you- he wanted nothing more than to stay.

He sighs and heads out your front door. Despite consequences, Donghyuck thinks anything is worth spending more time with you.

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

a/n: Thank you for reading!! I was inspired by nct 127’s walk dance practice, where hyuck comes in late and then RUNS out at the end hehehe also my haechan brain rot is SO bad rn. love that man.

comments and reblogs are always appreciated <3

#nct dream imagines #nct dream fluff #nct fanfic #nct imagines #nct fluff #haechan x reader #haechan fluff #haechan imagines #donghyuck x reader #haechan fanfic #nct dream fanfic #nct timestamps

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writtenbymoonflower · 6 months ago

Note

hi name twin!!!!

could u write an end-of-exam-season celebration type thingy with polym?? take that wherever you want! exams have just finished & i've deleted all my alarms before 10am... love your work! thank you thank you! 💝💝💝🧁🧁🧁

congrats, hunny! I hope that your break is going well and you are getting lots of rest!

520 words

You shut your laptop with audible finality, releasing a loud breath and rubbing your eyes aggressively. Your miniature spectacle was enough to get Sirius to turn around in his barstool and give a questioning look to where you sat at the dining table, though he didn’t have to ask, because James looked up excitedly from the cutting board.

“Was that the last one, angel?" He set down his knife and walked over to you before even waiting for your response.

“Yes. Thank god.” You groaned as you shoved the offending computer away and laid face down onto the table. You heard Sirius snicker as James started rubbing your aching back.

“That was your last assignment?” Sirius asked to clarify. You didn’t verbally respond, only nodding your head. “That’s great, baby! Do you feel better?”

You brought your head back up as Remus came into the room. “I do, I’m just really tired.” You laughed.

“Well you’ll be getting plenty of rest.” Remus said, half order, half reassurance as he started on the chopping James had abandoned.

“You need it, babe.” Sirius was a mix of genuine and teasing. “You’ve been really worn out recently.” When you raised a questioning brow at him he grinned and raised his hands up defensively. “Don't get me wrong, the wearied look is pretty hot on you, but it’s not very maintainable.”

“I think I’m going to sleep until two tomorrow.” You leaned against James’ hip and closed your eyes, letting out a satisfied hum when he started to pet your head.

“Two isn’t even that late.” Sirius said, smiling with playful defensiveness. “I do that all the time.”

Remus rolled his eyes, ignoring his boyfriend's comment. “Considering how little sleep you’ve been getting as of late, it really isn’t.”

“I don’t have training tomorrow, maybe we could all have a lie in?” James suggested.

“Fuck yes! Everyone is always out of bed by the time I wake up.” Sirius pouted, giving his (very practiced) puppy dog eyes to the room. “I’ve been lacking a cuddle buddy.”

“Hey!” James said, offendedly. “We cuddled yesterday for like, hours.” Sirius waved him off.

“Details, details. My point still stands.” He looked over at Remus. “What do you say, moons?”

“I could go for a lie in.” He said, placing a clinking lid onto the pot to let his dinner simmer before walking over to you and placing a kiss on your cheek. “Proud of you, dovey. You’ve been working really hard.”

“Thank you.” You said bashfully. You weren’t the most comfortable being praised for your accomplishments. (Even though that happens nearly daily when you’re around the boys). “How long until dinner, Remmy?”

“It shouldn’t be much longer.” He said, going to rummage through the pantry. You looked at him questioningly until he pulled out a small bundle of paper wrappers. James gasped in surprise.

“Are you–?” He said in shock.

“Yes, Jamie.” Remus said flatly, crouching down to your level. “Have some chocolate, lovely.” You looked at it in feigned bewilderment. Everyone liked to pretend that Remus was to his chocolate like a dragon to its gold, ferociously possessive, even though he doled it out like smiley-face stickers when any of you held slight discomfort or microscopic achievements.

"Don't go giving away your treasure, I haven't gotten my grade back yet." You joked, but took a few squares anyway.

"This is just based on completion," He said, faux stern. "Imagine what you'll get from your predicted success."

You would shudder to think of it.

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oddinary4bts · 8 months ago

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Chasing Cars | teaser (jjk)

☆summary: when your brother goes to study on a semester abroad, your life collides with his best friend Jeon Jungkook, who's coincidentally your roommate. Will you survive the collision, or will you crumble into dust?

☆pairings: brother's best friend!Jungkook x younger sister!female reader

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI, some chapters have mature content)

☆genre: forbidden love?au, college!au, slice of life!au, smut, angst (as usual a lot of it), fluff

☆warnings: alcohol consumption, curses

☆word count: 1.1k

☆a/n: teaser time babyyyy!! I hope you guys love it :') thank you to @moonleeai and @jessikahathaway for beta-ing, you guys are the best <3

☆series masterpost

☆add yourself to the taglist here!

☆☆☆☆☆

If I lay here If I just lay here Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Chasing Cars, Snow Patrol

☆☆☆☆☆

The hour is late. Jungkook is tipsy, far more than he thought he’d get tonight, but then again, Taehyung is not in a better state, and Sera, Jimin’s girlfriend, had to force him to go home before they got too drunk.

They’re all supposed to help Taehyung’s little sister move in tomorrow, Jungkook included.

“Man,” Taehyung lets out, and Jungkook looks away from the game of Smash they’re playing - that he’s majestically losing - to focus on Taehyung.

“What?” he lets out.

“Can’t believe Y/n will be here tomorrow,” Taehyung answers.

“Can’t believe you’re forcing me to live with a girl.”

Taehyung chuckles. “Don’t worry, Y/n is chill.”

Jungkook doesn’t doubt she is, considering how well he gets along with Taehyung, and Taehyung’s made it seem that he gets along well with his sister. He imagines Y/n’s just going to be a mini Taehyung, which frankly could be fun to have around.

But he doesn’t know anything about her other than the fact that she is Taehyung’s little sister.

“You know,” Taehyung adds as the game finishes. “I meant to tell you something.”

Jungkook cocks his pierced eyebrow in question. “Yeah?”

“Just wanted to say that if you touch my sister, you’re fucking dead.”

Jungkook bursts out laughing, shaking his head, but Taehyung remains entirely serious. Like he meant what he just said - could he?

“You’re joking right?” Jungkook asks as his laughter fades away.

“No, I’m dead ass,” Taehyung insists. “You breathe in her direction, and you’re dead.”

“Damn.” Jungkook widens his gaze, and then picks up the beer he’s been slowly drinking since Jimin left. “Understood.”

Hell, Jungkook knows that he sleeps around. Taehyung does the same - he can’t help but understand Taehyung when he says to stay away from his sister. And he thinks it’ll be easy. Y/n’s probably just going to be a clueless baby college kid, and though Jungkook doesn’t mind going for younger, he’ll have plenty of new faces to explore once Frosh week starts next week anyways.

So he promises Taehyung he has nothing to worry about, and they play a couple more games before they head to bed.

Jungkook wakes up early the next morning, the sun shining right in his face the most efficient alarm he’s ever used before. He wants to go to the gym before helping Taehyung’s sister, and though he hates being awake so early, he immediately forces himself to get up lest he falls back asleep.

His workout goes well, and he’s pleasantly sore when he heads back home. He’s lucky - he manages to park not too far from the apartment. He’s walking home, gym bag in one hand and his phone in the other, when Taehyung texts him to ask where he is.

Jungkook types ‘Fuck off’, pressing send as his attention is solely on his phone.

Until said phone flies out of his hand as he collides with a girl he didn’t notice, and Jungkook watches in horror as the device falls in a flower bed.

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” you say, and you immediately dive into the flower bed, retrieving Jungkook’s phone.

You hand it to him, and Jungkook just stares at you, mouth agape. He’s aware he’s staring and that he probably looks stupid, but he’s dumbfounded.

You’re the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, and he’s seen a lot.

“Don’t worry about it,” he answers quickly when you cock an eyebrow, your cheeks slowly turning red. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“At least it didn’t break,” you say, and you flash him a quick smile.

It does things to his heart that Jungkook barely comprehends - it’s like his heart is going miles a minute, yet it’s soothing, warm, much like the pavement feels in the summer when the sun has just dipped below the horizon.

“Right, yeah,” Jungkook answers, and his cheeks burn.

His cheeks fucking burn, and he wishes he could just disappear, dive below the ground until you can’t see him anymore. You just keep on smiling, eyes never disconnecting from his, and he wonders if you, too, feel like he does.

Shit, he thinks he might even hear bells in the distance.

You glance away, and it’s like he’s falling forward while not moving at all, and all he can do is pathetically clear his throat, as if that’s going to offer any help.

“I see you’ve met Y/n!” Taehyung yells from behind you, and Jungkook freezes.

Jungkook freezes, and then something burns in his lungs, like he’s under the surface struggling for futile oxygen he knows he won’t find.

You are… Taehyung’s sister.

You’re Y/n.

His best friend’s little sister.

The one thing Jungkook can’t have.

It makes him feel cold, his heart suddenly dropping in the Arctic sea amongst the icebergs.

“We literally ran into each other,” you say, looking back towards your brother.

And Jungkook sees it - your hair is the same shade as Taehyung’s, your face has the same shape. The smile though - your smile is different from Taehyung’s, and maybe that’s why he was fooled.

Fooled for a few seconds which felt like an eternity.

You walk away then, heading to the open back door of a car. You grab a box, and Jungkook puts his phone in his pocket, eyeing a bag on the backseat.

“Do you want me to bring this in?” he asks.

Only because he wants you to look at him again. His heart flutters in his chest when you do, and he forces it down with a swallow as you nod once.

“Yes, please!”

Jungkook nods too, and he grabs the bag before following you in. His right foot lands on the first step leading to the apartment when Taehyung stops him with a hand on his arm.

Jungkook frowns slightly, meeting his best friend’s gaze.

“I’m serious, JK,” Taehyung says through gritted teeth. “You fucking touch her, you’re dead.”

And Jungkook knows right then and there that he’s fucked. Entirely, thoroughly, immensely fucked.

Because he already wants you, and he hasn’t even talked to you for more than twenty seconds.

“Don’t worry,” he reassures Taehyung, and he hopes Taehyung can’t hear how fake he sounds.

How is he supposed to resist indulging in you when he already knows you’re all he’s ever wanted?

He really is entirely, thoroughly, immensely fucked.

☆☆☆☆☆

Read chapter one here!

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Taglist: (strike-through means dumblr isn't letting me tag you)

@jjkluver7 | @lavender2ari | @srslythis-ismylife | @starlight-1010 | @mggv97

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let-me-luve-you · 17 days ago

Text

Season Colds

Joe Burrow x Reader

Summary: When you wake up sick, you decide to go stay in a hotel and lie to Joe about where you are going.

Warnings: Slight angst but not a lot, Worried Joe

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: My first Joe Burrow fic!!! I've been feeling sick the last couple of days and thought of this.

Masterlist Buy me a coffee

You knew it was coming. You felt it coming. You were on the verge of being sick. You could feel how exhausted you were. You could feel that your chest was starting to tighten up. You could feel your nose starting to get congested. It happens every time the weather drastically changes. Allergies jumped started it into something worse. But you knew this was more than allergies. This was a cold.

When you woke up Wednesday morning, you felt awful. You looked around for Joe to see if he was still home, but when you locked eyes on the clock and saw that it was after 9 am, you knew he already left for training and wouldn’t be back until mid to late afternoon.

Getting up to go to the bathroom was a chore. After washing your hands when you finished your business, you decided to see if you had a fever. You quietly thanked your mom for giving you a thermometer years ago and quickly pulled it out of the cabinet. You put it under your tongue and waited as you stared at your reflection in the mirror. You looked rough. The thermometer beeped and you pulled it out of your mouth to check it. 102.

Going back in the bedroom after washing and putting the thermometer up, you decided you needed to leave so Joe wouldn’t get sick. He was in the middle of season and it was already rough enough as is without adding sickness on top of it. You quickly made a reservation at The Westin for the next two nights just in case you weren’t better tomorrow. You surely hoped you were because you didn’t plan on telling Joe you were sick. He would insist you stay home so he could take care of you.

After packing a bag of just necessities and medicine, you loaded the car. You decided to call Sharon to see if she was available to clean the house today.

“Hey Y/N, what can I do for you?” Sharon asked as she answered.

“I’m sorry to call you on an off day Sharon, but is there anyway you can come in today and just wipe down counters, change the sheets on the bed, and maybe vacuum. Just a little disinfecting. I don’t feel great and I don’t want to risk Joe getting sick. And I would really prefer him not know about you coming today or telling him I’m sick.” You said.

“Oh dear. Are you okay?” She asked, concerned.

“I’m fine. Just a cold. I just don’t think Joe can afford to get sick in the middle of the season with how it’s going so I’m going to go stay in a friend’s spare room so I don’t get him sick.” You answered.

“I know he’s not going to like that, but yes. I can be there in the next 30 minutes. I will have it done before lunch.” Sharon was someone that has been in Joe’s life since he moved into this house. She has worked for him since the beginning. A few months after he moved in, Joe asked you to move in when he realized the two of you were getting serious. “What do I tell Joe if he comes home early?”

“Just tell him I asked you to come today and that you could take Thursday off. But with it being Wednesday and him having a longer practice and having press, I doubt he does. Just know I appreciate you for this Sharon. I will make sure I add to your Christmas bonus.” You added honestly.

“You don’t have to do that dear. I love the both of you dearly. I will make sure the house is good for him. If you need anything, you let me know.” Sharon said sweetly.

“Thank you Sharon.” You smiled as you hung up. We really didn’t deserve her. You quickly texted Joe before you decided to head off to the hotel near the stadium.

You at 9:46 am: Hey bub. I am going to Maks house for the night. We are going to do dinner and have a treat yo self type of day. I will see you tomorrow after practice. I love you!

You knew he wouldn’t see it for a couple of hours since he usually had a late lunch on Wednesdays. Backing out of the garage, you tried to make the drive as quick, but safely, as possible. You thought about going by the stadium on your way, but the exhaustion and headache was starting to get worse.

After a quick, early check in, you went up stairs and got into bed. You plugged your phone into the charger so it wouldn’t die if you fell asleep. You turned on the tv to a local Cincinnati sports channel and listened to them talk about the Bengals season as you fell asleep.

— — — — — —

You woke to the hotel room dark with only the tv giving light. You heard buzzing next to you and realized a phone call is what woke you. Picking up your phone as the call ended, you noticed you had multiple missed calls and texts from Joe and a couple from Makenzie.

Shit. You thought. Looking through your texts with Joe, you start from where you left your message.

JoeyBear at 12:53 pm: Sounds good babe. I hope you have fun. You deserve a relaxing day. Call me after dinner. I love you.

JoeyBear at 3:12 pm: Hey babe! Hope you are having fun. Don’t forget to call later. I have a funny story to tell you if you haven’t already seen the press conference.

JoeyBear at 5:48 pm: Mak just called and asked if I’ve talked to you today. I’m not mad you lied. I just need you to call me back.

JoeyBear at 5:55 pm: Y/N please call me back.

JoeyBear at 6:08 pm: Y/N this isn’t funny. Answer the phone.

JoeyBear at 6:21 pm: At least text me back so I know you are okay.

JoeyBear at 6:29 pm: I just checked Life360. Why are you at a hotel?

JoeyBear at 6:34 pm: If you don’t answer, I’m going to come down there and get you myself.

JoeyBear at 7:07pm: I’m on my way. Call me. Please.

“Fuck.” you whispered to yourself. You looked at the clock and saw it was 7:45pm. You slept all day. If this is what his texts are, I don’t even want to hear his voicemails. You decide to click the last one just to know what state he’s in before you call him back.

“Y/N, babe. I need you to answer the phone or call me back. Please.” He sounded worried with a hint of anger. “Mak has tried calling you and so have I. What are you doing at a hotel? You know what, it doesn’t matter. I’ll be there shortly. Please call me back if you get this before I try calling again.”

You quickly lowered the phone. You needed to call him. As you started to click on his name when someone frantically knocked on the door.

“Y/N, let me in.” You heard Joe say through the door.

Despite being a little lightheaded from dehydration and getting up too fast, you walked as fast as you could to the door and opened it up.

“What the fuck Y/N? I’ve been worried sick.” Joe said as he stormed past you into the room.

“I’m sorry. I fell asleep and didn’t hear my phone. I just woke up.” You said as you used the wall to help guide you back to the bed. Joe finally really looked at you. He saw how pale you looked.

“Shit.” You heard him whisper. “Come here.”

Joe walked towards you and helped guide you back into the bed. You gratefully laid down and Joe covered you up before putting the back of his hand up to your forehead.

“You’re still warm. How long have you had a fever?” He asked concerned as he looked around the room for water and medicine.

“Since this morning. I took medicine before I left, but fell asleep shortly after I got here.”

“Is this why Sharon came today?” You looked at him shocked. “It’s always easy to tell when she’s been by. House smells like cleaning supplies instead of your candles. Plus I could tell the sheets were changed.”

“Wait. No. Get away. You need to leave.” You said pushing him away as he brought a water bottle to you.

“You’re crazy if you think I’m leaving you right now. You’re sick Y/N. I’m not going to leave you like this.” He said as he sat beside you and helped you sit up to take the medicine.

“I need you to leave. You can’t get sick because of me. I don’t want to make anything harder on you.” You pleaded.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll stay in the guest bedroom if you really want me to, but I’m taking you home. You should be in your bed in the safety of your own home.” He said as he stood up and started packing what little you got out of your bag. He quickly grabbed the brush you packed and brushed the bed head you had going on. He took his hoodie off and put it on you. He then put the hood up over your head.

“I need to call Mak.” You said as you remembered her texts and calls.

“I already told her I have you. Now come on, the car’s still parked out front.” He said as he kept an arm around your waste to keep you steady.

“But what about my car?” You asked genuinely.

“I’ll get Ja‘Marr to pick me up tomorrow and bring me by on our way to practice and I’ll bring it home tomorrow afternoon.” You nodded at him as you got in the elevator.

Once you got in the car and started to head home, you turned to look at Joe. He looked back at you and smiled as your eyes started to droop. He reached over and grabbed your hand and intertwined your fingers.

“How did you know what room I was in?” You asked quietly.

“Helps that you put the room on my credit card.” He laughed softly. You let out a small giggle as you said oops.

“I’m sorry I worried you. I didn’t mean to. I just didn’t want to get you sick. And now you will because you’ve been around me.” You said with a pout.

“I’ll be okay. I promise. I just want to make sure you're okay. You don’t have to run from me. I thought something seriously happened to you. I completely forgot about Life360 until it finally clicked that I should check it.”

“I’m sorry I lied to you. I just knew you would want to take care of me and I didn’t want you sick. The season already sucks for you. I see what you’re going through. I know you try not to bring it home with you, but I see the frustration every day. Getting sick is the last thing this team needs. They need you out there. The fans need you out there.” You said honestly.

“I get it. I do. Just know you never have to hide from me. I’m with you in sickness and in health.” He said as he rubbed the back of your hand with his thumb.

“You need to put a ring on it for that line.” You said with a laugh.

“Don’t worry. I plan to.” Joe laughed with you.

A comfortable silence fell over the two of you as you looked at his profile. You knew every inch of Joe like the back of your hand. That never stopped you from admiring the love of your life though. But with the soft sound of your music that Joe turned on, the rumble of the road, and Joe rubbing your hand, you finally let the tiredness take you.

As Joe took the exit toward your neighborhood, he looked over at you and noticed you were asleep again. He smiled softly as he drove carefully through the streets. After a few minutes, he pulled into the garage and gently let go of your hand and turned off the car. He opened your door and carefully lifted you out of the vehicle and took you to your shared bedroom. Laying you softly on the bed and tucking you in. As he went to kiss your forehead, you turned.

“Oh Joseph Lee, I love you more than life itself.” You said with a sigh and curled into yourself.

“I love you more than anything in these universes.” He whispered and kissed your forehead. He pushed your hair out of your face and smiled down at you as he watched you sleep. He knew he was going to marry this girl one day.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fanfic #nfl imagines #nfl fanfic

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maidragoste · 25 days ago

Text

Snow

Aegon II Tragaryen x Wife!Reader

Second day of the December drabble special!

If you like it, please don't hesitate to like, share and comment. That motivates me to keep writing 🥰🥰💖💖

I remind you that if you have an idea or want to read something specific you can write to me in my inbox 🤗💖

I still haven't decided if tomorrow's drabble will be Aemond x Reader or one of Larys and Sea Dragon

Anyway, I wish you a good read!

Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.

“Aerea, if you keep moving I can’t finish getting you ready,” Aegon gently reprimanded his daughter who kept jumping around while he tried to straighten her scarf and hat.

“I’m sorry, kepa, I’m excited about the snow,” the little girl said without stopping her jumping.

“I know, but the snow isn’t going anywhere,” he reminded her. “We can’t go out until you’re properly wrapped up. If I let you out like this you’ll get sick and you won’t be able to play in the snow again.”

The purple eyes, just like his, looked at Aegon in surprise. He held back a smile when he saw that his words had an effect and the girl remained still. Aegon didn’t waste any time and hurried to wrap the scarf around Aerea’s neck again before leaving the ends in front and zipping up his coat to the top. Now there was no way the scarf would come off while she was playing.

“Is it tight? Are you uncomfortable?” he checked.

“No, kepa” she answered instantly.

“Well, that’s all,” said Aegon putting the hat on her and smiling at her.

“Can we go out now?” asked Aerea jumping impatiently again.

Aegon was about to tell her they had to wait for you and her brother to be ready when you appeared.

“We found it!” you announced going down the stairs with a smiling Rhaekar. Nothing to do with the child who minutes ago was screaming and crying because he didn’t want to go out with any other hat than the one his aunt Helaena had knitted for him.

“You’re the best,” your husband told you once you were by his side and he kissed you. Despite not being a long or passionate kiss, it made you feel warm and bubbly.

You would have liked to be able to continue kissing him for longer if it weren't for the whining of the children impatient to go out and play. Aegon pulled away from your lips and sighed as if it physically hurt him, making you laugh.

“We'll go out now,” he said, trying to reassure the children, while he helped you put on your coat. You couldn’t help but smile at the gesture and give him a small kiss. “Okay, are we all ready?”

“Yessss!” the children shouted and as soon as Aegon opened the door, the two of them ran out into the courtyard.

“Well, we probably won’t have a hard time putting them to sleep today,” he said, looking at Rhaekar throwing himself in the snow to make an angel.

“I hope you’re right,” you said, watching Aerea make several snowballs. “We should prepare before she attacks us.”

“Nah, let’s give her a head start,” he said, barely finishing when he received a snowball on the arm. He shook the snow off his coat as he listened to Rhaekar mocking his sister for her poor aim. The mockery ended when she threw a snowball at his face.

“See? I have good aim,” Aerea said as she continued to attack her brother.

“Kepa, help!” Rhaekar shouted, trying to dodge the attacks while making his snowballs.

“Muña, come with me, help me!” your daughter shouted as she saw that she was starting to run out of snowballs.

And that was how you and Aegon joined the snow fight.

Taglist for all my House of the Dragon works

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@aegonswife @decaffeinatedparadisepost @lidivi @alixxhere @xinyourdreamsx

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softspiderling · 7 months ago

Text

illicit affairs - part three | r.c

summary:

“Are you crazy?” he asked, his voice suddenly all breathy. “I’m still worked up off of Monique last week. I will literally cum the second you put your mouth on me.”

“Don’t mention Moany while I have your dick in my hand.”

“Technically-”

Rafe broke off when you lifted your head, raising a brow at him.

“A’ight, precious, I didn’t say nothin’.”

OR; You and Rafe move in unfamiliar territory

pairing: rafe cameron x reader

warnings: SMUT! 18+ MDNI! p in v, oral sex (female receiving)

word count: 2,4k

author's note: uhm.... this is basically just porn. yeah. also can't believe that the first time i post rafe smut is part of this series lmaoooo. happy reading, i hope you love it <3

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

pt. three: "a dwindling mercurial high"

Pulling away for a second, Rafe tugged his shirt off, tossing it somewhere over his shoulder, before his hands were already back on you, helping you out of your top and letting it drop on the floor. Even though you just lost an item of clothing, you still felt so hot, and it didn’t help that Rafe’s eyes immediately zeroed in on your chest. But before either of you could get carried too far away, you stopped, heaving breaths.

“Wait.”

“What?” Rafe asked, fingers playing with the straps of your bra, eager to take it off.

“We’re not having sex on the couch.”

He sat back, as if just realizing you were still in the living room. “Right, shit. Sorry.”

Before you could ask what he was sorry for, he looped his arm around your waist, easily picking you up and if you weren’t already wet, your panties would be drenched by now. Your legs hooked around his side, as if you had done it a million times before, clinging to him as he carried you upstairs into his bedroom. Without much ado, he tossed you on the bed, and you yelped, glaring at him.

“Is this how you treat all the girls?”

Rafe grinned at you, kneeing on the bed and tugging your shorts and panties down in one go, thumb stroking your inner thigh.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make up for it,” he promised, and before you could say anything, his face was already between your legs, tongue delving between your folds.

“Fuuuuck.”

Your hands dove into his hair, nails scratching over his scalp as he ate you out, the pad of his thumb pressing onto your bundle of nerves like there was no tomorrow. God, you really missed this, missed some good oral sex, because for some reason, your exes either refused to go down on you or were terrible at it. But Rafe? Rafe was excellent. And you weren’t surprised.

Lips parted, to let out small, breathy moans, which turned into a groan when Rafe slowly pushed a finger into you.

“Shit, give a girl a warning,” you gasped out, your hips arching from the bed, but Rafe pushed it back down easily with one hand, grinning up at you.

“I did. Told you I’d make it up to you, didn’t I?” He asked, lazily pumping his finger in and out and if you weren’t rolling your eyes out of pleasure, you’d be rolling them out of annoyance. Beads of sweat were rolling down your temple as Rafe added a second finger, your toes curling as he added a third. It didn’t take long for you to feel the warm, familiar sensation of an orgasm building in your stomach and let out a soft moan, causing Rafe to look at you, eyebrow raised.

“I’m so close Rafe,” you whined, voice breathless.

“Yeah? Are you going to cum for me?”

“Just shut up and put your mouth to better use!” You huffed, pushing his head down towards your cunt. You could feel him chuckling against your skin, but he obeyed your orders anyways. He brought his mouth down, sucking on your clit, his fingers never stopped moving. You let out a gasp, feelings the knot uncoiling, so close.

“Yes, so close,” you moaned, hands dropping on the mattress, fingers curling around the bedsheets, your hips arching off the bed when your orgasm finally washed over you, Rafe’s name leaving your lips like a prayer.

“Fuck that was hot,” he muttered, licking his fingers clean like he just finished the meal of his life. You let your head fall back on the pillow, letting out a breath, your eyes fluttering close.

“Did I wear you out already?” Rafe asked, leaning up to place a rather soft kiss on your lips. You huffed, kissing him back before pulling away, peeking an eye open at him.

“Don’t ruin it by opening your mouth.”

The corner of Rafe’s mouth quirked up, and he pushed your sweaty hair out of your face. “Are you always this mean to guys you have sex with?” The way he looked at you made your cheeks heat up, despite the fact that he was just between your legs.

“No. Just you.”

Rafe opted against replying, only grinning, leaning up to reach behind your back to finally unclasp your bra, which you glad let fall off your shoulders. He didn’t waste any time to put his mouth on one of your tits, his hand on the other, kneading it gently, his fingers rolling your nipple, while his tongue laved around the other, until it turned into a stiff peak.

“I can’t believe it took you this long to show me your tits,” he said, leaving a wet trail of kisses on your chest. You let out a breathy moan, giving him a look.

“Why the fuck would I have shown you my tits?”

“Why not?”

You pushed him on the forehead gently, so he’d fall back on his back, a crease forming on his forehead, and you could tell he was not done playing with your tits, but this was your turn. Now it was you who was getting between his legs, pulling his shorts down, hand immediately palming his erection through his boxers. “Can I blow you?”

“Are you crazy?” he asked, his voice suddenly all breathy. “I’m still worked up off of Monique last week. I will literally cum the second you put your mouth on me.”

“Don’t mention Moany while I have your dick in my hand.”

“Technically-”

Rafe broke off when you lifted your head, raising a brow at him.

“A’ight, precious, I didn’t say nothin’.”

Slowly, you tugged his boxers off, not quite sure what to expect. Your jaw did drop when you saw his cock sprang free, bouncing off his abdomen.

“Shit.”

You didn’t have to look at Rafe to know he had a shit eating grin on his face, he was your best friend after all. You knew him like the backside of your hand.

“Do you have a condom?”

“In the top drawer, can’t miss it,” Rafe said and you leaned over the bed to open the drawer. “The XXL ones.”

“Oh my god, literally shut up,” you groaned, fishing a red foiled packet out of the drawer, shutting it close again. Settling back between his legs, you were about to open the foil, when you noticed the look on his face.

“What?”

Rafe only shrugged, running a hand through his hair and you gave him a look.

“Rafe, what?”

“You’re gonna yell at me.”

You followed his eyesight to the condom, before you realized what he didn’t want to say. “You want to do it without a condom?”

He shrugged again.

“Rafe, you have sex with like ten girls a week.”

“Are you slut shaming me right now, precious?” Rafe asked with a snort. “I never fuck anyone without a condom and you know I get tested regularly. And I trust you. You’re on the pill, right?”

You shifted on your knees, contemplating his suggestion. You usually had sex without condoms becuase you liked it better that way, but you were afraid that one less layer between you and Rafe would change even more between the two of you. And yes, you realized how stupid it sounded.

Rafe interpreted your silence as turning his suggestion down, wrapping his hand around your thigh. “’s fine. Let’s use a condom.”

“No, I’m good. I was just thinking,” you assured him, tossing the packaged condom on the drawer. “I trust you.”

“Are you sure?”

You tried to ignore how concerned Rafe was looking and you nodded, wrapping your hand around his cock.

“Yes.”

“Shit okay,” Rafe groaned, bucking his lips a little. You gave his cock a few good pumps, anticipation building in you, before you crawled over him until you were hovering just over the tip. Rafe’s hands found their place on your waist and you felt him squeezing you as you slowly lowered yourself on his cock, the both of you moaning out.

“Fuck.”

You gave yourself a second to adjust, mostly due to his sheer size, but also because you felt like you had to take a second. This was Rafe. Your best friend. For some reason, you thought this had to feel weird, but all you could think about was how right it felt.

“You good?” Rafe asked, his voice tight.

You exhaled, nodding, before started to move up and down on his cock, movement fluid from your slick and his precum, your hands leaning on his chest.

“Shit, precious.”

Your cheeks flamed, hearing the familiar nickname being used in such an unfamiliar setting with Rafe. Terrified that you were wearing your emotions on your face, you leaned further forward so he couldn’t see your face, while simultaneously giving yourself more space to move. Soon, the bedroom filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, coupled with both your and Rafe’s moans, as the two of you found your rhythm.

Rafe was right, the sex with him was amazing, because of the two of you just worked. He knew just the right moment to snap up his hips to hit the right spot as you rode him, knew how to guide your waist on his cock and when your hips started to stutter, Rafe didn’t hesitate to flip you over, laying you on your back.

“Hey, I wasn’t done,” you protested breathlessly, hair fanning around his pillow. Rafe scoffed, lining up his cock, sliding in, before he pounded into you, holding into the headboard as it kept banging against the wall. Gasping, your eyes rolled back, as Rafe kept fucking into you, your eyes fluttering open when you noticed him getting closer to you, his breath hot on your face as he panted.

“You were saying?”

“Shut up,” you moaned, pulling him down to kiss him, bringing his body closer, his movements never stopping. Slowly, you could feel another orgasm build up, your toes curling. It must have shown on your face, because Rafe pinched your nipple, his cock driving in and out of you.

“You close?”

Nodding, you let out a soft moan, arching your back a little, yearning for your orgasm, even though you had just cum not that long ago,

“M’too,” he groaned, his hips stuttering. He reached down, applying pressure in circular motions against your bud with his finger, keeping fucking into you.

“Fuck, don’t stop,” you whined, nails digging into his shoulders, “Yes, yes, yes, fuck, Rafe!”

“Can I?” he breathed out, his face contorting, and you only nodded, muttering a soft yes, before he finished inside of you, and when you felt his warm come spurt into, you reached your peak, your breath stuttering out as you came, body arching off of the mattress, before you slumped back down, exhausted. Carefully, Rafe pulled out, flopping down on the bed next to you, catching his breath.

“Fuck,” he said, pushing his hair out of his face, glancing over to you. “Wait, let me grab a towel.”

You didn’t even have any energy to protest as Rafe got up to pad to the bathroom. Your eyes were shut as you recovered from your orgasm, before realization suddenly hit you.

You just had sex with Rafe.

Your best friend, Rafe.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, rubbing your hands all over your face. It wasn’t like you regretted it per se, you just wasn’t sure if this was the smartest move to do.

It didn’t take long for Rafe to return, having put on some boxers somewhere on the way to the bathroom. He knelt down on the bed, careful to wipe the cum off of you, and you winced when he brushed over your still sensitive cunt.

“Relax, I know what I’m doing,” he said, pressing a soft kiss on your inner thigh. And he wasn’t lying. His hands were gentle as they moved over your lower body, applying soft pressure with the wet cloth where it was needed to clean you off.

“Who knew you were so gentle with your sex partners,” you teased, leaning on your elbows to watch him. Rafe’s cheeks tinged pink and he tossed the dirty towel into the hamper after he was done.

“Shut up.”

He reached over to the side to hand you his shirt, and you pulled it over your head, glancing around, eyes squinted.

“Where did you toss my panties?”

“Uh…” Rafe looked around, before pausing, picking up your panties from the floor at the end of the bed. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” you snorted, putting your panties back on, before you got off the bed. Rafe watched with careful eyes, scratching his head.

“You’re seriously not still going home, are you precious?”

“Rafe,” you sighed, giving him a look. “I need to pee.”

“Right, sorry.”

You shook your head in amusement, before making your way to the bathroom, the nickname ringing in your head. As you did your business on the toilet - since you did not want to end up with an UTI - you wondered if you could get Rafe to stop calling you precious during sex. It just felt weird, like a permanent reminder that you were still just his best friend.

With the difference that you were having sex now, that is.

Flushing the toilet, you went to the sink, washing your hands and frowned at your reflection in the mirror, before calling out his name.

“Hey, can you maybe not call me precious while we’re fucking?”

He didn’t say anything and you weren’t sure if he fell asleep, so you tiptoed into the bedroom, pausing in the doorway when you saw him look at you with an odd look on his face, halfway tucked into bed.

“Why?”

You shrugged with your shoulders, feeling like he was staring you down, so you crawled under the blankets on the left side of the bed.

This? This felt like familiar territory. You had spent countless nights sleeping in the same bed as Rafe. But everything before that? Terribly unfamiliar.

“I don’t know, it’s weird.”

Rafe sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Sure precious,” he said, leaning over to the nightstand to shut the light off, basking you in darkness.

“Whatever you want.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

author's note: thoughts?

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