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rememberwren · 8 months ago

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Skin Deep

Tattoo artist!Simon x fem!reader. Reader, looking to expand your horizons, you get your first tattoo from an enigmatic artist deemed “Ghost”. 8.4k. Features: soft!Simon who is bad at people-ing, vaginal sex, lots of nipples, like at least three nipples, poor writing, abrupt transitions, shy and awkward reader. Based on this post.

Sequel here.

“I bit the bullet!” you shout over the music, hand cupped around your friend’s ear to be better heard. She shrieks in delight at the sound of your voice, turning to wrap her arms around your waist and pull you close to her swaying body. Many eyes in the club follow her movements. She has always been the wild child to your wallflower, attracting attention wherever she goes.

“You bit what?” she shouts back, her breath like a mint julep.

“The bullet,” you laugh. “I called that guy you recommended and set up an appointment. For the tattoo I wanted!”

She stares at you blankly. Her silky little tank top is drooping off of one shoulder, so you reach out and tuck it back into place. The longer she stares, the more nervous you grow. She’d been so encouraging after your last boyfriend dumped you—encouraging you to step outside your comfort zone, to ‘make more mistakes’, to live life more fully. Now she’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head and it’s the one doing the talking.

“What guy I recommended?” she asks.

“Kevin!”

“Oh no. No, no, no. Not Kevin. Not Kevin. Why, Kevin?”

You frown. “You said you went to Kevin.”

“It wasn’t a recommendation, sweetie, if anything it was to caution you away from him! He’s a creep; there’s a reason why I never went back.”

You deflate like a balloon, going limp and letting her drag you to the nearby free seats at the bar where you sit heavily. It’s not just the tattoo. It’s the icing on a shitcake of a day.

A new song seamlessly starts, and the dancers nearby go wild with excitement. Your mood is the antithesis of the event; everyone seems to be having a great time except for you. Story of your life.

“You conveniently left that out. Ugh. I’ll cancel it. What am I even fucking doing—thank you—” you accept the cup of ice water the bartender slides in front of you with a shy smile, sipping at it and keeping your hand curled over the top of it protectively. “—none of this is like me.”

Your friend frowns. She steals your drink and sips at it. “You were the one who said you’d always wanted a tattoo. You’re an adult. These are exactly the kinds of decisions you’re old enough to make. Look, fuck Kevin. All my friends hate Kevin. I know another guy, and he’s highly recommended. Let me give you his number. Alright?”

“Alright,” you sigh. You make a silent promise to yourself though: if it doesn’t work out with this next tattoo artist, then you won’t be getting one at all. You’ll take it as a sign from the universe to get back in your comfort zone and stay there, once and for all.

What kind of a moniker is Ghost? you wonder to yourself as you skim the Instagram of the shop this Ghost owns. The profile picture is one of the building itself, and all of the pictures are of various inked body parts. Beautiful ones, admittedly. But no hint of the mysterious figure who owns the shop. There is a personal instagram linked @GHOST89 but it is private when you try to click on it.

The phone number your friend gave you rings straight through to voicemail. You let out a shaky breath. Fuck, you hate voicemail. Talking to people was difficult enough; talking to people’s disembodied machines was even worse somehow. It isn’t until you’ve hung up after leaving your message that you realize you forgot to tell him your fucking name (genius!). Groaning, you contemplate dialing him back when the phone in your hand rings—and it’s him.

“Hello?”

“I’m free Wednesdays for consultations,” says a baritone voice from the other end of the line.

Nice to talk to you too, you think dryly. Maybe this guy is as bad at the phone as you are. “I work Wednesdays. Are you free in the evenings?”

He sighs, like this is going to be very strenuous for him.

“Name a time. I’ll pencil you in. Half is due at the end of the consultation upon booking an appointment. Cash only,” he says.

Jesus Christ, could he be anymore abrupt? While a tiny part of you is grateful that he isn’t trying to make small talk, a larger part is terrified that you’ve already made an impression so foul that it’s incurred his wrath. What other reason could he have for being so stilted?

“Alright,” you answer cautiously. “How’s five?”

“Five. Don’t be late.”

He hangs up on you, leaving you wondering why every step outside your comfort zone must be so bloody far.

You arrive early to the consultation, only to find that the building itself—a tidy little brick two-floor, adorned with a sign that dubbed it SKIN DEEP tattoos & artisan piercings, which you recognize from Instagram—is locked. A note written in neat handwriting taped to the door declares NO WALK INS. Your palms are sweaty. You wipe them on your work slacks, but it doesn’t help. How are you supposed to get in?

All at once a shadow appears on the other side of the door. The shadow is enormous: well above six feet tall, and broad shouldered. A black surgical mask is tucked up over his mouth and nose, which only adds to his intimidating aura. Judging by the impressive sleeve of tattoos he has, you imagine that this is the guy.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And Ghost.

Dark brown eyes stare down at you when he opens the door, cocking a hip against the frame, staring at you. Waiting.

Waiting for you to explain your presence, you realize.

“I have a consultation,” you blurt out. “At…five?”

He opens the door wider to let you pass without a word. He’s so broad that you can smell him as you pass him: clean and masculine. The inside of the tattoo shop is bigger than it looks on the outside. There is a reception area with a desk and a computer and printer. The glossy wooden floors are polished to shine, leading to an open floor plan. There is a small sitting area with armchairs, a wide sofa, and a table on which rests two bottles of water, a notebook, and a steaming mug of liquid.

“Sit,” he says, his voice the same deep rumble you recognize from the phone. He chooses the chair beside the mug. His body is so goddamn long, his legs lean and thick all at once where he stretches them out in front of him. He reaches for the mug and takes a sip—of tea, judging by the smell. “Name?”

You tell him, perching yourself anxiously on the other chair. He glances up at you, eyes raking over your posture. Suddenly he tugs the mask down to rest beneath his chin, revealing a full, pale mouth. A straight, noble nose. A pink scar stretches across his lips and up towards his cheek.

“The water is for you,” he says.

“Oh!” You reach forward and take one bottle, breaking the seal. “Thank you.”

“This is your first tattoo.”

“What gave me away?” you ask with a weak laugh.

He doesn’t laugh. “Everything. Is someone putting you up to this? This smells like Soap.”

“What? No, of course not. I want this, I’m just, I’m an anxious personality. I promise.” You hesitate and then add: “I probably smell like soap because I showered this morning.”

His mouth twitches. He leans back in his seat and sucks on his teeth, and you get the distinct feeling that he is trying very hard not to laugh at you. Why had you mentioned to him that you showered? What was wrong with you? Just as you’re comprising a list of things, he picks up the pencil and the notebook, opening to a fresh page.

He asks what you want and God, that’s a harder question.

You do your best to express your idea, but your words feel halting and silly. His pencil scratches rapidly at the paper as he listens in total silence—pausing only once, when you say that you want this to be a sternum piece. Only then does his pencil seem to hover over the paper, his dark eyes seeking you out and pinning you in place on the armchair.

He reaches for his tea to take a generous sip and then continues writing.

He asks a few pointed, concise questions (and you’re just thrilled he was actually listening), following your answers up with more scribbling in his notebook. At length, he shuts the book.

“I think I see the vision. Give me thirty to sketch something and we’ll see if you want to book an appointment. Something this size, on your sternum could take more than one session, depending on how well you sit. How do you take pain?”

“I mean, it hurts?” you offer.

He stares. “Two sessions. Let me sketch something. Drink your water.”

You think that maybe he’ll move to another room to sketch, but he just flips to a clean page and begins to work right there (drawing the mask up over his nose and mouth again). With nothing else to do, you can’t help but watch him.

He’s handsome, in an odd sort of way. His brow is a little too low, his gaze a little too intimidating to be considered conventionally attractive, but you find him fascinating to look at, especially when he is so clearly in the throes of something he enjoys doing. It’s almost like watching someone have sex. The thought makes your face go warm. You pick up your phone, determined not to look at him again.

“Here.”

You glance up from your mindless scrolling. What he shows you is a beautiful rendition of what you had expressed wanting. There are a few key differences, and he patiently explains why he made the decisions he did. He didn’t make the changes because he thought your idea was stupid. He made them so the image would better fit the contours of your body. He made them because the ink will spread over time, and he wants the look to stay clean.

His thoughtfulness touches you.

“I love it. I want it,” you say, enthusiasm getting the better of you.

“This is just a first sketch,” he says dryly, making that warmth return to your face. “I’ll text you a few variations this week, and we can nail down the final piece. You want to book?”

“Yes,” you say, nearly buzzing. “I really want to book.”

He’s expensive—but judging by the book of his artwork that is available for you to flip through at the front desk while he quotes you a price and writes you up a receipt, he is more than worth the money. Fuck, he’s got skill. You thought that maybe his art style was too dark for what you wanted, but you found that he was able to adapt styles nicely. You just hoped this tattoo wouldn’t bore him to death.

“Thanks again for meeting with me,” you say as he sees you out. “I’ll be waiting for your text.”

“You’ll get it.” He glances past you out the window. It’s dark. “Did you walk?”

“No, my car is just there.”

“I’ll wait.”

And he does. His figure darkens the doorway until you have shut your car and locked the doors, temporary insanity making you give him a short wave. He raises two fingers and then disappears.

You didn’t tell me this guy was cute, you text to your friend.

GHOST? Cute? I’ve never even seen his face lol. He’s always wearing one of his masks.

You chew over this information. Yes he’d been wearing a mask, but he’d lowered it for you. Did that mean something? Did it mean something that you wanted it to mean something?

Masks are cute, you say.

Fuck the tattoo artist!!!! she says. Maybe he’ll ink you for free.

You’re terrible.

You’re…thinking about it.

Two days later, you squint blearily into the darkness at your phone after it vibrates on your nightstand. The time reads twelve past one in the morning. It’s from GHOST.

The two images he sends are beautiful; enough to rouse you straight from sleep into wakefulness.

I love them both, you tell him. But the second one is amazing. I think that’s the one.

Keep your appointment. Ten minutes later (after you have already fallen back to sleep) he sends: wear something appropriate.

And fuck, you didn’t even think of that.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself in the mirror, turning sideways to assess yourself. On the bed behind you are a series of button up shirts, all of which you have tried on at one point or another.

“You are,” your friend agrees from where she lounges on your bed, scrolling on her phone. “Your tits are cute. Let Ghost see them.”

The look you give her is the one the phrase ‘if looks could kill’ was modeled after, surely. She doesn’t even see it, so the effect is lost entirely. You turn your gaze back to the silicone nipple adhesive covers again, still stuck to their adhesive backing. You’ve already used one set of the pack of three, and they covered your nipple and areolas nicely, but still left you feeling so exposed.

“Be glad you’re not going to creepy Kevin anymore,” your friend says.

“Very glad of it.”

You felt reasonably safe with Ghost, but still a degree of embarrassment about your own body. Or perhaps that was too strong a word—it didn’t embarrass you, but it felt private. Baring your breasts to a near stranger (especially one you had a grudging attraction to) made your anxiety reach epic level proportions.

“You should text him about it, see if he has any advice for you. He’s been doing this for years. I’m sure he’s seen it all,” she says—the first good idea she’s had all night, miles ahead of ‘Just let Ghost see your cute tits’.

That night, you take her advice and text him, hoping you aren’t overstepping some weird artist-client boundary.

I’m a little nervous.

You can cancel, is all he says. I’ll refund your money.

It’s not that.

What is it?

Not really accustomed to the nakedness tbh. There. You said it. Let him think you some prim priss; it was true.

But all he said back was: how can I help?

I don’t know, you admit. Then; sorry. I’m probably bothering you with this while you’re working.

I’m not working. Five minutes later, when it seems as if you aren’t going to message back: I keep the shop closed to the public. One customer at a time: you. I’ll let my piercer know I’m with a client and not to walk in. I’ll keep you covered every moment I can. Better?

Relief, warm and sweet curling low in your belly, you let him know: much better.

You bring the pasties anyway.

The day of your appointment, you are so nervous you are shaking. Now you know the truth behind the phrase ‘knees knocking together’, as you stand outside SKIN DEEP waiting for Ghost’s hulking figure to appear on the other side of the glass.

When it does, he’s like a little punch to the gut. That black surgical mask is in place—typical for him, if your friend’s words are to be trusted—but his blond hair, cropped short to his scalp is riotous in a way that is adorably charming, like he hasn’t been able to keep his hands out of it. His black t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, and his jeans fit him nicely around his thick thighs.

You’re horrified to find that your attraction to him has grown. Exponentially. Your friend’s words echo in your mind—fuck the tattoo artist, maybe he’ll ink you for free.

“Hi,” you squeak.

Ghost raises both his brows. He opens the door wider for you to slip past him. Fuck he still smells good.

“I’m still nervous,” you blurt out, hoping that speaking the truth out loud will help you feel better. It doesn’t.

“That’s normal. You can back out at any time, but the earlier the better. Come look at the image and tell me if it’s still what you want.”

It’s exactly what you want, and more.

“It’s perfect. You’re very talented.”

He huffs a little, like you shouldn’t have said such a thing.

The chair is a great leather contraption which reclines comfortably once he’s gotten you in it (after making you use the restroom first, during which you took the time to splash water on your burning face and double check that your pasties were in place covering all the cutest bits according to your friend). Simon moves around you, making preparations with the ease of someone who has done this work for many years.

You fight the arousal that blooms in your belly at the sight of him doing such benign things as washing his hands, putting on gloves, opening fresh needles, preparing little wells of ink and sticking them to the movable cart with Vaseline. There’s just something about a person who knows exactly what they’re doing and who is able to do it with efficacy.

“Ready?” he asks at length.

You nod, hoping your nerves don’t show on your face. Steeling yourself, you unbutton the shirt you’re wearing. His eyes follow your hands, but there is a detached, clinical sort of expression in them. He’s not watching a strip tease, he’s looking at a canvas.

Finally, you sit in front of him in only the pasties, the shirt lax around your shoulders, and your sweatpants, socked toes curling in anxiety in your shoes. Without missing a beat, he leans the chair all the way back. Then he opens a fresh disposable razor and shaves you.

“Am I hairy?” you ask, resting your hands oh-so-casually over your breasts to keep them out of his way.

“Yes,” he says. Then his eyes flicker to yours. “Everyone is. Everywhere. It’s normal.”

“I’m just teasing you.”

“Didn’t think you had the breath in your body left to tease me,” he mutters, voice nearly lost behind his mask as he carefully works the razor across your skin removing the baby-fine hairs from beneath your breasts and across your sternum. “You’re nervous, I mean.”

“Would you take the mask off?” you ask on a whim. It had helped last time, to see his face.

“No,” he says. He adds: “Sorry. It’s more sanitary f’you if I keep it on.”

You get the feeling that he really is sorry—and that’s well enough. Some of the anxiety in your belly fades away. He would take it off if he could. The most anxious part of the process (baring yourself to a stranger) has already passed. Maybe now you can begin to relax.

After cleaning your skin, he carefully lays the stencil and has you stand up to look at it in the mirror and make sure the placement is correct and holy fucking shit. It’s sexy. You’ve always been attracted to tattoos, and fancied the idea of getting one on your sternum for far longer than you’d ever admitted to anyone, but seeing it come to life gives you a rush you hadn’t expected. You feel so…badass.

“Good?” He asks.

“Very good,” you answer, sitting back down, hoping he ignores the way your breasts bounce a little as you do. He leans you back again and this time breaks out the needle gun.

But before he uses it on you, he carefully takes a clean towel and lays it over your left breast, covering the parts of you that are not nearest to his eyes. His gentleness and thoughtfulness go straight to your cunt.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He just nods. The gun buzzes to life. “I’ll make a line and see how you feel. Last chance to back out without any souvenirs.”

“I’m not backing out.”

He clicks his tongue as if to say, It’s your funeral. Then he lays his hand on your sternum above your breasts, pinning you in place, and makes a gentle line.

It burns more than you expected it to. There’s a sandpaper quality to it, almost like the rasping of a cat’s tongue. The pain is sharp and bright, but it isn’t overwhelming. In fact…a strange part of you sort of enjoys it. Maybe it’s the rush of endorphins.

“Good?” He asks.

“Good,” you squeak.

You hear his quiet laugh, no more than an exhale of breath.

“Let me know when you need to break.”

You don’t know how you feel about the way he phrases that: when you need to break. He adjusts his mask a little, leans over you, and gets to work. Sometimes the needles pass over a place that is more sensitive than the others, making you flinch. He pauses when this happens, eyes flickering up to your own, making sure you are alright even though he can likely feel the pounding of your heart beneath his hand. That hand on your chest, wrist just brushing the top of your breast, is a solid warm weight that seems to tether you back down to the earth as he lines you. He is very careful not to brush against your breast when he wipes away the excess ink and traces of blood, but you feel hyper-attuned to how easy it would be for him if he wanted to. How huge his hand is compared to your tit. Beneath the pasties, your nipples ache with tension, a tension that is mirrored between your legs.

“Alright. Break,” he says, abruptly turning the gun off. He covers your exposed breast with another towel. “Take ten.”

He disposes of his gloves and disappears behind a curtain in the back, leaving you throbbing between the legs. Worming your phone free from your pocket, you scroll aimlessly, hoping to calm your raging hormones. He returns right at the ten minute mark, just as his cellphone rings. He glances toward where it rests on the table, but makes no move to answer it.

“Do you need to get that?” you ask, offering him an out.

“No,” he says. “I make everyone leave a message. Weeds out the cowards.”

It had almost weeded out you, you think about telling him, but in the end you decide against it. He gloves back up.

“Good for more?”

And so it repeats.

At one point, he runs into a patch of sensitive skin on your ribs just overlaying the bone. It has you sucking in a breath through your teeth, eyes squeezing shut. It’s too late to turn back now you tell yourself; the only way out is through.

His thumb gently strokes your sternum.

“It’s rough. You can take it,” he says, quiet and focused. The buzzing of the gun never ceases as he tries to make his work as quick as possible, his words a little distant and distracted. “Just keep breathing. That’s it. Good girl.”

Jesus. Did he not have any idea what those words could do to a girl? A groan escapes your lips, and he clearly mistakes it for pain, because his thumb strokes again the soft skin over your heart, just above the curve of your breast.

“You can do it. Just a little longer for me, and we’ll break.”

“Hurts,” you breathe, flinching again.

He hushes you, surprisingly tender.

“This is the worst of it.” This time, his thumb does brush the edge of your breast, making you suck in a gasp. He recoils, hand lifting away from you and curling into a fist. He rests that against you instead, taking away any further hope that he might brush his fingertips against you. You make it through the rough patch with tears in your eyes but no worse for wear.

“Break. Ten minutes,” he says again, already shredding his gloves and moving to disappear behind the curtain.

You call out: “Hey, wait—I’d rather just get through it in one go if I can. If this really is the worst of it.”

“I need breaks too,” he says stonily.

You duck your head, feeling silly. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He vanishes again.

He is late to return to you. Only by five minutes or so, but noticeably for a man so usually punctual and so demanding of punctuality in you. His face is stoic—what bits of it you can see from behind the mask—as he washes his hands thoroughly and preps his work station again.

This time his hand keeps a very respectable distance from your breasts—a fact which you both lament and appreciate all in one. He works with single-minded efficiency, giving you his entire focus. You break once more, but this time he breaks in the room with you, stretching out his back and neck (giving you a generous glimpse of his belly when his shirt rides up, exposing cut abs and a happy trail you’d give your life to follow).

“I think we could do this in one sitting, if you have nowhere else to be,” he mutters at length.

“Eager to be done?” you wonder.

He stares at you, expression flat, and says nothing. Nothing needs to be said.

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” you murmur, staring up at the bright adjustable light that he has positioned over you. You hope he mistakes that for the reason behind any mistiness in your eyes, his rudeness cutting you deeply.

So the two of you push through later into the evening, until you are sweating at your temples and the base of your neck from the continuous pain for so long. At last he lays the last gradient for the shading, sprays you down, and wipes you clean so very gently.

“Go take a look. I’m going to cover it up.”

It’s beautiful. Stunning, even. You let your shirt gape closed and cover the pasties, revealing a broad glimpse of the sternum tattoo, and it is the sexiest you have ever felt. It almost makes your eyes burn anew.

“I love it,” you choke out. “Thank you.”

“Can I take a picture of it?” he asks. “For Instagram.”

“Sure!” It will feel a little like being famous, you think, judging by how much notice each of the photos on his Instagram garners. He crouches down on the floor to be at the perfect height, reaches out and gently adjusts your shirt. Parts of the tattoo are covered—the very far edges—but you can’t deny how sexy it is. Maybe he feels the same way.

After he takes the photo, he posts it and asks for your handle to tag you in it. Then he says: “Let me cover it up. Keep it covered overnight, but tomorrow let it breathe. Keep it clean. Don’t do anything stupid to it. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“And if you have any questions—text me.”

You get home to find that Ghost’s personal account has requested to follow you. Thrumming with nerves and excitement, you accept the request and send one of your own, spending the night scrolling through his Instagram (so, so carefully to avoid any incidental ‘likes’). Plenty of the photos are of his artwork, still. But there are ones of his dog: a German Shepherd that is thankfully much more photogenic than her surly owner. There are three or four photos featuring Ghost himself, and only one has his full face in the picture. You find yourself staring at his fixated expression for longer than is respectable.

Three days later when you find yourself panicking, you don’t text him like he asked you to. You call.

Your skin is peeling off. Peeling. Off. The sight of it makes your stomach roll. The entire tattoo is hot to the touch, and the skin around it feels warm as well. Flushed. Is it supposed to hurt this much?

The internet doesn’t help. The peeling is normal, sure. But everything else is suggesting that your tattoo could be infected. What sort of ink did Ghost use? Was it reputable? What if the infection reaches your bloodstream? You were too young to die! Your anxiety spirals like a plane with one wing, trailing smoke as it soars straight down, determined to take you with it.

With shaking hands, you don’t even think about texting Ghost. You go straight to calling him, tapping his number in your phone and pressing it to your ear, listening to the ring.

He’s going to send you to voicemail, just like he does to everyone else—except he doesn’t. All the sudden there is glorious feedback from the other end: a cacophony of voices and laughter, clearly some sort of gathering.

“Yes?” Ghost says into the phone, as if that’s a decent hello.

“There’s something wrong with my tattoo!” you cry.

“Wait—get out of my goddamn way.” There is rustling, and then the noise decreases substantially. You can almost see him standing outside whatever bar his friends have brought him to, mask down around his chin, hand over his other ear as he strains to listen to you. “Say it again. Now I can fucking hear you.”

“There’s. Something. Wrong,” you say through your teeth. “With my tattoo!”

“Well? What is it?”

“It’s falling off, for one!”

He snorts. “That’s normal. That's why you called?”

“It’s all swollen and hot. And it hurts.”

Now that shuts him up. He sighs a little, switches the phone from one ear to the other. “Hurts how bad?”

“Worse than getting it.”

“Fuck me. Alright. Meet me at the shop in…twenty?”

“Twenty minutes from now?”

“From when else?” He hangs up. Man doesn’t know the meaning of the word goodbye.

The night is cool. You don’t bother with a bra, not when it irritates your tattoo so much. Pulling your jacket closed more tightly around yourself, you walk from your parking spot along the street to the tattoo shop.

Ghost stands outside at the curb. His figure is unmistakable. He is smoking, mask down, the lit end of his cigarette a burning ember that flares bright in the darkness. When he sees you coming, he crushes the cigarette beneath his boot and opens the door to the shop, which is still and dark. He flicks on a light switch as he goes, casting the place in a warm glow.

He’s dressed in his usual dark jeans and an obscenely tight t-shirt, his sleeve of tattoos on display. He leaves the mask down. His eyes are on your tits—or resting where your tattoo is beneath your clothes.

“Well. Sit. Show me.”

You sit in one of the armchairs, your shoulders rising in defensiveness. “What, just flash you?”

“Nothing I’ve never seen before.”

Gritting your teeth, you begin unbuttoning your shirt until it gapes open. You cup your breasts with your hands, maintaining your modesty while putting the tattoo on full display. He narrows his eyes, leaning down. His fingers reach out, but then he thinks twice and washes his hands.

“I was smoking,” he says when you roll your eyes in exasperation.

“You’re worried about getting the chemicals on my skin but not in your lungs?”

“Fuck my lungs,” he mutters. His fingers hover over your tattoo. “Can I?”

You nod. His fingers are cool when they gently prod and ghost along the edges of the tattoo, feeling for the signature warmth of an infection. “Any fever?” he asks.

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

“You feel warm, but I’ve felt warmer. I don’t think it’s infected. Have you tried icing it?”

“No,” you admit.

“Ice will help. Just use something clean, for fuck’s sake.” As he speaks, his breath fans across your chest, making you shiver. He sees this, his eyes darkening. “When you called, I thought it was for me.”

“It was for you,” you say, brow furrowing. “Who else?”

He snorts, lips quirking. It tugs on the scar across his lips. “Forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“Talking about it goes against forgetting it.”

You groan, tossing up your hands. “You’re impossible.”

He reaches out and jerks your shirt closed, hastily doing up a button. Your face burns as you do up the rest of the buttons—you end up having to backtrack and redo them because he was off by one.

“Thank you for meeting me. I’m sorry it was for nothing.”

“It wasn’t for nothing,” he says. “And I wasn’t doing much.”

“You were with friends,” you insist.

His eyes narrow. “Who told you that?”

“I saw it on your Instagram tonight.”

“Nosey.”

“I could buy you a drink sometime,” you offer after a lengthy pause, your heart pounding loud enough to fill the silence between you. Are you really doing this? Are you really asking him out? “Make up for the ones I lost you tonight.”

“Maybe.”

God, it’s like he’s not getting it. Maybe you need to be bolder. Fortune favors the bold, doesn’t it? Your hands are shaking when they fall back to the buttons on your shirt.

“Would you take one more look at my tattoo? Just to be…positive?”

He sighs and makes an impatient hand gesture. Your fingers fumble through the buttons again. You don’t cover yourself with your hands this time; just keep the halves of your shirt over your nipples. He dutifully exams the tattoo again, prodding gently, laying the flat of his fingers against it to feel the warmth it lets off.

“Maybe you should look closer.”

His eyes flicker up to yours. “Closer.”

Your mouth is dry. “Yeah.”

“Can’t get much closer than I am.”

“You could—if you wanted to.”

“If I—“ it hits him then. You can see it in the fractional widening of his eyes, the way his mouth parts softly in blatant surprise before he shuts it, dark eyes returning to your sternum. He says: “Closer.”

“Mhm.”

The back of his hand brushes against your breast, causing your breath to hitch. His thumb traces softly along the outline of the tattoo, following the path just beneath your shirt, nudging the fabric aside slowly, so slowly, until your breast is bare, nipple puckered and aching.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. His eyes flicker to yours as if to see if you really want this—and whatever he sees must reassure him, because then he is sweeping his fingertips along the bottom curve of your breast and taking it into his hand, his palm rasping gently over your nipple. All the breath rushes out of you. Your thighs clench together. Already you’re aching—have been since you saw his mouth around that cigarette on the street—but he moves with determined caution. His thumb finds your nipple and teases it, pulling a desperate little sound from the back of your throat.

“Pretty little tits,” he says, his voice a warm, smoky rumble that goes straight to your core. He captures your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching softly.

“Fuck,” you gasp, one hand reaching out to brace yourself against his shoulder. He is solid and firm beneath your touch, unmoving and unmalleable. Your breasts have always been sensitive, but it feels like every touch is directly related to the feelings in your cunt. You find your back arching, hips searching for friction against the seat of the chair.

“Be still,” he says firmly. Another pitiful sound slips past your throat. “Let me play with you.”

“Please,” you gasp. “Play with me—even if that’s all you want—just don’t stop, please.”

His mouth parts as he listens to you, his eyes so, so dark. The pupils have nearly swallowed his irises whole, until you can see yourself bare from the waist up in the reflection. He shakes his head a little. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“I do. I—“ your words are cut off with a gasp as he hauls you out of the chair by your wrist and onto his lap. He’s so thick thighed that it stretches you obscenely to have him between your legs. His hands tear the button-up off your shoulders and down your arms until it flutters to the floor, leaving you half naked. Dipping his head, he presses a heated kiss to the place on your sternum where he had rested his hand during the tattoo—and then trails wet kisses towards your left breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with a decided softness.

You let out an unflattering, choked groan, resting your weight heavily against him until you can feel the prominent bulge in his tight jeans. His hands find your ass and grip you tightly, working you back and forth, rubbing that bulge against your clothed sex.

“Driving me fucking crazy,” he mutters against your skin, opening his mouth to drag the sharp line of his teeth against the curve of one breast before switching to the other and flicking his tongue over your nipple.

You gape at his admission. Had you been? He’d been so closed off and cool…though now that you thought back, maybe that was just his way of hiding it. Suddenly he grips the back of your neck, where your hairline ends, and pulls you to his mouth. He tastes faintly of smoke, even fainter of the drinks he had had earlier in the night, but it is an intoxicating mixture. Your tongues find a rhythm as your hips do the same, both of you fucking in every sense of the word except the literal kind.

He takes one of your thighs and wedges it between his own, until you’re no longer grinding against his cock but instead his denim-clad thigh. “You the kind of girl who can cum like this? Just from this?”

“Uh-huh,” you promise, head bobbing.

He buries his face in your neck. “Good. I won’t last when I’ve got my cock in you. I’d like you to cum at least once before then.”

“Oh god,” you groan, gripping his shoulders fiercely as you begin a halting, stilted rhythm against his thigh. The denim is rough against your leggings. He feels all around you: his scent, his taste, his touch. When his hands find your hips to help you work yourself against him more smoothly, a sigh of gratitude fans from your lips.

“What else do you need?” he asks.

“My—touch me—“ He abandons your hips once you find a suitable rhythm. He finds your nipples again, teasing them with clever fingers. The stimulation has your peak approaching faster, building like a storm in your lower belly.

Ghost leans back to look at you, eyes trailing over you from head to toe: your face burning with warmth, your breasts with peaked little nipples, your leggings nearly soaked through at the crotch with how wet you are. He shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“Fucking perfect.” You bury your face in his neck, feeling a warmth inside your chest. He grips you by the neck again and tugs you back. “Look at me. Look at me.”

You look at him for as long as you can, but when the band in your belly finally snaps, your eyes roll up and slip shut, your mouth drops open in a choked gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as you shudder and shake in the throes of your pleasure.

He leans down to kiss you through it, tongue teasing at your slack mouth.

When he stands, he takes you with him, hauling you up until you wrap your shaking legs around his waist. It’s probably a good thing too. You aren’t sure you could walk otherwise. He carries you the few steps to the couch and lays you down, curling his fingers in the waistband of your leggings. You nod. He strips them off you, along with your flats, and your panties until you are naked as the day you were born.

Your thighs clamp together shyly. He lets them, reaching behind himself to pull his shirt off. Something catches your eye in the streetlights streaming in through the window: Ghost has one of his nipples pierced, a neat little barbell through the sensitive flesh.

Fingers enter your vision—your own—reaching out on instinct. You hesitate, unsure if he is receptive, and a little afraid to hurt him. He’s so bloody tall, too…but he takes care of that himself by kneeling down by your side, his eyes cautious. Closer, you can see the scars: silvery in the moonlight, crisscrossing over his torso.

“Does it hurt?” You ask, softly stroking your fingers beneath the pale pink skin of his areola.

“No,” he says. You can feel the timber of his warm voice vibrating through his chest, up your fingers, straight to your pussy. “You can play with it.”

You shyly run your thumb over it the way he had yours. He sighs, breath fanning across your arm. His eyes go heavy-lidded, tongue flashing as he wets his lips. After a moment, you grow insecure and move your hands away from his nipple down to a scar that crosses his sternum. He lets you, very patient, like a dangerous creature withholding its bite.

“You’re so—“ the words are whispered dreamily before you have any idea how you plan to finish the sentence. Flushing with embarrassed heat under his wary stare, you finish: “—hot.”

He physically turns away, expression inscrutable. You can’t help but feel like you have said the wrong thing. He puts a hand on your belly, stroking the softness. “You broken, or can you take more?”

“I want more.”

“Want my cock?”

You nod, feeling like a bobble head.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I want your cock.”

His hand reaches for his belt, unbuckling it. Your eyes track the movement with hungry nerves. His hands put butterflies in your belly: thick palms with long, slender fingers, veins criss-crossing along the backs. An artist’s hands. He works his belt free with nimble grace and shucks down his jeans and underwear in one smooth movement, revealing his cock to your gaze and the light from the street lamps.

He is huge here to match. Downright intimidating in length and girth, uncut with a nice curve toward his belly. He grips himself and gives a series of smooth strokes, the muscles in his abdomen flexing into sharp relief.

“Oh my god,” you mutter.

“No gods here,” he says, kneeling up on the couch. His hands part your thighs, and for a long time he just looks at you, that sensitive, swollen place between your legs. He stares so long that you nearly cover your face, embarrassed by whatever he is thinking. Then he touches you, and when he does, he touches you with surprising reverence. He touches you like you are art.

“Can’t believe you let me ink you,” he mutters, stroking your vulva with his warm palm. His eyes are on the sternum piece now. “Practically let me carve my name into your skin. Anybody around here who sees it will know who did it. They’ll know who touched you.”

“Good,” you breathe.

His sigh is shaky. You’re learning his reactions, his very breaths. That shaky sigh means he’s pleased with you. You’ve said something right.

He reaches down to his jeans on the floor and works a hand into his pocket, pulling free a condom. He hands it to you—for inspection, you realize, though you’ve had so few one night stands (try zero) that you’ve never had the need to inspect a condom before. The package is intact at least. There appears to be an expiration date which you squint at. All looks well. You hand it back to him and he tears it open, rolling it down his considerable length.

Then he goes back to touching you. One hand braces himself against the back of the sofa so he can lean down to kiss you, tasting your mouth deeply. The other hand finds your entrance, circling it with a finger before slipping inside you all the way to the last knuckle. You are wet enough and relaxed enough that he slips in easily.

“Relax…there you go. Let me in,” he says under his breath, working a second finger in beside the first. It is a bit of a stretch—he’s thick everywhere goddamn it—but it’s a good stretch, a much needed one. The third finger has you stiffening, whining at the pinch of pain. He slows his fingers and lets his thumb find your clit, muting the pain with little jolts of pleasure.

“Ghost,” you groan, toes curling against the leather of the couch.

“I think you can take it,” he says, thumb so soft and insistent against that aching pearl of nerves. “But what do you think?”

“Your cock—want it—please—“

“Alright,” he laughs, pulling his fingers free and wiping the wetness on his cock. “No need to beg.”

He notches his cock against your entrance and slips inside you. Both of you inhale together, like on cue. Just the first few inches have you feeling full beyond your comfort zone, but he seems to understand in his silent, all-knowing way. He stills, working that free hand between you both to play with your clit until you’re clenching around him, body trying to pull him deeper. He slips further in and then reaches the end of what your body can take. You feel fucking stuffed, your hands shaking where you have gripped his naked shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

His own breathing is ragged, pecs brushing your nipples with every inhale. The little bursts of pleasure help, until you find that your hips have grown restless, working back and forth as much as his substantial weight will allow when you’re pinned beneath it.

“Stay still,” he mutters into the juncture of your neck. “Stay still or I’ll cum and this is all over.”

“Can’t,” you gasp, his revelation electrifying you. “Have to move, ‘m so full—“

“Fucking hell,” he groans. He pulls out, leaving you feeling gaped. “Roll onto your side.”

He gives you instruction but isn’t shy about reaching out and physically arranging you until you are both spooning, your back to his chest. This time when he enters you, it is more shallow, and easier for him to reach around and play with your clit.

You arch your back, seeking more of him, pressing your breast into his free palm. He plucks at the nipple, teeth nibbling at your throat.

“Want you to cum again,” he says, stilling your movements so that you can’t fuck your self back against him. “Give me one more. Then it’s my turn.”

“Ghost—I can’t—“ you’ve never cum twice before. Not even with your favorite toys have you been able to scrounge together more than one illustrious orgasm. This knowledge and your expectation of his disappointment has you stiffening in his arms.

“If you can’t, then don’t,” he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He keeps his fingers soft and insistent against you, and only after a few lengthy moments does he feel confident enough to work his hips against you too. He pulls out too far and his length drags across your labia, the head brushing where his fingers play with your clit.

You give a sighing little moan. His head cocks; you aren’t the only one listening to sighs. Now when he gives those lazy, lackadaisical thrusts, his entire length just strokes the outside of your sex.

“Oh fuck,” you whine, feeling that band in your belly begin pulling tight again.

He hums behind you, a smug sound.

“Not sure I want you to cum now,” he says. “Hold it. I’m thinking it over.”

“Ghost!”

He laughs, honest to God laughs at you. Tears prick your eyes from the sheer need (and a bit from embarrassment) but his hips never cease nor slow their tireless thrusts against you, not even when you grow close enough to beg, close enough to plead.

He loops his arm around your waist and pins you against him when you cum to keep you from rolling right off the couch, your body wracked with shivers and spasms. The warmth of your release washes over you from head to toe, and you are still basking in it when his cock finds your entrance again and enters you.

The position keeps the penetration blissfully shallow (otherwise he might give your cervix a painful beating), but he still reaches new lengths inside you, filling spaces you didn’t know were empty. The shop is eerily quiet except for the sound of his hips snapping against your ass and the frequent breathy sounds his cock punches out of your lungs.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck and lets out a series of sounds that are toe-curling: deep groans and raspy curses, whispered praise and hisses through his teeth. His hand grips your hip tightly, leaving shadows the shape of his fingerprints on your skin as he fucks you.

Sooner than you’d like—but he’d warned you, hadn’t he?—his thrusts grow sloppy, the sounds messy thanks to your wetness as he finds his release and moans it into the skin of your throat.

“Fuck,” he whispers. And again: “Fuck, fuck. You broken?”

“Yes.”

He snorts. Then it turns into that laughter, warm and rumbling against your back. You smile where he can’t see.

“Sorry about this,” he says as he ties the condom off and throws it away, naked as the day he was born. You’re still naked too, though much more shy, legs crossed demurely and arms wrapped around yourself.

“Regretting it already?”

“Yes,” he says. Then, when he sees the stricken look on your face, he adds: “Should have at least taken you to dinner first.”

“Dinner?”

“You owe me drinks. I owe you dinner.” He finds his boxers in the darkness and slips back into them. Then, because the expression on your face still hasn’t relaxed, he says: “I don’t regret the sex. Do you?”

You shake your head.

He scoffs a little.

“I mean it,” you insist. You touch your tattoo. “I wanted it…the day you did—this.”

He raises both brows at you, silently calling your bluff.

“I didn’t think you were interested,” you admitted sheepishly.

“I jerked off in the back just from seeing half your tits,” he admits, slipping into his jeans now too. His mouth curls a little at the corner when he sees the way you gape at this news. “I was interested.”

You laugh; you can’t help it. “Dinner, then? Or drinks?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Alright. Get dressed.”

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #skin deep

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kittyoverlord · 6 months ago

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Brennan yes-and-ing his partner who forgot she's being perceived as male by creating an extremely well rounded gay bartender is the reason I keep watching dimension 20. Genius storytelling.

Bonus:

#couple goals #izzy roland #brennan lee mulligan #dimension 20 #dimension 20 spoilers #never stop blowing up #nsbu

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alg3a · 2 months ago

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auspicious (pt. 1)

jayce x f!reader x viktor / jayvik x f!reader

4k, sfw for now, no use of y/n

description: Viktor and Jayce’s new lab assistant is the hottest topic at a council gala. After defending herself all night, an accidental confession leads to tension in the workplace.

warnings: suggestive content, brief and light misogyny (don’t worry), manipulative reader, lab assistant dynamic, basically the last third is foreplay.

a/n: This is my first ever tumblr fic! If you guys would like, i will add an nsfw second part.

Update: second part added!

Say what you will about Councilor Salo, but his galas never disappointed. There must have been three hundred of the city’s most influential people scattered about the grand ballroom, which stretched further than you could see with your naked eye. It was the first you’d ever seen of these exquisite parties, and you silently hoped that it wouldn’t be the last.

You’d been the lab assistant of the two Hextech partners for around three months now. With the public eye being enthralled with the activities of the two intelligent scientists, it wasn’t long before the spectacle included you, their pretty new lab assistant. You were in your final year in the academy’s undergraduate program and had been a promising enough engineering student to be hired by Viktor and Jayce. Your name was a prevalent one in every inventor’s competition and innovator’s fair, so naturally they had heard of you before your interview. From what you heard, there were nearly fifty other applicants (mostly girls) and yet they hired you on the spot. Naturally, once this story aired, the press was obsessed with you. Piltover Gazette did an entire piece on you about a month into your employment.

With all the attention, Jayce thought it might be a good idea for you to tag along at galas and parties as the plus-one of both men. They never brought dates, so the position was always wide open. Although, Jayce did usually leave with a plus-one.

You wore a deep red sleek gown with a plunging neckline and an absent back. The men matched their ties to your dress, but the rest of their outfits were mostly black and ivory. It wasn’t long before you were whisked away to the dancefloor by influential older men, who talked your ear off about how lucky you must find yourself to be shadowing two promising young inventors. You cringed each time you heard it. You were certainly lucky to have landed the position, but the way they phrased it made it seem like you were some teenage girl who was asked to the school dance by the two cutest boys in school. It wasn’t as trivial as that. Each day, you worked tirelessly alongside their genius minds to find solutions to real world problems using Hextech. You and Viktor spent countless nights asleep on opposite ends of the worn lab couch so that you could continue working at any hour.

Eventually, you grew tired of the misogyny from older male benefactors. You’d done enough socializing for the night, now it was time to patronize the open bar.

You found a spot between a woman in a gold dress and a man in a white tuxedo and asked the bartender politely for a whiskey sour. Once you finished speaking, the man in the white tuxedo turned to you.

“I recognize you,” he said, the scent of his aftershave mixing with the alcohol on his breath. “You’re the Hextech girl, aren’t you? I read your article in the Gazette.”

You sighed as the bartender handed you your drink, pressing a polite smile to your lips with the exhale. “Yes, that’s me. It’s a pleasure.” You hold out your hand and he brings it to his lips with a kiss longer than you would have liked.

“The pleasure is all mine, dear,” he said, setting his glass down. “You know, it’s very uncommon for an undergraduate girl to land such an auspicious spot amongst lead researchers at the academy.”

Here we go again. In the time it takes for him to finish the same spiel you’d heard all night, you finish your drink in one continuous sip. You punctuate the end of his sentence by putting your glass down roughly on the counter.

“Yes, I’m incredibly lucky,” you say, your polite smile turning vaguely murderous. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jayce and Viktor approaching the bar.

“Enough prattle from me,” the man says and holds out his pasty hand once more. “I think it’s time for a dance.”

“Are we interrupting?” Jayce asks, his usual charming smile adorning his chiseled face.

“Not at all!” The man in white says, jovially. No doubt feeling blessed to speak to the men whose egos he spent the last five minutes stroking.

“In fact you came at the perfect time,” you say, smushing yourself between Jayce and Viktor, and wrapping your arms around their arms, emboldened by the alcohol and desperate for a way out of this conversation. “We were just discussing how positively fortunate I am to be working for two accomplished, ambitious, handsome young inventors.”

Viktor furrows his eyebrows at you, then looks back up at Jayce. “Is that so?” He asks, suspicion dancing in his eyes.

“Yes,” you nod emphatically, then bring your attention back to the man in white. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry I’ll have to decline your offer to dance. But I’m sure you understand. When a young woman like myself is called upon by men so far above my humble station, I simply must recognize how—what was the word you used earlier—how auspicious my position is.”

The man seems lost in your rambling, but you notice Jayce and Viktor smiling at one another and avoiding the man’s gaze.

“Ehem, well alright,” the man says, finally. “You three have a pleasant night.”

“Thank you,” Jayce says, his smile becoming a smirk. “We will.”

Jayce places his hand on your lower back and guides you away as Viktor follows, now placing his weight on his cane.

“Are we missing something?” Viktor asks.

“We came to check up on you,” Jayce said. “That guy at the bar was eyeing you like you were his next cocktail.”

“Gross,” you shudder at the thought. Jayce’s hand rubs the exposed skin of your lower back gently. Your eyes dart toward the ground at the sudden awareness of the intimacy of the touch. You shrug off the chill heading up your spine. “Please, never invite me to one of these again. I’ve heard enough old men insinuating that I’m the lab’s little piece of ass.”

“They’re saying that?” Viktor said sharply, stopping in his path as he turned to face you, his hand on your shoulder.

“Well, not exactly that, but practically every conversation is monopolized by my male counterpart lecturing me on what a privilege it is to spend my days ogling at you two.”

Jayce snickers a bit, but Viktor shoots him a stern look.

“That’s highly inappropriate. I’m terribly sorry you experienced such a blatant display of the antiquated beliefs these upper houses hold.” Viktor shakes his head as if he is shaking off the experience like a dog drying off.

“Vik and I were just talking about leaving, anyway,” Jayce says, his hand resuming its ministrations on your back. “We can call a car and go, just say the word.”

You look around the room and remember the reason you’re here in the first place. Galas are the primary way for the two inventors at either side of you to network and receive funding for their projects. Jayce abhorred the politics and the whole reason exhausted, introverted Viktor even bears the social tedium of these parties when he’d rather be slaving away in the lab is because he knows none of their ventures can be broadened without doing the dance. In a singular moment you realize that if they can stomach the routine dreariness of the social game that these parties provide, so can you. You are their prized assistant after all.

“It's okay,” you shake your head. “It’s really not that bad.”

“Are you sure?” Viktor asks, his head tilting.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you nod. “I just have to get used to the manner at which these sorts of events go on. But I can do it. If you’ll recall, adaptability was a strength on my resume.”

This earns a laugh from both of the men. Jayce removes his hand from your lower back to rub your shoulder softly. “I think we glossed over that part.”

Viktor stops laughing suddenly, which elicits a raised eyebrow from you.

“What?” You ask, your eyes darting between Viktor and Jayce. Jayce’s lips press together in a tight seal as if he caught himself letting something slip. “What do you mean?”

Just in time to save them from the obviously impending awkward situation, a man in an all black suit approaches.

“Gentlemen, if I may borrow your lovely assistant for a dance–”

You felt your cheeks growing hot with every word he spoke. You were so incredibly tired of old men here thinking they could just ask politely and receive your body to use in whatever stupid waltz they wanted to try their hand at. “Gods, I don’t–”

“My apologies,” Jayce said, interrupting what he was sure would be an outburst on your part. “I’m afraid our lovely assistant is spoken for, for the rest of the night.”

Viktor punctuated his sentence with a nod and a gentle squeeze of your upper arm.

“I see,” the man said, his face betraying his civility. “Well, find me if that changes.”

As soon as the man was out of earshot, Viktor released your arm. “Call that car, Jayce.”

“On it,” he said, already beginning to make his way to the front of the ballroom.

“I’ve been where you are,” Viktor said, his nimble fingers trailing downward from where he had been squeezing your arm. He lifts your hand and places it on his wrist so that you cling to him as the two of you walk toward the exit together. “When I was Heimerdinger’s assistant, I was often undermined. Although, I had the distinct privilege of not being a beautiful young woman. While I can relate to your frustration, the misogyny and objectification you’re experiencing aren’t exactly things Jayce and I have experienced. But we’re going to do our best to quell it for you.”

You look up at him and find his hardened expression fixed on the door. “Thank you.” Those two words will suffice for now, but Viktor’s promise warms your heart in ways that a simple thank you cannot express.

Jayce finds the two of you as you exit into the grand hallway. “Car’s waiting outside.” He takes his coat off and drapes it over your shoulders, not paying much attention to your hand on Viktor’s arm.

The three of you pile in the back of the limousine. You sit sandwiched between the two men, relishing in the warmth radiating from their bodies after the few steps outside in the cold night. Viktor stretches his leg outward in the spacious backseat while Jayce leans back and groans. Clearly you aren’t the only one exhausted from the antics of the night.

“Where will I be taking you three?” The driver asks, his eyes visible in the rearview mirror.

“Two stops, if possible,” Jayce speaks up, leaning forward once more to be heard better. “The laboratory block of the academy and the East Dormitories.”

“You guys are going to the lab? It’s almost midnight.” You ask, turning to Jayce before realizing how the proximity of the backseat brings your face so close to his.

“Always work to be done,” Jayce says, glancing over your face before giving you a little more space. “But don’t worry, you’ve had a long night. You don’t need to do any assisting again until tomorrow morning.”

You look over at Viktor momentarily, to see him staring out the window as the car begins to move.

“If it’s alright, I think I’d like to go to the lab, too,” you say, softly. You can’t help but feel as though you’re inviting yourself to some clandestine meeting, as if you don’t have as much of a reason to be at the lab as they do.

Jayce looks over at Viktor, not for confirmation but for something else. Humor, maybe?

“Of course,” Jayce smiles softly. He shifts his attention to the driver again. “On second thought, just take us to the labs, please.”

The driver nods as he picks up speed and peels out of the driveway. For some reason, your heart pounds. It isn’t abnormal for you and the two men to stay ridiculously late at the lab. In fact, it’s more common than leaving before midnight.

You become suddenly aware of the long slit that opens your deep red dress, and you cross your legs.

“Jayce I wanted to ask you something,” you say, mustering up the courage to recall the slip-up from earlier. “What did you mean when you said you glossed over my resume?”

“Well…” Jayce looks over at Viktor, which makes you do the same. Now he’s definitely paying attention, his eyebrows two firm lines scrunched above his angular nose.

Viktor finally decides to chime in, and you know exactly why: Jayce isn’t a good liar.

“We had lots of applications,” Viktor said. “You know that.”

“Yeah, but…then why did you hire me?”

“You had a very promising interview,” Viktor says, now avoiding eye contact.

“You’re lying to me,” you say, more accusatory than you meant it to be.

“We should just tell her, Vik,” Jayce mutters, almost under his breath. In response, Viktor’s hard expression softens. Perhaps out of relief?

“Tell me what?”

“Fine,” Viktor says, finally, with an exhausted sigh. “I’m too tired to persuade you against it.”

Jayce puts a hand so low on your thigh that it’s almost on your knee. “First, it’s important that you know that we would have hired you regardless. You’re so incredibly talented and you’ve been such a good assistant; we have no doubt in our minds that you’re the perfect person for this job.”

“Regardless of what, Jayce?”

“A little help, Vik?” Jayce asks after a sigh of helpless frustration.

“We sent everyone else home after your interview,” Viktor said, still looking out of the window, his arm resting on the ledge of the door, fidgeting with the handle. “When we saw you for the first time, we decided we wanted to see you more often.”

“What?” You feel your face growing hot. Anger? Something else entirely?

“The first note I wrote during your interview just said ‘beautiful,’ and I don’t think I wrote anything down after that,” Jayce admitted.

“You can’t be serious,” you say at a volume so low it might be a whisper. Anger. Definitely anger. “All night…all night I was swatting away guys who were objectifying me…accusing me of just being your pretty little assistant. I thought it was just misogyny. I thought they just couldn’t believe a girl was capable of keeping up with you two…but apparently they were right.”

“That’s not the case, at all,” Viktor said, louder than you’d ever heard him. “It couldn’t be further from the truth. We weren’t objectifying you. You deserve respect for your accomplishments, and those accomplishments are numerous.”

“He’s right, it’s not like we just hired you to look at,” Jayce said, trying to reconcile the situation. “And it’s not like I didn’t write notes during your interview because there wasn’t anything to write. I stopped writing because I was captivated by you.”

Suddenly the weight of the situation falls onto you, all at once. These men, your bosses, your best friends, the two smartest, most accomplished scientists in Piltover…they were attracted to you.

“For three months?” You ask, softly, more to yourself than to them.

“Yes,” Viktor answered. “We understand if you’re upset with us.”

The car slowed to a stop against the curb of the laboratory building of the academy.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to go into the lab anymore,” Jayce said, beginning to lean forward and opening his mouth to address the driver. “Hey, sorry, could you–”

“No,” you say, your words final. “I’m going into the lab with you.”

Your lips are a deep red firm line. Your eyes are unreadable, and neither of the boys can tell what you’re thinking. Even you hardly know, but one thing is certain: you find yourself in an auspicious position. You didn’t need the two boys to validate you for everything listed on your resume. They knew you were intelligent, and more importantly, you knew. What you didn’t know is that they found you beautiful. So much so that they hired you just to see you more often.

You’d spent the whole night trying to defend your own honor, being shaken by men with accusatory, wandering hands. More than that, you’d spent the night wandering awkwardly for the benefit of your bosses. Now, it was time to return the favor.

“If you’re sure,” Jayce said, pushing open the car door and stepping out onto the curb, holding it open for you as Viktor exited through the other door. As you brushed past Jayce, you let his coat fall delicately down your shoulders, revealing the deep backline of the dress.

You turn over your right shoulder, just enough for your face to be past profile, and narrow your eyes at him. “I’m sure.”

Once Viktor is out of the car, the three of you walk toward the large glass doors that lead to the lobby of the laboratory building. You stop in front of the keycard sensor and watch as Viktor pats down his pant pockets in search of his key card.

“Sorry, one second,” he says.

You approach him, with no sound but the clicking of your heels on the cold pavement below, and slide your hand into his coat pocket. You watch his jaw clench, never taking your eyes off his face as you pinch the plastic card between your pointer and middle finger. You pull it out like a cigarette before waving it in front the boys’ faces and tapping it against the small metal sensor. It beeps with a green flash and you hand the card back to Viktor. Neither of them says a word.

You enter through the glass doors, but at the lack of footsteps behind you, you turn around. The men still stand, staring at you, mouths slightly agape.

“What?” You ask. “Aren’t you coming?”

Jayce coughs, as if fighting something in his throat, then takes a few steps forward and follows you.

You press the call button on the elevator and wait as the boys stand on either side of you.

“If you’re upset with us, please say so,” Viktor said, his voice bordering pleading.

“Upset?” You tilt your head to look up at the man beside you. Even in heels they were both taller than you. “Do I look upset?”

“I–uh well, I am not sure. You look…focused.”

You were definitely focused. Yes, you were playing with them. Wasn’t it only fair that you return a bit of the awkwardness provided by their sudden confession in the car? This was you getting even for that embarrassment, and you’d soon be getting even for the long-kept secret, as well.

“Strange,” you say as the elevator door opens before you. You step in and turn to face the door. “Jayce, press four.”

He does as you say.

“And how do you think I look, Jayce?” You ask, your eyes shifting toward him in the confined space of the elevator. He repeats that same little choked cough from before, except now it sounds closer to him clearing his throat.

“I think you look very good.”

You smile at him. Not a kind one, but the sort of condescending smile one gives a child who gave the wrong answer. A cute answer, though.

“Thanks,” you say, your eyes returning back to the door. “But I was asking if you thought I looked angry.”

The door beeps open and you are the first to leave. As you walk down the long hallway, you hear the boys walking a yard behind you. They’re nervous, that much you can sense on the cold bare skin of your back.

You stop at the lab door at the end of the hall and wait for the boys to catch up. It’s the biggest lab on the fourth floor.

Viktor now has his keys at the ready and unlocks the large wooden door, then holds it open for you to enter before the two boys. How spoiled you are.

You saunter into the lab, letting Jayce’s coat fall all the way down your shoulders before draping it on a stool next to the counter. They attempt to ignore you, bee-lining toward their desks in the lab but you catch each time their eye wanders to you on the opposite side of the room. Often they alternate, glancing over while the other is talking about the equations they're working through or the tools they need to assemble something. Every so often, they look over at you at the exact same time, following whispers you can’t quite make out, and when they do it is absolutely silent.

Meanwhile, you’re pouring the wine that you’ve been stashing in the cabinet meant for volatile chemical solutions. You’ve laid out three glasses, but you only fill the one in the middle. You sip from it slowly, your eyes peeking out from above the glass rim so you can catch them every time they look over at you.

“What are you doing?” Jayce asks, exasperatedly, finally.

“What do you mean?” You ask, and continue to sip your wine.

“We said we were sorry–”

“No, actually you didn’t.” You finish your glass and set it back down between the two empty glasses. “You said you understood if I was mad. And you tried to explain yourselves.”

“We are sorry,” Viktor said. “Terribly sorry. For lying, and for…objectifying you.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t objectification?” You said, still bitter despite the joy you extracted from teasing these poor boys.

“It doesn’t matter what we think we did or did not do,” Viktor said, the thickness of his accent swallowing his nervous words. “What matters is that you are hurt, and that we are terribly sorry.”

“I’m not hurt.”

“Eh…you’re not?” It wasn’t often that Viktor sounded confused, so you relished the question.

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong?” Jayce asked.

You poured wine into the two glasses on either side of your own and smiled as you looked down at the liquid filling them. You pushed the glasses toward them and raised your eyebrows expectantly. As if well trained, they walked over to you at the counter and picked up their glasses, taking small sips each.

“You could call it disbelief,” you said. “Or plain shock.”

“I understand that we sprung a lot on you all at once–” Viktor started to say, but you raised your hand.

“I’m not in disbelief because you’re attracted to me, Viktor, I’m far too self-assured for that.”

Jayce stifles a laugh.

“I’m in disbelief because I’ve wasted three months pretending not to be attracted to either of you,” you say, coming out from behind the counter and going to sit on the couch in the center of the room. You’d done an excellent job decorating their lab and had managed to make it feel like a home rather than a detention room.

“What are you saying?” Jayce asks, setting his glass down and stepping toward you. Viktor follows his example.

“I’m saying that if you had just told me ages ago that you two felt that way, I’d be laughing at the men who asked to dance with me tonight instead of clenching my fists. I’ve spent three months pushing aside any thought of you two outside of professional settings because I didn’t want to be the naive little lab assistant fawning over her bosses.”

A strap of your dress slips off of your left shoulder, and you let it.

“What a waste,” you scoff as you lean back into the cushions of the couch. You pick your hair up so that it falls over the cushions and cascades like a waterfall.

“So…” you watch as the gears in Jayce’s genius brain turn, “if we had told you sooner then–”

“Then you could have had me sooner.”

NSFW PART TWO????

#viktor arcane #viktor lol #jayce x reader #viktor x reader #jayvik #jayvik x reader #jayce talis #noooo jayce slander. i stand with my cancelled wife!!!#jayce arcane #slow burn #light angst #femreaderisamassivegirlbossimho #jayce x reader x viktor #viktor x reader x jayce

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mondaymelon · 7 months ago

Text

₊⊹ "𝐰-𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐭𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭!? " | childe, kaeya, heizou, lyney x gn!reader

ㅤ⤷ art cr

— it's time for revenge : teasing the teasing boys back.

󠀠󠀠ㅤ⤷ DARLINNGGG, GUESS WHOS BACK FROM JAILLLLL ... gn reader, but use of adj "pretty", est. relationship childe + heizou , alcohol 󠀠󠀠and suggestive mentions in kaeya's, fluff

— ...aka , flirting back makes them malfunction. ♥

"Darling, you're so pretty today~!"

There he is — that sly little shit you call so fondly by name. Childe snakes his arms firmly around your torso, snuggling into you from behind.

It doesn't take a genius to guess he's grinning like an idiot.

(Your idiot.)

"Hm? I don't think I heard you right, say it one more time?" Glancing back at him with a cheeky smile, you hear the rumble of his laughter.

The harbinger presses a sneaky, little sideways kiss against the base of your neck, tufts of his hair tickling your jaw. "You're seriously too kissable today. Totally unfair."

He's so stupidly in love that you can't help but tease him, just a little. Changing positions, you turn around to cup the man's face. "Well, if I'm that kissable today, I guess I'll just have to keep that look going, won't I? Shall we test how fair it really is?"

There's a beat of silence. You count six seconds before he even begins to utter a choked little: "...H-huh...?"

He's so red-faced you almost feel bad. His skin is growing warmer to the touch, and he shifts his eyes, suddenly becoming a whole lot less bold than usual. Trembling slightly, he brings up a hand to hide behind, his now-meek voice reaching you.

"H-hey, who taught you that...?"

"Ah? Speak up, I can't hear you~"

"...You- You know exactly what you're doing to my heart, don't you?" He looks at you accusingly, guiding one of your hands to his chest, burying it in the fabric of his clothes. "Archons, it's beating so fast-"

"This can't be healthy, so hurry up and cure me."

"Cure?"

"..1000 kisses should fix me right up."

"To meet you once more, isn't this fate?"

Eyes that contain galaxies — and you, raise to meet yours. Kaeya smiles in a smile that's all mirth, raising a glass to let it briefly shine in the light. He stands as you enter Angel's Share, pulling back a stool at the counter.

...He wasn't a stalker, was he? This hadn't been the first time you'd met, nor the second, nor third — you'd seen this archon-forsaken man a total of seven times. Each time, the two of you had shared a drink, which always started with "ah, just one today" to you, face flushed, leaning onto the counter and spilling whatever was on your mind that day in its entirety to the man who sat beside you, listening with the occasional chuckle.

Well, it wasn't as if you found the idea of "fate" and "Kaeya" unappealing.

"I suppose that wouldn't be unbelievable." You shrug as you take your seat. "Since I've been fortunate enough to encounter you again, drinks are on me."

"My, how generous." Kaeya gestures toward his empty glass shamelessly, resting his chin on his hand leisurely. "I think I'll take you up on that offer."

You beckon Charles closer, briefly whispering something in the man's ear. The bartender nods, walking off.

"How interesting, Charles seems to be mixing two drinks. A classic choice of wine, and your favorite..." A foxy grin stretches across the man's lips. "To think you've memorized my order. Should I write you off as someone staring at me nonstop or merely attentive?"

That smooth talker, with that insufferably charming smile — surely it was time for a little revenge?

"I'd prefer the former, but think what you want."

"Oh? I'm that handsome?" (Is it the dim lighting that makes Kaeya's face seem a little more red than usual? )

"You are."

You state it blatantly, as it is. As if Kaeya weren't expecting such a blunt answer, he suddenly clams up, coughing into his fist in a terribly not nonchalant manner. "You... don't tell me, have you already been drinking? What's with you today?"

"What, is speaking the truth suddenly such a surprise?"

"...You said all drinks were on you, yeah?"

Changing the topic? "Mhm, whatever you want."

It's hard to miss the way Kaeya's gaze burns.

"Then, round two at my place?"

"You're way too distracting, how am I supposed to get any work done when all I want to do is kiss you?"

And there it is, Heizou's twenty-second kiss of the day, this time pressed lightly on the bridge of your nose. Here you were, expecting the cool-headed man to be able to hold himself back during detective work.

You'd expected far too much.

"Heizou, you're the one who agreed to me accompanying you. No use in complaining now."

"Ah, that's where you're mistaken, love! Complaints are perfect excuses for kisses, you know." The twenty-third, on your left cheek, and the twenty-fourth, on the other.

"Heizou."

He tilts his head upwards, staring at you cheekily. "Hm?"

"Revenge." You cup his face. His pink cheeks are squishy, and you resist the urge to pinch them.

"...Pardo-"

You kiss him on the lips.

Heizou makes a noise of surprise, slightly jumping under your touch. He quivers for a moment, then goes stock still.

Seems like you've stumped the detective.

One kiss is all it took.

As you pull away, you're able to witness the absolute mess you've created. The Shikanoin Heizou's at an utter loss for words, his lips parted but words long gone. His cheeks, the tips of his ears, the back of his neck; he's so red-faced you can't help but laugh.

"My, that's all it took to render you speechless?"

There's a twinkle in his spring-green eyes as he gazes at you, shaking his head slyly. "Nope-! Not rendered speechless just yet- although..."

"...One hundred more kisses might do the trick?"

"A pretty flower for the prettiest of them all, mon chéri~"

A rainbow rose drawn from a sleeve, a pair of sly amethyst eyes, a cattish smile, and a smooth voice: Lyney greets you — or more so catches and stops you on the road. Something of a highway robbery, except this "thief" is more skilled in capturing hearts than valuables.

His hand snags onto your forearm, making no move to let go. "You player, don't tell me you say this to any pretty face that passes by?"

At the raise of your brow, Lyney feigns hurt. "You wound me, to assume such a thing... just how little trust you have for me?"

"Admittedly not a lot, Sir..." You scan him up and down with a scrutinizing gaze; You were sure you had seen the guy somewhere before. "...Magician?"

"Lyney."

"...Lyney, considering you've stopped me on the side of the road, it'd be daring to even call us acquaintances, no?"

"Acquaintances..." Lyney ponders the thought like it's enjoyable. "I can work with that~ Since we've been acquainted, won't you take the rose already?"

Partly due to his insistence, and partly due to pity, you accept the flower from his hold, not failing to notice the way his eyes twinkle. "Say," he begins, moving his hands back to his sides. "Do you happen to know what roses mean in the language of the flowers?"

You blink at him, rather unamused. "Sorry to disappoint, but I can't speak to plants."

Lyney, unexpectedly, grows silent. You see his cheeks puff outward, attempting to suppress a laugh. "I see," he speaks, breathily, like he is midway between a laugh and a word. "Love, beauty, perfection, wouldn't you say it fits you wonderfully?"

"...You have my thanks?"

Lyney's eyes are the shape of almonds, and when he smiles, the edges of them crinkle. "Not much of a charmer, are you?"

Is that a challenge?

"Then," you drop your voice a pitch lower, straightening your shoulders. "You have my thanks, mon beau." Combo attack: winking and blowing a kiss, you depart the scene as soon as possible for added mystery.

(You had a feeling this wouldn't be the last time you saw him.)

Now standing alone on the side of the street, eyes wide, finger playing with his side-swept bangs, utterly speechless and red-faced, Lyney's heart raced like it was to leap out of his chest.

"...Haha, what sort of magic is this?"

(a/n) this has been in drafts since like,, janurary. SOBBING.

look out for an announcement in a lil bit ^^

tags :

@manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @falors, @swivy123, @scara-is-my-wife, @lupicalbestwolf, @justyoureader,@fiannee, @aether-darling, @ceneid, @avensuersa, @solxima

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vangelini · 8 months ago

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Boyfriend For the Night | Spencer Reid x Reader

Part 2, Finale!!

Summary: During a night out with the team, you and Spencer find yourselves together at the bar. So, when a creep tries to pick you up, he tries his best to defend his best friend (by being MORE than just that…)

Tags: fluff, pining idiots, BAU!Reader, Fem!Reader.

Warnings: Alcohol consumption 🤷‍♀️

Words: 1.4k

It was often, after difficult cases, someone on the team would shout out a suggestion of “what’s everyone doing tonight?” or “anyone wanna go get some drinks?” This time, it just so happened to be Penelope.

“Come on, you know it’ll be fun,” she pleaded to the boy genius packing up in the bullpen.

“I don’t know, Garcia. I’m not sure how much fun I’ll be,” Spencer gave a tight-lipped smile, putting another file in his over-the-shoulder bag.

“Pretty Boy, you’re plenty of fun,” Morgan jested, one arm around Garcia. “Plus, I think Pretty Girl is going, too,” he smiled.

Spencer knew that was your nickname, given affectionately by Derek. He mulled over it in his mind. At least, if you were there, he might have someone to talk to about common interests. You were, after all, the only one on the team that could follow along with his ranting, taking the chance to blab about your own latest interests, as well. “Fine, I’ll go,” he came to the conclusion that hanging out with team would probably be more exciting than rereading a scientific journal to the soothing sounds of Vivaldi. Plus, he would get to see you outside of work.

“Yay!” Penelope clapped her hands together, her blonde pigtails bouncing. “This’ll be so much fun!” She grabbed Morgan’s hand and started walking out of the bullpen. “See you guys there!”

—

You spotted him as soon as he walked in, grinning wide with a small wave.

“Spencer!!”

He laughed, waving back, in response. He scooted in next to you in the tight booth, his leg hitting yours. “What did I miss?” He asked, smiling at the team.

“Just hearing about Emily’s worst dates,” you smiled up at him, elbows on the table.

“Captivating,” he joked, a little stiff from the close proximity between the two of you. Spencer couldn’t deny that he was attracted to you. Well, he could, and he has been, ever since he met you. Sure, it earned him some teasing from the team, but you weren’t free from it either. ‘That’s just what happens when a man and woman are friends,’ he rationalized. But your relationship was closer than just friends. (Best friends?) It was hard to ignore the way you turned to him, when in a group, or how you always lit up when someone mentioned his name. And if Spencer was trying to hide how big his smile got when he got to rant to you about his favorite subject, or how much you two laughed about who-knows-what in the bullpen when the team wasn’t around, he wasn’t doing a very good job. And he certainly wasn’t doing a good job now, trying to keep his composure as you giggled next to him, as the conversation went on.

“Well, I’m getting another drink,” you spoke between a laugh. “Spencer, you wanna come with?” He looked up at you, standing with your purse over your shoulder.

“Sure,” he smiled, following you out of the booth and to the bar.

“I’ll have…” you leaned against the bar, tapping your chin in thought. “Whiskey and coke, please,” the bartender nodded. “Spence, you want anything,” he looked down at you, hands in his pockets. He squinted down at the little plastic menu that the bar had printed out.

“Just club soda, please,” he smiled shyly at the bartender. You stood up, leaning your hip on the counter.

“I’m glad you could make it,” you spoke to him, smiling.

“Me too.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I love Penelope, but I can’t hear about what she does in the bedroom with Kevin anymore,” you laughed at the end of the sentence. Spencer did, too.

“I know what you mean,” he noticed the way you messed with the zipper on your jacket as you spoke to him, a habit he picked up on quickly, when he first met you. “However, I think listening to Morgan talk about his one night stands is arguably worse,” he laughed.

“It’s SO much worse!” You hit him on his sweater-clad arm, playfully, a wide smile pulling up at your flushed cheeks. He laughed with you, putting his head down a little to hide the blush that bloomed up on his nose.

“Only about fifty percent of first dates result in a second one,” he continued, cracking his knuckles nervously. “there are ways to increase that likelihood, like a good first impression, or establishing shared interests early on,” he gained a little confidence. “actually, over sixty eight percent of successful couples report that they were close friends before dating,” he spoke the last part before he could think about it. After he realized what his words might have suggested, he closed his mouth, turning away shyly. You smiled to yourself, putting your head down a little. “That’s, uh, probably why Morgan hasn’t found someone yet,” he turned back to you, smiling tight-lipped. “At least ONE reason,” he laughed. His lips pursed gently, his chestnut hair dangling around his ears. You looked up at him gently as he loosened his tie, still laughing a little at his joke. Your eyes wandered toward his lips. He licked them nervously, glancing back down at you, eyes scanning your face.

You were snapped out of you Reid-filled daze when an unknown man spoke up next to you.

“Hey, pretty lady,” his voice was gruff and had an inflection that somehow communicated that he had never touched a woman in his life. “Can I buy you a drink?” You turned around to see a man no older than thirty smirking slyly next to you, leaning on the bar. He absolutely REEKED of cigarette smoke.

“I’m okay,” you smiled nervously, subconsciously moving closer to Reid. The doctor narrowed his eyes, a little put off by the advance.

“Come on, pretty girl like you, here all alone?” He advanced. “Let me buy you a drink,” he reached out to put a hand on top of yours, but Spencer stepped in.

“Uhm, actually, she isn’t here alone,” he ran his hand through his hair nervously, giving the man a tight-lipped smile. The man looked between you two, a confused look on his face.

“For real?” His voice came out like gravel, and he scoffed a little bit.

“Yeah, for real,” you grabbed Reid’s hand, squeezing it. “I’m here with my boyfriend,” his heart skipped a beat or two when you called him that. Boyfriend. He couldn’t help but smile proudly at the man.

“You’ve GOTTA be joking,” he slurred, laughing.

“No, she’s not joking,” Reid stood up straight, tucking his hair behind his ear. “And, actually,” he began, his tone changing to how it usually did before he went on a rant. “According to surveys, around seventy percent of women find unsolicited advances in bars to be unwelcome and uncomfortable, rather than flattering,” he pressed his lips together, shrugging a little while squeezing your hand. You couldn’t help but giggle at his attempt to scare the guy off. The man just stood there, confused. “Studies show that people decide within the first seven seconds if they're interested in someone. If you come off as aggressive or disrespectful, your chances plummet, which,” he looked back at you, smiling. “I think is what happened here,” he was proud of himself; you could tell.

“I don’t need your statistics, Einstein, I think-“

“Actually, Einstein had an IQ of about 160; I have an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory, and can read over twenty thousand words per minute,” this effectively wore the creep off, because he just mumbled an angry ‘whatever’ and walked away toward another group of girls.

You looked up at your friend and broke into laughter. He joined. “I cannot believe that worked,” you squeezed his hand a little, turning to face him.

“Honestly, me either. I figured he would either get bored and leave, or end up punching me,” he laughed out. “I may be in the FBI, but I don’t think I can handle a drunken bar brawl.” The bartender set the drinks on the counter in front of you and you gave him a small smile, grabbing yours. “The team’s probably waiting for us,” Spencer grabbed his drink, dropping your hand. You picked it back up, looking up at him.

“Just in case we come across any other creeps,” you smiled, a warmth running through the both of you.

“Good thinking,” he mused, squeezing your hand tightly, walking back toward the booth.

Morgan spotted the both of you, turning away from his conversation with Hotch.

“Oh? What’s this? Pretty Boy and Pretty Girl holding hands,” he crossed his arms. You rolled your eyes at the comment.

“Some weirdo tried picking me up, so,” you held your intertwined hands up so they could see. “Reid is my boyfriend, for the night,” you smiled, taking a sip of your drink. It was, supposedly, just for the night, but Spencer liked the sound of that.

And, admittedly, so did you.

(‼️💕IF YOU LIKED THIS, REQUESTS ARE ALWAYS OPEN💕‼️)

#x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction

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shurisneakers · 1 month ago

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saw your requests were open and i figured i would humbly aid 🫡

everyone is always like “oh! bucky with a golden retriever reader this! bucky with a sunshine reader that!” what about bucky with a reader who’s just as moody as he is??

no one ever writes two grumps together and i think it would be an interesting dynamic

Summary: It's New Years Eve and this man simply refuses to do anything but be a pain in your ass.

Warnings: cursing, alcohol

A/N: Sid. did you know. did you know that you're literally a genius. you're so right about grumpy x grumpy. i do not know if I have done this justice but I wrote this out on my phone because I like this request so much thank you for sending one in 😭❤️

New Year’s Eve is a migraine wrapped in tinsel and cheap champagne. You’ve seen too many years roll over into nothing to care anymore.

Doesn’t matter. You’re here because the bar’s open, and when someone says “open bar,” you take it as a challenge to see how open it can really be.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asks.

“Whatever’s most expensive.”

He ducks under the counter, comes back with a bottle that looks more like a museum piece than alcohol. Fancy glasswork, gold lettering, the works.

He starts, “This one’s got notes of—”

“Let me see,” you interrupt.

The second the bottle’s in your hands, you turn and walk away.

He sputters behind you, but you wave him off. “Put it on the billionaire’s tab."

You snake through the crowd and confetti, nodding at a few familiar faces but not stopping for any. Emergency exit in sight, you take a seat where you can watch the chaos unfold while staying out of it.

"Pass the bottle."

You don't even bother looking at him as you respond, "Go steal your own."

"You took the most expensive one."

"Get another one."

"This is easier."

"Go fuck yourself."

"Real festive of you."

Still, despite your best efforts, he’s already taking a seat, uninvited.

You take another swig before passing the bottle to him without another word.

He glances at you. "Why are you here?"

"Well, it was quiet before someone showed up."

"Must'a really pissed you off," he says, tipping the bottle back.

God, Bucky was fucking annoying. But his cheeks are flushed pink and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbow.

"Why are you here?" you scowl.

"It's quiet," he replies, like just knows it'll make you mad. He's right.

"You’re in my space.”

“This isn’t your space.”

“I was here first.”

“Congrats. Want a medal?”

"Leave."

"No," he states, resolutely.

Bucky’s the human equivalent of a rock in your shoe—persistent, irritating, and impossible to ignore.

You feel face warm with irritation. "Where's your date gone?"

"Nat set me up, I've never met her before," he says, as though it’s the least surprising thing in the world. "Haven't seen her in thirty minutes."

"What, you couldn't brood your way into her pants?"

He gives you a dry, unimpressed look. "I don't kiss and tell."

"Doesn't look like you're doing any kissing at all," you scoff.

He tips the bottle back, takes a slow drink, then hands it to you. "You think about me kissing a lot?"

"I don't think about you."

He snorts, low and humorless, and you hate that it makes you want to laugh.

Bucky's fucking annoying. He's run his hand too many times through his hair, and there’s a smudge of something—lipstick, maybe—on his collar, and he's stretched out too damn much, like he's right at home.

He sends you a look. It makes you want to hide. You hate the way his eyes linger, like he’s waiting for you to flinch.

"Bottle," you demand.

He hands it over silently, crossing his arms over his chest, staring right ahead.

"How much longer?" he asks, checking his watch.

"You can leave."

"Sure can," he says, but doesn’t move.

"So leave."

"No."

You stare at him. "Find somewhere else to sit."

"No," he replies.

The minutes stretch. The bottle passes back and forth, your irritation simmering every time he exhales, every time he looks at you like he’s got something to say but doesn’t.

Bucky was fucking annoying. He smelt like expensive cologne and Tide detergent. His eyes are tired and his voice is scratchy. when he shifts beside you, it’s like he takes up more space than anyone has a right

He holds his hand out for the bottle. You give it to him.

"What are you gonna do at midnight?" he asks.

"Finish this bottle."

"What about after?"

"I'll get another one."

Bucky rolls his eyes. “That all?”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” You glare at him, but he doesn’t flinch. He never does.

“Good."

His jaw’s tense, his eyes dark and sharp, and for a second, you think maybe he’s as pissed at himself as you are.

Silence falls. It’s not comfortable, but it’s not uncomfortable either. It’s just there. Like him.

"What’re you gonna do at midnight? Cry into whiskey?” you ask pointedly.

“I could, but you drank it all." He rolls his eyes.

There's a lot left. You give him the bottle. He takes it without a word, fingers brushing against yours.

Bucky takes a swig. “No one waiting for you at midnight?"

"Loads," you scoff. "Got a line out the damn door waiting to kiss me."

"Uh huh," be says.

There's silence.

You look at him, only for find him eyeing you.

“No one waiting for you?”

You scoff. “Why, you volunteering?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just studies you with those sharp, unreadable eyes. “Maybe.”

"Sure, Barnes, I'll kiss you at midnight," you drag sarcastically.

His face doesn't shift. Your brows furrow.

"Christ, you're bein' serious," you mumble.

He shrugs non committedly. "I could think of worse things to do."

"Wow," you say dryly. "Charming."

"Just sayin'."

With two minutes to go, you find that it's harder to look him in the eye. Your heart stumbles over itself, and you take another drink to cover the sudden heat crawling up your neck.

Either the whiskey was really starting to take hold, or the damn spirit of the damn season was getting to you.

"Look, I wasn't plannin' on asking anyone else," he says.

You raise an eyebrow.

"Do with that what you will," he says, taking a swig.

"What about your date?" you test.

"Don't think she remembers I exist."

You observe him. His shirt is unbuttoned, and his coat jacket lay on his lap. His bowtie also hung precariously from his neck.

Bucky was really fucking annoying. His hair is toussled and his stubble is rough and you're fairly certain his nose is sunburnt. You know this because you've been staring at him every day from the second he stepped foot in the compound, withdrawn and scowling.

It's late and you're tired of a lot of things and you're careless, so you stare too long. He catches you.

"What?" he bites.

"I'm assessing," you say, then add grudgingly, “You're not... terrible."

Which is a lie. He's beautiful. He's acutely aware of this on some days. Those days are harder for you.

He stares at you. "I can see why there's a line out the door for you."

"Go join them," you say. "I'll finally get some fuckin' quiet."

He exhales a short laugh. "No."

You can hear the crowd shouting numbers, but it’s distant, unimportant. Bucky’s eyes are on you, steady.

The crowd cheers.

Bucky's really fucking annoying.

But he kisses you like he's liked you all his life. Like he's real tired of waiting. It lingers just long enough to make your stomach flip when you realise he still tastes like whiskey.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t look smug. He doesn’t say anything at all. Just hands you the bottle and leans back like nothing happened.

His cheeks are red. His lips are swollen. He's never looked prettier in his damn life.

“Happy New Year,” you mutter, staring at the bottle because you can’t look at him.

“Sure,” he says, voice low, almost hoarse.

#ari answers #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #retrosabers #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you

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nyxs2 · 1 month ago

Text

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 6/?)

Choosing your poison is easy; it's living with the consequences that truly haunts you. Silco's venom is intoxicating, and deep down, you know it will be the death of you, yet you find yourself craving every drop.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 7,6K

Warnings: smut, resolved sexual tension, light bondage, unprotected sex, creampie, praise kink, biting, possessive behavior, you are a prostitute, slight hints of reader's past, sex and restrained freedom being terms of a agreement, Silco (and Sevika) POV

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

━━ Sevika's Pov ━━

Sevika had two absolute certainties in life. The first was never to hesitate, because in the undercity, one second too long could cost you your life. The second, even more important, was never to meddle in Silco's personal affairs unless he directly ordered it. These seemingly simple rules had ensured her survival and her position alongside the most powerful man in Zaun. So why, in the name of everything sacred—or profane, in this case—was she standing there, hand halfway to the door of his office, reconsidering what seemed to be a trivial task?

The noise on the other side made her hesitate. Wood creaking, muffled but rhythmic. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on in there. Sevika raised an eyebrow, already feeling a mix of embarrassment and exasperation bubbling up. Seriously, boss?

She huffed as she debated internally whether it was worth interrupting or if it would be better to just come back later. She opted for the latter. It was safer—for both of them.

Turning back down the hallway, she spotted two guards posted near the stairs. "Hey!" she called, her deep voice cutting through the silence. "Don't let anyone upstairs, especially that blue-haired brat."

The two nodded without question, though one of them looked briefly confused before returning to his watch. Sevika didn't explain. It wasn't necessary, and she didn't have the patience to deal with stupid questions.

Back at the bar, she plopped herself down on one of the stools, resting her right forearm on the counter as she observed the nearly empty room. The night was already wearing thin, with only a few stubborn, lonely drunks still clinging to their bottles and cigarettes. She allowed a tired smile to slip, one that quickly turned into a low, ironic laugh.

If someone had told me Silco would ditch his paperwork to fuck, I'd have laughed in their face.

It was surreal. The man was the very definition of a workaholic, always with his head buried in conspiracies and strategies to keep Zaun under control. But two months ago, everything changed. Out of nowhere, Silco approached her asking about a decent brothel in the city. She didn't question it, because, after all, who was she to judge? Everyone needs a little relief now and then.

But things had taken an unexpected turn. She knew the girl—maybe too well. Those big, deceptively innocent eyes always hiding something. Sevika had always known there was more behind that angelic façade. Maybe that's exactly what had drawn Silco in. And, frankly, she even agreed: good taste couldn't be denied.

The sound of a glass sliding across the counter pulled her from her thoughts. The bartender was looking at her, wearing the expression of someone who already knew what she wanted. Sevika grabbed the glass and downed the amber liquid in one go.

"Another." she ordered curtly, pushing the glass back toward him.

As she waited, Sevika let her eyes wander around the room, though her mind was still stuck on the scene. Silco, so methodical, so controlled... and now? Succumbing to his own desires. He wasn't even completely sure that it was the same woman from years ago, and yet he orchestrated all of this to have her around. She wasn't sure whether to find it amusing or concerning.

Whatever he's scheming, it better be worth the effort.

When the next glass arrived, she held it between her fingers, swirling the liquid before taking another long sip. At least tonight, she'd allow herself a few moments of peace.

"Tough night?" the bartender asked, his tone casual, as if he already knew the answer.

Sevika grunted, not even bothering to look up. Small talk was far from her priority. She emptied the glass in one gulp, feeling the warmth of the whiskey burn its way down her throat, momentarily easing the irritation brewing inside her.

"Is it true Silco's keeping a girl up there?" the bartender let slip, leaning over the counter with barely concealed curiosity. His voice was low, but the words carried too much weight for Sevika's liking.

She paused, spinning the empty glass between her fingers before glaring at him over the rim with evident impatience.

"Who told you that?"

"One of the morning shift guards." the man shrugged like it was no big deal. "Said they were ordered to let a woman in but not out. Thought kidnapped folks stayed at the warehouse, not here."

Sevika scoffed, rolling her eyes as she poured herself another drink. It was always the same with people like that: gossips who didn't know when to keep their mouths shut.

"She's different."

The bartender simply nodded, wiping the counter with a rag that, to Sevika, seemed more dirty than useful. Finally, silence returned, and she silently thanked the universe for the reprieve. Or at least for a few seconds. Because, of course, he couldn't keep his mouth shut for long.

"Wait! That woman, is she THAT... prostitute?" he asked, his voice laden with a curiosity that bordered on offensive.

Before Sevika could deliver a cutting response, a high-pitched voice sliced through the room like a knife.

"What's a prostitute?"

Sevika turned her head toward the voice, as did the bartender, and both found Jinx standing at the damned bar counter, hands on her hips and her eyes sparkling with curiosity, as if she were genuinely interested in the answer.

"How the hell did you get here at this hour?" Sevika asked, slamming her glass onto the table with force. Her patience, already worn thin, was nearly gone. "Shouldn't you be in your room or, I don't know, in your cage?"

Jinx made a face, an attempt at intimidation that wouldn't have scared a mouse.

"I don't live in a cage, you one-armed brute."

Sevika rolled her eyes. "Great. Just what I needed." without another word, she slid off the stool, grabbed the girl without any care, and slung her over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"Hey! Put me down, you savage!" Jinx started thrashing, kicking the air and grumbling like a feral cat.

Sevika kept walking, unbothered. She was used to the brat's dramatics, but her patience wasn't infinite, especially after the night she'd already endured.

"Keep squirming like that, and I'll let you fall flat on your face." Sevika muttered, an empty threat she'd never dare follow through on, considering how much Silco doted on the girl. "You're not going upstairs."

Sevika thought about how the situation had spiraled into something even more ridiculous than she'd anticipated. Not that she really cared about Jinx—"Babysitter? Not a chance in hell."—but the last thing she wanted was to deal with the trauma of a kid discovering what her "dad" did behind closed doors. Even Zaun had its limits to chaos.

Jinx ignored the threat entirely, her fists pounding against Sevika's back with as much force as her skinny arms could muster. "Why not? Is it because of that prostitute? I don't even know what that is!"

"If you stop squirming, I'll tell you on the way."

To Sevika's surprise, Jinx actually went quiet.

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Silco looked at her body, her hair spread over the table as he thrust into her from behind. He loved how her skin felt against his, and the way she moaned softly whenever he touched her. Her body was so soft and warm, and he couldn't get enough of it. He held her wrists tightly behind her back as he pounded into her, his hips slapping against her ass with each thrust. Silco could feel his own pleasure building up inside him, but he held back, wanting to make this last as long as possible. He wanted to savor every moment of having she beneath him, submitting to his every desire.

Silco's thoughts were a jumbled mess of lust and desire. He loved how responsive she was to his touch, how she seemed to melt under him as he claimed her body. He knew he was being rough with her, but he couldn't help himself. The rough, animalistic nature of their coupling was a stark contrast to the refined elegance of his office, and he reveled in the delicious contradiction.

As he fucked her harder and faster, Silco leaned down and bit her shoulder, leaving a mark on her skin, which made her whine even more. He loved the idea of claiming her, of making sure everyone knew that she belonged to him now. She was his, and his alone, and he would make sure she never forgot it.

"My lovely dove." he growled into her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "All mine."

Silco felt her body trembling beneath him as he continued to thrust into her, his grip on her wrists loosening slightly. He could feel her pushing back against him, her hips meeting his with each stroke. He released her wrists completely and pulled her back against his chest, wrapping one arm around her waist and the other snaking up to grip her throat lightly. He didn't squeeze, just held her in place as he slowed his pace, savoring the feel of her tight heat surrounding him.

Silco's mind drifted to thoughts of the future, he would keep her by his side for a long time, that was for sure. He had no intention of losing her and even though his thoughts darkened, imagining every single thing he would do to her, Silco found himself becoming increasingly tender with her. He wanted to worship her body, to show her the depths of his desire even though she was angry with him and technically just doing her part of the deal. But for now, he contented himself with the feel of her in his arms, her body pressed against his as he continued to thrust into her.

"That's it..." his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered to her. "You're doing so well for me."

He wondered if she knew what she was getting herself into, if she understood the depths of having made that deal. She herself had said that accepting something from him was not so different from agreeing with the devil, which ironically she had done. But then again, he didn't really care. All that mattered was that she was his now. The thought sent a shiver of excitement down his spine, and he thrust harder, deeper, claiming her body as his own.

Silco's hand slid down from her hip to between her legs, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed slow, firm circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. He could feel her tensing beneath him, her breath coming faster and harder. He knew she was close.

He leaned down and nuzzled her neck, his lips brushing against her skin as he whispered to her. "You're so beautiful like this." he murmured, his voice low and husky with desire. "It's okay... Let go. I've got you."

Silco continued to rub her clit, his fingers slick with her arousal. He could feel her tensing beneath him, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. And then, with a final thrust of his hips, he felt her coming undone. Her walls clenched around him, her body shaking with the force of her orgasm. He held her close, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist as he continued to thrust, drawing out her pleasure for as long as possible.

Only then, when he knew she had finished, did he allow himself to let go. With a harsh groan, he buried himself deep inside her, his own release pulsing through him. He collapsed against her back, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

Silco pulled out of her slowly, savoring the feeling of her walls fluttering around him as he withdrew. He stood for a moment, watching as she collapsed onto the table, her body spent and limp. He couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction, of pride, at having brought her to such heights of pleasure.

He moved to his chair and sat down, his gauze never leaving her as he fixed his pants. She looked so small, so fragile like this. It was a stark contrast to the strong, defiant woman he knew

He leaned forward and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her off the table and onto his lap. He didn't care about the mess, about the fluids smearing across his pants. All he cared about was having her close, feeling her warmth against his skin.He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight against his chest. He could feel her heartbeat, slow and steady, matching his own. He knew he should let her go, let her clean up and rest. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He wanted to keep her here, in his arms, for as long as possible.

Even though the weight of exhaustion clawed at his every muscle, Silco refused to relinquish her. His arms remained locked around her, firm yet careful, as if afraid she might slip away the moment he loosened his grip. The embrace was neither casual nor fleeting—it lingered, speaking volumes in the silence. It was an act that could mean many things: dominance, possession, a fleeting moment of vulnerability. But most disturbingly, in a way so distorted it almost felt like sin—affection.

Her head rested against his shoulder, her breathing still uneven, the faint tremor in her body betraying just how far she'd been pushed. He rested his chin on top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair.

She was undone. Raw. Stripped of the mask she so often wore—the provocative, infuriating facade that seemed designed solely to challenge him at every turn. Here, in his arms, she was something closer to her truest self, a woman laid bare by the weight of her own humanity.

And God help him, he enjoyed both versions.

The stubborn, sharp-tongued temptress who dared to stand toe-to-toe with him, who infuriated and intrigued him in equal measure—that version of her was a spark, a fire he couldn't help but want to stoke. But this? This quieter, unguarded moment? This was something else entirely. A glimpse of the woman beneath the armor.

His hand moved almost unconsciously, fingers brushing against the damp strands of her hair before trailing down to rest at the nape of her neck. His touch was uncharacteristically gentle, a rare softness that would have shocked anyone who knew him. And though he told himself it was a fleeting act of charity, of magnanimity, the truth was far more selfish. He simply liked holding her this way.

"You'll ruin me."

Her voice was barely a whisper, so faint it might have been lost in the stillness of the room if not for the fact that Silco was holding her so close. It was raw, unguarded, and it hung in the air between them like the blade of a guillotine, poised to fall.

He didn't respond. He didn't need to. Her words weren't a question, nor did they require an answer. They were a truth, a bitter acknowledgment of the tangled web they'd both willingly stepped into. And it wasn't as if he could deny it, anyway. Ruin was inevitable, and it was something she had said herself during their earlier clash. This was simply the echo of her own warning, now laden with the weight of their proximity.

Silco tightened his grip around her in lieu of words, pulling her just a fraction closer, as if to say, Yes, I will. And you'll let me.

"Rest." he commanded, his voice softer now, though still tinged with that unyielding authority that brooked no argument. His hand splayed firmly across her back, anchoring her against him. "For once, don't argue. Just rest."

Without resistance, she surrendered to sleep in his arms, her breathing evening out as her body grew heavy with exhaustion. Silco stayed there, unmoving, his eyes half-lidded as he stared out into the dim haze of Zaun's morning light filtering faintly through the industrial gloom. The sounds of the city, muted and distant, echoed faintly through the room: the hiss of steam pipes, the clatter of machinery, and the occasional murmur of voices far below. It was a sound he'd grown so accustomed to that it often faded into the background, yet in this moment, it seemed louder, more insistent.

His eyes drifted to the ceiling, tracing the familiar cracks and shadows that had once provided solace in the solitude of his nights. But this morning, they seemed to mock him. Unbidden, the memory crept in — that bridge, the suffocating smoke, the acrid sting of betrayal. He could almost hear the anguished screams and the crackle of fire, smell the blood and oil mingling in the air. That day had been a reckoning, one where every choice he made seemed to collapse beneath the weight of inevitability.

The bridge where Felicia died.

The bridge where Vander betrayed him.

Silco's jaw tightened, and he exhaled sharply through his nose, as if expelling the memory itself. He would not dwell on it. What was done could not be undone, and revisiting the past served no purpose. Regret was for the weak, and Silco had no patience for weakness — not in others, and certainly not in himself.

Still, the ghost of that day lingered at the edges of his mind, a specter of all that had gone wrong. Choices that had seemed so clear, so righteous at the time, had led only to ruin. The kind of ruin that left scars too deep to heal, both on the body and on the soul.

His fingers twitched slightly, tightening their hold on her for just a moment before loosening again. She stirred faintly in her sleep but didn't wake, her face soft and unguarded in a way that tugged at something deep within him.

Ruins were where he had been forged. And if ruin was where he would return, he would do so on his own terms.

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

You felt your body sinking. The underwater currents were relentless, tossing you back and forth like a lifeless ragdoll as the darkness closed in around you. You realized the faint shimmer of the surface was growing farther and farther away. But, strangely, there was no panic. There was no desperation to fight, no frantic hands trying to reach for that light. Something inside you decided that here, in the depths, would be your final resting place.

The silence of the water, the relentless cold, the sense of abandonment. It all made a morbid kind of sense. You let your arms float beside you, surrendering to the darkness that clouded your vision.

But then, something changed.

You felt a tug at the collar of your shirt—rough and unexpected. There was no gentleness in the motion, only urgency. You tried to open your eyes, but the water burned your retinas, leaving everything blurred. Still, you could tell you were rising—fast. The muffled sound of the water became a chaotic mix of bubbles and currents. Something—or someone—was determined to save you.

"Stay with me, little one. Hold on."

Then you finally managed to open your eyes. The cracked ceiling, marked by softly dancing shadows, was the first thing you saw as you returned to reality. There was no longer the sensation of being submerged, nor the voice that had seemed so close just moments before. Vander's voice had felt so real, but now it was just a distant echo, as unreachable as the rest of your memories. A deep emptiness settled over you. It had been so long since you'd felt something like this. Maybe since... Well, better not to think about it.

Sitting up slowly, you took a better look at the room around you. It was comfortable, simple, functional. It had everything a room needed but lacked any personal touch, giving it a cold, almost impersonal feel. The lighting was far too dim for your taste, with shadows pooling in the corners.

That's when you noticed: your clothes were arranged neatly, as was your lower body, with no trace of what you had done hours earlier on that damned table. Silco had likely cleaned and adjusted everything. He'd even ensured you rested without wrecking your back, unlike before on the couch—ironic, coming from someone like him. On the nightstand, a pitcher of water and a glass waited for you, without notes, without explanations.

You poured yourself a glass, feeling the cool liquid soothe the dryness in your throat as you leaned back against the headboard. The weight of the situation finally hit you. You were screwed, weren't you?

For someone who prided themselves on being immune to Silco's games, who claimed—proudly—that they'd never be manipulated, here you were: completely caught in his web. And worse, you were here willingly.

But it had to be worth it. It had to be.

Your mind spun, piecing together the fragments of information you had gathered so far. Silco and his supposed "daughter." Jinx. It was impossible to ignore the gaping hole this story left in your reasoning. Silco had no wife, and absolutely nothing about the man suggested he could have maintained a relationship close enough to father a child. In fact, you might be the closest thing to that.

So why had Finn hinted that Jinx was a scandal?

You pieced the fragments together hesitantly, almost afraid of what it might mean. What if Jinx was... Powder?

The thought was absurd. Or, perhaps, not so much. After the night of the massacre, the only bodies reportedly found were those of Vander, Mylo, and Claggor. There was no trace of Violet or Powder. It was unlikely that both had survived, but unlikely didn't mean impossible.

What if Powder was alive? What if Silco had found her in the chaos and taken her in? The idea was horrifying, yet it made a disturbing amount of sense. Could that be the origin of the scandal? That Silco had taken Powder, turning her into the weapon he now called Jinx?

You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to organize your thoughts. It was all speculation. You had no proof, just disconnected hints. But it didn't matter. You would find out who Jinx was, no matter the cost. And if there was even the slightest chance of finding Violet or Powder, you wouldn't waste it. You had made a promise to Vander on his deathbed. You would find and protect his daughters, and Silco might just be the key to achieving that.

If the hunt for Jinx led nowhere, you could still use Silco's resources covertly to track down anything about them. Even if it was just their bones so you could finally have some closure.

You didn't know how long you sat there lost in thought until your own body protested from staying in the same position for too long.

Rising from the bed with your resolve renewed, you stretched slightly, your muscles still complaining from the strain. You crossed the room toward the door, but before you could touch it, it was abruptly opened. Standing before you was that same tattooed man from the previous morning, his face carrying the same expression of near-permanent indifference. He tilted his chin up in a simple gesture before saying:

"Silco wants to see you."

Without even waiting for your response, he turned and began walking down the corridor. You hesitated for a moment but eventually followed. As you walked, you noticed how the Last Drop was surprisingly busy for that time of morning. Men and women were engaged in various tasks, carrying crates, adjusting equipment, and speaking in hushed tones. It was a completely different scene from the almost ghostly atmosphere of the day before when you had arrived.

Not that you were surprised by this change, not after everything Silco had been pulling.

You arrived at the infamous door to Silco's office. The tattooed man knocked twice, firmly, before announcing: "Sir, I've brought her."

The response came almost instantly, and the door opened, revealing a familiar figure.

Ah, yes. Her.

The woman was there, her imposing presence intact, though her eyes carried a weary air, as if she hadn't slept in weeks. There was something both unsettling and captivating about her posture—her shoulders squared, her chin slightly tilted upward, as if daring the world to knock her down. For a brief moment, your eyes met. You held her gaze, tilting your head slightly, until a memory flashed in your mind like lightning.

Oh...

Now you remembered where you knew her from.

She seemed to notice your realization, but said nothing. She simply stepped aside, creating space for you to enter the office.

You crossed the room with the confidence of someone who felt at home—even if you weren't. Your steps echoed lightly in the space as you stopped in front of Silco's desk. He held some papers in his hands, apparently reports, his eyes scanning the text with calm precision. He didn't bother to look at you, as if your presence was expected but not significant enough to interrupt his focus.

You stopped in front of him, crossing your arms and shifting your weight slightly to one side. "Should I assume I've been summoned for something important, or did you just want my company this morning?"

He merely gestured with his hand, dismissing the two people still in the office. Yet, even as the door closed, he remained in that position for a few more seconds, calmly finishing whatever was written on the papers before setting them aside. Only then did he lean back in his chair.

"Well, keeping me company is part of your new job, isn't it?" His voice was low and velvety, carrying a familiarity that bothered you as much as it intrigued you. With a lazy gesture, he indicated the chair in front of him. "Sit. We have matters to discuss."

Without wasting time, you settled into the chair, crossing your legs in a deliberate motion, assuming the posture of someone ready to play at the same level. If Silco wanted to turn this into a performance of business negotiations, you wouldn't fall behind.

"I've been thinking." his voice smooth as silk. "Perhaps our agreement needs a few... adjustments. Some additional clauses, so to speak."

Silco leaned back slightly, his fingers interlaced beneath his chin, the posture of someone entirely in control of the situation. "But before we get to that, I think it's wise to review the main terms of our current arrangement. Just to ensure we're aligned."

You shrugged with feigned indifference, though irritation pulsed beneath the surface. Of course, you knew every line of that damned agreement. How could you forget something that had been presented more as an ultimatum than a real negotiation? When Silco proposed the deal, you barely had a chance to voice your opinion. Not that your opinion would have mattered much—the power in that room belonged exclusively to him.

If he wanted to, he could have simply imprisoned you, tied you to a bed, keeping you captive by force. In fact, considering Silco's style, perhaps he still might—but in a twisted way, involving power games and sex.

When he presented the contract the night before, the scene was almost comical. You weren't even remotely surprised to see that he already had the document prepared, flawlessly drafted, waiting only for you to sign your name. However, what truly surprised you was that he agreed to some of your conditions, though they were few.

"Go ahead."

Silco then pulled the paper from the drawer, placing the document on the table with the two signature spaces clearly visible: one with his name, marked by that precise and meticulous handwriting, and the other with your name, marked by the nervous haste of your rushed signature.

"You agreed to spend three weeks of each month at my service." he began to read, his voice low and laden with an authority that sent shivers down your spine. "You will serve me in whatever way I deem necessary. This includes physically, of course. In return, I will provide you with everything you need, as well as ensuring your safety and comfort."

He paused, his eyes following the text with the precision of someone who had recited these words countless times. His expression was one of absolute delight behind the indifferent façade; you could tell he was savoring every syllable he uttered. Every detail seemed carefully crafted to trap you.

"And during the fourth and final week of that same month, you will have your freedom. I will not touch you, nor demand anything from you. You will be free to do as you please, within reasonable limits."

Silco pushed the folder toward you, the gesture as casual as it was threatening. "Naturally, you will have an escort at all times. To ensure your safety and to prevent you from deciding to run. After all, I wouldn't want to lose my new toy so soon."

You took the contract, your eyes scanning the words you already knew. But before you could even pretend to conduct a detailed review, Silco's voice cut through the air again, laced with something almost playful.

"Now, dove." his soft tone masked the venom behind his words. "Please, say out loud what the consequences are for breaking your part of the agreement."

Your gaze shot up from the paper to him. Your superficial reading stopped at that sentence, your fingers clutching the document tightly enough to crease it slightly. Of course, he was going to demand this. It was Silco's arrogance at its peak, forcing you to admit the terms you despised aloud. His smile widened as he noticed your hesitation. He was savoring the moment—every second of your reluctance was a small victory for him.

"If I break the agreement, all the freedom granted to me will be revoked. I will be under your constant supervision, without any autonomy." you wanted to kick him under the table, but you forced yourself to continue without resorting to violence. "And I will be subject to whatever punishments you deem appropriate, with no right to question or refuse them."

You hated the way he looked at you in that moment. That intense, cruel gaze that made every hair on your body stand on end. It wasn't just the intensity—it was what lay beneath it. There was something deeply wrong about the satisfaction Silco displayed, the twisted pleasure in reminding you, silently, of the reach of his power in Zaun—and now, over every aspect of your life.

He tilted his head slightly, the treacherous smile playing on his lips. "And?" he pressed, his voice low, its softness nothing more than a façade. "Don't keep me waiting. Say the rest."

You swallowed hard, choking down the rising urge to unleash a string of curses at him. Instead, you responded with a coldness you didn't truly feel.

"You would burn the brothel."

The words were difficult to say, but you forced them out, trying to mask the vulnerability they carried. In Zaun, few things could really hurt you. With no family and no significant ties left, you believed you were beyond the reach of emotional threats. But then, there was the brothel. And Silco knew it.

Not that you particularly liked the work of being a prostitute. As you had told Silco the day you first met, it wasn't as though you had much of a choice. It was a job that didn't attract attention, and that was exactly what you needed.

But the brothel wasn't just a workplace. The people there, even if they weren't your closest friends, were something you could call your community. Co-workers, confidants on hard nights, people who had shared the same roof with you since Babette took you in. She gave you a chance when no one else would—a place to stay, a job to support yourself, a sense of stability in a world that seemed to crumble around you. And now, because of you, the brothel was in danger. Just like Kate had been... and you knew how that ended.

He leaned back in his chair with the confidence of a king on his throne, intertwining his fingers beneath his chin. "Ah, yes. The brothel. Such a charming establishment, isn't it? It would be such a shame if something were to happen to it."

"Just say what you want to add, Silco."

The words came out steady, but you knew they weren't enough to fool him. Silco always caught the nuances—the smallest cracks in your façade, the ones you tried so hard to hide. And there he was, with that almost imperceptible smile, carved perfectly to provoke you. It was the kind of expression that made you feel as though, somehow, he was always in control.

"Always so direct." he murmured in that slow, deliberate voice, reaching for a cigar from the drawer. The way he handled it was almost theatrical, every movement carefully calculated to stretch out your anxiety. "Well, the proposal is more of a suggestion. I believe it would be far more convenient if you moved into one of the rooms at the Last Drop. During the weeks you're serving me, you would stay there."

You blinked. Once, twice. His words echoed in your head as you tried to absorb the weight of what he was saying. When you agreed to the arrangement, there had at least been one small consolation: the idea that, at the end of each day, you could return to the place you called home. Your little space. Your bubble of freedom. A place where you could continue your investigation far from Silco's watchful eyes and maybe remind yourself that you were still a person, not just his "property."

But now, even that illusion was being taken from you.

"This is your way of keeping me under custody?"

Silco laughed. A low, rough, and dangerously amused sound that sent a shiver down your spine. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he watched you with an unwavering gaze. The intensity of his orange irises, like burning embers, held you captive even when you wanted to look away.

"Keeping you under my custody?" he repeated, with a mock indignation so convincing it was infuriating. "Dove, you've wounded me deeply with such a heinous accusation. I thought we had something special here."

He lit the cigar with a silver lighter, the metallic click echoing in the heavy silence of the room. The scent of tobacco began to fill the air, mingling with the almost tangible tension. Silco took a deep drag, exhaling the smoke with a sigh that seemed laden with satisfaction.

"But, if you insist on putting it that way..." he let the sentence linger, releasing another slow puff of smoke before continuing, as though savoring the moment for as long as he could. Dragging it out too much for your taste. "Yes, I suppose that's exactly what I'm doing."

You couldn't stop yourself from rolling your eyes—a gesture meant to be full of disdain but softening into an ironic smile you couldn't quite suppress. There was something about Silco—that poisonous mix of brutal honesty and blatant manipulation—that left you unsure whether you should hate him or just play the game alongside him.

Somehow, his cruel transparency made it impossible to be as angry as you should have been. Deep down, what you really wanted was to cross the desk and punch him, but instead, you just raised an eyebrow, defiant.

"You're unbelievable, you know that?"

You stood up from the chair calmly, your eyes locked onto Silco's as you made your way around the desk. He, of course, followed every step with that sharp, almost predatory gaze. As you rounded the desk, you noticed the subtle way he adjusted in his chair, shifting slightly to track your movements as though he anticipated exactly what was coming next.

Without hesitation, you climbed onto his lap, sitting as if it were the most natural, casual thing in the world. Ironically, it was. Silco had, in an unexpected way, become your favorite "seat" and you were sure he was well aware of it.

"So." your tone deliberately provocative as your hands came to rest on his shoulders, "I don't think I have any other choice but to accept this clause. Although, I do have a few conditions."

Interest flickered in his eyes, but it was in the blue one that you noticed something new. His pupil dilated slightly—a reaction you'd never observed before. A small detail, but one that, in that moment, felt like a silent triumph. Silco leaned back in the chair, his body relaxing as though he'd already won the argument. He brought the cigar to his lips, taking a long drag before exhaling the smoke to the side, away from you. It was an unexpectedly considerate gesture—almost... sweet, if you had the nerve to admit it out loud.

His free hand, however, didn't waste any time. His fingers began to wander over your body, gliding along the curve of your waist, lingering at the line of your hip, before settling firmly on your thigh. The touch was possessive, demanding, as if he wanted to remind both you—and himself—that, in this moment, you were his.

"And what might these conditions be?"

You didn't answer immediately. Instead, you reached out and, without a hint of shame or hesitation, took the cigar from his hand. Silco's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't protest. You brought the cigar to your lips, inhaling with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times before—even though it was your first.

The bitter taste filled your mouth, and the smoke wrapped around your senses. You exhaled slowly, letting the smoke escape deliberately as you kept your gaze fixed on his. There was something intensely intimate in the exchange, a sexual charge you hadn't planned but now felt inevitable.

"I want permission to roam freely around here." you said at last, your voice calm but carrying an undeniable tone of firmness. "After all, when you don't need me, I'll need some way to entertain myself, don't you think?"

You smiled—that mischievous smile that had gotten you into trouble more times than you could count. It was the same smile that, in a way, had landed you in this situation with Silco in the first place. "A fair request, in my opinion."

Silco remained silent for a moment, his eyes locked on yours. He seemed to be considering your words, but you could tell it was more than that. He was savoring the scene—every detail about you. The way you held the cigar, your posture on his lap, the interplay of smoke curling around your face... He seemed entranced.

"Permission to wander freely, hm?" Silco finally broke the silence, his voice heavy with provocation as his fingers on your thigh tightened their grip slightly. "I suppose that's reasonable, but don't think for a second that I won't be watching you."

You maintained your composure, letting the cigar's smoke fill your lungs before leaning slightly closer to him. As you exhaled, you released the smoke near his lips, watching as his blue eye darted momentarily to your mouth while the orange one stayed fixed on you. It carried a silent threat, a void of unspoken challenge that seemed to dare you to keep testing his limits.

"That's more than enough for me."

Boldly, you let your lips brush against his in a touch so fleeting it was almost ghostly, before pressing a gentle kiss—light, without any intent to deepen it. But as you began to pull away, you didn't get far. Almost instantly, Silco's hand gripped a fistful of your hair, firm but not harsh, pulling you back to him.

And it was he who deepened the kiss.

Silco's lips crashed against yours with a demanding, possessive force. There was nothing gentle or hesitant about it; he was taking what he wanted, and you knew in that moment, it was you. His tongue invaded your mouth with unrelenting confidence, exploring and claiming every inch. The taste of smoke lingered on his tongue, the bitterness of tobacco blending with an unexpected hint of sweetness—a contrast as singular as Silco himself.

There was something more in that kiss, something that sent shivers racing through your body as he held you captive within it. The last time the two of you had kissed, it had been different: rage had clouded your mind, turning the contact into a fierce clash. But now... now it was something else entirely. There was still roughness—Silco wasn't a man who did anything softly—but the hatred, the defiance, was absent.

If someone asked why you had kissed him, you could lie. You could claim it was a calculated move to ensure he wouldn't rescind his agreement to your request. A strategic play, nothing more. But deep down, you knew that would only be half the truth. The reality was, something within you had driven you to do it, to seek out that connection again, even if you didn't want to admit it.

You provoked him because you knew Silco would take the lead. It had always been that way. No matter how much you wanted to, it was never going to be you who initiated. Not with him. The power always had to appear to be on his side, even when you managed to twist it to your advantage.

The cigar slipped from your fingers, hitting the ground with a muffled thud. You registered the faint sound, your mind distantly aware of the minimal chance the ember might start a fire. Yet you didn't move to pick it up. Instead, your hands rested against Silco's chest, attempting to support your weight and keep your body from fully collapsing against his. Though, by the way he pulled you closer, it was clear that idea didn't bother him in the slightest.

A rough sound escaped Silco's lips—a low, restrained groan that you almost thought you'd imagined. Almost. His grip on your hair tightened, angling your head perfectly so he could deepen the kiss even further. His other hand wasn't idle; it moved slowly along the length of your thigh, his fingers pressing into your flesh with enough force to leave a mark.

When Silco finally broke the kiss, his lips began to trace a path along your jaw to your neck, his breath hot against your skin. You couldn't stop yourself—your body arched toward his, as if responding to an unspoken command.

"Don't provoke me, dove," he growled against your skin. "You know very well what happens when you do."

You laughed, but the sound came out short, almost breathless. It was hard to concentrate when Silco kept trailing kisses down your neck, occasionally interrupted by sharp nips that left your skin throbbing with sensitivity. One particular bite was harder, enough to draw a small gasp from you. Your body reacted instinctively, jolting slightly in his lap—and that was enough to elicit a sharp intake of breath from Silco.

From the way his eyes glinted and his grip on your thigh tightened, you knew he was just as affected as you were.

"Why not?" you murmured, a mischievous smile playing on your lips as you tried to catch your breath. "We're already in position, after all."

Silco pulled back slightly, just enough for you to see his expression. The gleam in his eyes, especially the blue one, was a dangerous mix of amusement and something darker, more intense. It was as if your words had sparked a new idea in his mind, one he was clearly considering with.

"Why not, indeed?" his hands slid to your hips, gripping them firmly as he pulled you even closer, as if it were possible to get any nearer. "Especially when you seem to enjoy this position so much."

Your fingers traced the contours of his face, exploring the unique texture of the scarred skin. When you reached the rougher, uneven area, you noticed something you hadn't before: a slight layer of powder there, likely applied to soften the appearance of the scar. You frowned slightly, intrigued. A question hovered on the tip of your tongue, but you decided to save it for another moment. After all, provoking Silco was always more interesting.

The prolonged touch seemed to captivate him, his gaze locked on yours as you explored his face with your fingertips. A charged tension lingered between you, and you realized that, in that moment, he was completely at your mercy—even if he hadn't noticed it himself.

"Well..." your voice carrying a faintly teasing tone, "You're the one above everyone in Zaun, so it's only fair someone gets to be above you, isn't it?"

With a mischievous smile, you shifted your hips slightly, emphasizing your words with the movement. The effect was immediate. Silco drew in a sharp breath, his own hips moving almost instinctively to match your motion.

"Someone has to keep things balanced around here." your tone suggesting the idea amused you. "Besides, you don't seem the least bit bothered by it."

His hands gripped your hips more tightly, his fingers digging into your flesh in a possessive gesture that nearly knocked the air out of your lungs. He stared at you now with an intensity that made your heart race. There was nothing innocent about that look. On the contrary, the gleam in his eyes seemed almost profane, as if he were contemplating something both sinful and indulgent.

He leaned forward, his lips brushing against your ear. The closeness sent a shiver through your skin, and his voice, low and gravelly, seemed designed to ignite something inside you.

"Bothered?" he murmured, each word weighted with a gravity that made your stomach flip. "Not in the slightest, dove. In fact, I'd say I'm enjoying the view from here. The way you look at me from above, with those eyes..." he paused, his warm breath fanning over your skin. "It's enough to bring a man to his knees."

You couldn't help the smile that curved your lips, a hint of amusement and even satisfaction at having him in this position. But the smile lasted only a second. Before you could even respond, you felt his fingers gripping your chin, firm, almost possessive, tilting your face so he could look directly at you.

The tone of his voice shifted. The soft murmur now carried a raw authority, irresistible, as though he'd decided exactly what would happen next.

"But I prefer you in this position."

The intensity of his words made something in your chest tighten—not with fear, but with anticipation. In that moment, you knew exactly where this was going. He tilted his head slightly, as if savoring your expression before continuing.

"Now, be a good girl and get on your knees."

Part 7

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please read. I said I'd be back and I'm going to give you a spoiler: the next chapter it will be completely in Silco's POV and with a dose more smut than it normally would have. So suggest kinks that you'd like to see written in this series (I already have what I want to write in mind, but if I see an interesting idea that fits I'll add it, remember I can always use your idea in another chapter) And yes, in this story we fuck with Sevika! Remember when Babette tells VI that she's a regular customer at the brothel? I took this canon very seriously, but don't worry, there won't be a love triangle. Btw did you like Jinx's quick appearance in the chapter? (and yes, technically she would know what a prostitute is, but in my canon I can imagine VI punching Mylo at the exact moment he opens his mouth to explain. Our VI would protect our little and innocent Powder) I'll probably be back next year so HAPPY NEW YEAR! See you again in 2025.

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natalievoncatte · 5 days ago

Text

Alex had been watching the man across the room for a while. If she’d been into men, he might have been her type- a little lanky and bearded, kind of a hipster air, one of those people who was born on the east coast and came west to fit in.

As she approached the bar she said, “You must be Alex.”

“Must I?”

He offered a genial hand to shake. “Jack Spheer. Lena invited me.”

Alex gave him a shake. “Oh, I know who you are. Lena and Kara both mentioned you a few times. Lena’s ex, right?”

He favored her with a dashing smile and saluted her with his drink. “Guilty.”

Alex turned and looked at Lena, seated across the bar at a table by herself, looking exhausted and overstimulated as she turned a drink between her hands and glanced furtively at Kara and Nia, who were animatedly playing Mortal Kombat on one of the barcade’s old game cabinets.

“Did she invite you?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “Can I swear you to secrecy?”

“Sure, why not.”

“She told me she feels a bit fifth-wheelish at these gatherings of yours.”

“That’s silly,” said Alex. “She’s sort of become the heart of our little band. She’s everybody’s little sister.”

“Nah, that’s Nia.”

Jack looked over at Lena and Kara. Nia lost the match and threw up her hands, and Brainy sauntered over. Nia put her arm about his waist and they fell into each other. Kara’s laugh looked a little strained, a little pained, as she turned to let the couple have their moment.

Kara was in fact staring at Lena now, leaning against a column and nursing a beer that lacked the potency to get her drunk unless she spiked it with the alien liquor in a flask in her purse, but Alex was sure she hadn’t touched it.

The only singles in the group tonight were Lena and Kara, and Alex remembered how Kara’s expression darkened when Lena mentioned he’d be joining them tonight to close out this new place they’d all be eager to visit.

“So are you two…” Alex said.

“No,” Jack laughed. Used to be, back in Metropolis. It ran its course.”

Alex turned and signaled the bartender to bring her and Jack another round.

“So you’re not thinking about making a move?”

Jack swirled his new drink and looked over at Lena, then down at the booze spinning in his hand.

“Thinking about it? Who wouldn’t. She’s gorgeous, you know. Obviously she has those model looks but it’s more than that, it’s deeper. She has the most soulful eyes of any woman I’ve ever met. You’d drown in them and never regret it. She’s a genius, she’s kind and driven. I’ve never met someone who’s so enthusiastic about kindness for the sake of kindness. She throws herself into goodness with such desperation.”

“Wow,” said Alex. “You have a way with words. You really must have deep feelings for her.”

“I do. I won’t say I love her as a sister, that’d be lie. I love her as someone who wants her highest happiness.”

“A girl would be lucky to have someone who sees her like that.”

“You would know,” said Jack. “Your Kelly introduced herself a while ago and had the same sort of high praise for you. By talking to your partner, you’d think you were Supergirl.”

Alex snorted. She glanced over at Lena and saw her still moping prettily, sighing into her drink with her cheek resting against her palm.

“She looks down,” said Alex.

“Unrequited love. Or so she thinks.”

Alex blinked. “What?”

“Don’t you see it?”

“I can’t say I do.”

“She’s in love. I know because she never really looked at me like that.”

“Like wha-“ Alex began.

Lena was looking at Kara, and suddenly Alex saw it. Lena practically radiated yearning, those big soulful eyes of hers so sad that Alex thought sappy music might start playing from nowhere. There was a deep need in that look. Every time Lena looked at Kara, she seemed afraid it was her last chance and she might never see her again.

“I dare say she’s quite in love with your sister.”

Now that Alex saw it she couldn’t unsee it. More than that, pieces began snapping together in her brain- how Lena had gone to absurd lengths to capture the attention of this klutzy, ditzy reporter that had come tumbling into her organized, minimalist, breakfast in California and dinner in Tokyo lifestyle, bringing friendship and a found family and all her bizarre quirks.

The billion dollar CatCo acquisition. The flowers. The look of pure relief in Lena’s eyes when Kara let her back into her life, let her come home.

“Jesus, you’re right.”

Alex took a long drink, then went completely still.

“Or so she thinks,” he’d said.

“Shit, they look like they’re in middle school. Every time Kara looks, Lena looks away.”

“And vice-versa,” said Jack.

Alex sighed. “Great. Just great.”

She suddenly realized that Kara was looking at them, now, and her eyes were wide, a look of unbridled shock on her face.

Goddamn Kara and her goddam bullshit super hearing.

Kara had locked eyes with Jack, and he looked back just as intently.

Then it happened.

Alex knew a bro nod when she saw one. Kara nodded back, pulled the flask from her pocket and took a nip for courage, grimacing as it went down, then turned, head down, and headed straight for Lena.

“Go get her, Supergirl,” Jack said softly.

“I’ll drink to that,” Alex said, offering Jack a toast.

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reidmarieprentiss · 6 months ago

Note

Hii! I was wondering if you could write something with bartender!reader and spencer? They meet at a bar in one of his cases and he is WHIPPED, she gets drinks for the whole team and he just can´t stop staring at her, maybe penelope also tries to flirt with her? i don't know i love pen and just wanted her to be included in this lmao

Southern Charm

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff

Warnings/Includes: alcohol consumption

Word count: 3.5k

a/n: hiii i love this prompt !! i hope this is something like what you were looking for <3333

main masterlist

After successfully closing a challenging case in New Orleans, the BAU team decides to take a well-deserved break before heading back to Quantico. Will LaMontagne, JJ's beau, invites them to his favorite bar, Jewel of the South, for an evening of drinks and relaxation. Penelope Garcia, who joined the team on this trip to assist with the precinct's outdated technology, is thrilled to unwind with her colleagues in the vibrant city. With the spirit of New Orleans as their backdrop, the team gathers at the elegant cocktail bar, ready to enjoy a night of laughter and friendship, leaving the stresses of the job behind.

As they settled into a cozy corner, Penelope Garcia took it upon herself to ensure everyone had their preferred drink. As she made her way to the bar, Spencer Reid found himself glancing around the room, his mind still half-occupied by the case they had just closed. But his attention was quickly drawn to a captivating figure behind the bar.

You were busy mixing drinks with an air of effortless grace, your warm smile lighting up the room. Spencer’s gaze lingered on you, his interest piqued by your charm and the way you seemed to effortlessly command the space.

Penelope returned, carrying a tray laden with cocktails and setting it down with a flourish. "Alright, team! Drinks are served!" she announced, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she noticed Spencer's transfixed gaze.

"Looks like our resident genius has found something—or rather someone—interesting," Derek teased, nudging Spencer playfully. "Or should I say, someone has captured his attention?"

Spencer blinked, his cheeks turning a faint shade of pink. "I, um, was just observing how well she handles the bar," he stammered, trying to sound nonchalant.

Emily raised an eyebrow, a sly smile spreading across her face. "Uh-huh, sure. Handling the bar. That’s what we’re calling it now?" she quipped, a knowing look in her eyes. "I think someone should go say hello."

Before Spencer could protest, you approached their table, carrying a fresh round of drinks. "Here you go! Compliments of the house for the amazing work you all do," you said, your smile even brighter up close.

Spencer tried to find his voice, but all he managed was a slightly awkward, "Thank you. You’re so pretty–kind, this is so kind of you.”

Penelope, ever the social butterfly, seized the opportunity to introduce herself. "I'm Penelope, and this is Spencer. And you have impeccable taste in cocktails!"

You chuckled, clearly enjoying the interaction. "Thanks, Penelope. I do try to keep the drinks as interesting as the company. That’s why yours has a special twist," you said, turning your attention to Spencer with a wink.

Spencer flushed yet again, "Oh—oh, thank you. Um, what is it?"

"Pretty boy, why don't you just take a sip and see if you like it?" Derek suggested, grinning from ear to ear.

"Yeah, pretty boy. And don't spare my feelings; I'd be happy to make you something else," you offered charmingly, leaning in slightly.

Spencer took a sip and realized you'd made him an absolutely delicious mocktail. His eyes widened with appreciation. "Thank you so much, this is wonderful."

"Glad you like it!" you replied, your smile warm and genuine.

Emily Prentiss, ever curious, leaned forward. "I have to ask, how did you get into bartending?"

"Yeah!" Penelope added with a playful glint in her eye. "A beautiful thing such as yourself must get a lot of tips."

You giggled at their flattery, clearly enjoying the banter. "Ha! You guys are too much. I'm just putting myself through grad school."

"And the tips?" JJ chimed in, wiggling her shoulders, much to the amusement of everyone.

You leaned in closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially, which put your chest right next to Spencer's face. "I'm not technically supposed to say..." you trailed off, casting a playful glance at Will, who was sitting nearby, "but if Will here promises not to say anything, the tips are phenomenal!"

Will smiled and raised his hand in mock solemnity. "My lips are sealed, good lady," he assured you, playing along with the lighthearted mood.

Spencer was trying his best to keep his eyes forward during the interaction, but they kept drifting over before finally accepting his fate of staring at your chest. His mind was a whirl of confusion and embarrassment, his usual eloquence completely deserting him.

"I'd say Reid over here wants to give her more than a tip," Derek laughed, his voice full of good-natured teasing.

"Morgan," Hotch scolded, though not without a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Realizing how your position had flustered the poor, adorable man, you straightened up, giving Spencer a little space. He was clearly overwhelmed, his cheeks a brilliant shade of crimson.

Spencer, noticing everyone's eyes on him, suddenly felt the urge to escape. "Excuse me," he mumbled, getting up from the table and making a beeline for the bathroom, his heart pounding with mortification and exhilaration.

As he disappeared, Penelope sighed theatrically, casting a wistful look in your direction. "Well, if he doesn't make a move, I might have to!" she declared with a laugh, earning a chorus of agreement from the rest of the team.

You chuckled, feeling the warmth of the group's camaraderie and the genuine affection they had for one another. "You guys are a lot of fun," you admitted, feeling quite at ease despite the little whirlwind you'd unintentionally stirred.

Derek grinned at you, clearly enjoying the playful chaos. "Yeah, we're all sorts of fun. But don't worry about Spencer; he'll be back. Probably with a list of reasons why he shouldn't have left," he said, amusement dancing in his eyes.

You nodded, glancing toward the bathroom with a smile. "I'll have to make sure his drink doesn't get warm in the meantime."

—

Spencer stepped outside the bar, seeking a breath of fresh air to calm his racing thoughts. The air was humid, clinging to his skin, but it was a welcome change from the crowded bar where the laughter and clinking glasses seemed to amplify his embarrassment. He leaned against the brick wall, replaying every second from the moment he first saw you, analyzing each word and glance.

The way you'd leaned in, the warmth of your smile, and the kindness in your eyes—every detail felt vivid in his mind, refusing to be ignored. He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he didn't hear the door open behind him.

"Hey, handsome," came your voice, cutting through the evening air like a melody.

Spencer spun around, his heart skipping a beat. The learned fear of being approached from behind flashed through him for a brief moment before he realized it was you. "Oh, hi," he managed to say, trying to sound composed but failing spectacularly.

"Hey, now," you teased, a playful lilt in your voice. "Don't sound too excited to see me. I'll start to think you don't like me."

"Oh—I, I mean, well," Spencer stammered, fumbling for words. His mind raced to form coherent sentences, but the proximity of your presence and the way you looked at him made it nearly impossible.

"You’re really cute, do you know that?" you said, your smile softening the tension in the air. You stepped closer, leaning against the wall beside him, your eyes glinting with amusement.

Spencer blinked, momentarily caught off guard by your directness. "Um, thank you," he said, his voice filled with surprise and gratitude. "I don't usually get called that."

"Now that's a damn shame," you replied, shaking your head slightly. "What do you get called? Pretty? Beautiful? Charming? Sexy?"

Spencer laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Nerdy, weird, loser," he admitted, the words tumbling out with a self-deprecating shrug.

"Nope," you said firmly, crossing your arms as if the mere idea was ridiculous. "I refuse to believe anyone could have a negative thing to say about you. You’re sweeter than honey."

He met your gaze, slightly bewildered by your unwavering confidence in him. "I have an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory, I can read 20,000 words per minute, and I have three PhDs. No one is calling me anything kind. Other than doctor or genius, maybe."

"Sexy," you corrected him with a teasing smile.

"What?" Spencer blinked again, this time in genuine confusion.

"That's downright sexy, sugar," you repeated, your voice low and playful.

Spencer was at a loss for words, an unusual occurrence for someone who usually had an answer for everything. His cheeks turned a deeper shade of red as he processed your words, his heart skipping a beat at the compliment.

"I—uh," he stammered, searching for a response that wouldn’t sound completely ridiculous.

You chuckled softly at his reaction, clearly enjoying the effect you had on him. "Don’t worry, I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable," you said, your tone gentle and reassuring. "I just think intelligence is incredibly attractive."

Spencer nodded slowly, still trying to wrap his head around the idea that someone found him attractive for more than just his intellect. "Thank you," he finally managed, his voice sincere. "That's… really nice to hear."

"You're welcome," you replied with a warm smile. "So, what brings you to New Orleans, sugar?"

Spencer relaxed slightly, grateful for the change in topic. "Work, mostly. We just wrapped up a case, and the team decided to take a night off to unwind."

"Well, I’m glad you did," you said, giving him a sidelong glance. "Otherwise, I might not have met the smartest—and sexiest—guy in New Orleans."

Spencer watched as you smiled, a hint of playfulness in your eyes as you leaned against the wall. The evening air was thick with humidity, but there was a certain warmth in the atmosphere that made everything feel alive.

"Can I get you a drink?" he offered, feeling a sudden burst of confidence.

“Sure, honey. I’m off in just over an hour. Will you wait for me?” you asked, your voice a smooth blend of charm and Southern warmth.

Spencer was entranced by your spell, your accent adding an extra layer of allure to every word. “Of–of course,” he replied, his voice tinged with both eagerness and a touch of awe.

Your smile widened, clearly pleased with his response. "Great! I promise I won't keep you waiting too long."

Spencer nodded, feeling a strange ball of nervousness and excitement fluttering in his chest. He couldn’t believe his luck; not only had he caught your attention, but now he had a reason to spend more time with you.

"Just hang tight, and I'll join you as soon as I can," you said, giving him a reassuring wink before heading back inside the bar to finish your shift.

As you slipped back through the door, Spencer took a moment to steady himself. The cool night air was a welcome contrast to the heat building inside him, a gentle reminder that this unexpected encounter was real.

—

Spencer returned to his friends, who were still enjoying their drinks and each other's company. Penelope Garcia spotted him first, her eyes lighting up with curiosity.

"Well, well, well, look who decided to come back," she teased, patting the empty seat beside her. "Did you have a nice chat with our lovely bartender?"

Spencer smiled, feeling a bit more composed now that he was among friends. "Yes, actually," he said, a hint of bashfulness in his voice. "She’s really nice."

Derek Morgan chuckled, shaking his head. "Nice? Man, she was practically making eyes at you, and you didn’t even notice."

"She was?" Spencer asked, genuinely surprised. "I mean, I thought she was just being friendly.”

Emily Prentiss laughed, taking a sip of her drink. "Spencer, I think you might need to brush up on your flirting skills. She was definitely interested."

Spencer blushed, his gaze dropping to the table as he tried to process this new information. "Well, she said she’d join me for a drink after her shift," he admitted, glancing around at his friends' reactions.

Penelope clapped her hands in delight. "Oh my gosh, this is so exciting! You have a date!"

"It's not a date," Spencer protested, though his smile betrayed his words. "We're just… having a drink."

"Uh-huh, sure," JJ said with a knowing nod. "But you better be on your best behavior, Doctor Reid."

—

The time passed more quickly than Spencer anticipated. As he sat with his friends, he found himself watching the clock, eager for the moment when he could see you again.

Finally, as the hour drew to a close, you emerged from behind the bar, having swapped your work apron for a casual yet stylish outfit that seemed to suit you perfectly. Spencer's heart skipped a beat at the sight of you, your presence a beacon of warmth in the dimly lit bar.

You approached the table with a confident stride, flashing a friendly smile at the team. "Hope I didn't keep y'all waiting too long," you said, your drawl a melodic touch to your words.

"Not at all," Spencer replied, standing up to greet you. "It was worth the wait."

Derek raised his glass in a mock toast. "Look at you, Reid, sounding like a proper gentleman."

You laughed, clearly enjoying the group. "Y'all are such a fun bunch. You might have to make this a regular stop."

Spencer felt a sense of ease settle over him, his earlier nerves fading into the background as he focused on the here and now. You were standing beside him, your presence both comforting and exhilarating, and he couldn’t help but feel grateful for this unexpected twist of fate.

"So," you said, turning your attention back to Spencer, "are you ready for that drink?"

"Definitely," he replied, feeling a surge of anticipation. "Lead the way."

With that, you guided Spencer to a quieter corner of the bar, where the noise of the crowd faded into a gentle hum. The dim lighting cast a warm glow over the wooden table, creating an intimate setting. Spencer felt his heart beat a little faster, knowing that this was a chance to learn more about the intriguing woman who had captured his attention so effortlessly.

Spencer settled into the booth across from you, his hands fidgeting slightly with the edge of his sleeve. He offered you a small, bashful smile, the kind that hinted at both his excitement and nervousness. "So," he began, searching for the right words, "I guess this is the part where I ask you about your favorite drink, but it feels a bit redundant given your expertise."

You chuckled, leaning forward with a playful glint in your eye. "Well, I'm always up for a good mystery. Surprise me, Dr. Reid. What would you imagine my favorite drink to be?"

Spencer blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the challenge. He considered your question, his mind racing through various options. "Hmm, I’d guess something classic but with a twist. Maybe an Old Fashioned, but with a splash of something unexpected like lavender or ginger."

Your eyes widened in mock surprise, clearly impressed. "Not bad, Spencer. I have to admit, I do like a bit of lavender in my Old Fashioned."

Spencer felt a surge of pride at getting it right, his awkward charm shining through as he said, "I, uh, thought it might match your personality—elegant with a hint of something uniquely you."

You smiled, your gaze softening as you watched him. "That’s sweet of you to say," you replied, your voice carrying a gentle warmth that made his heart skip a beat.

The conversation flowed naturally, with Spencer occasionally stumbling over his words in an endearing way that made you smile. He was unlike anyone you’d met before, his intelligence paired with a genuine kindness that was refreshing and intriguing.

As you talked, you noticed how Spencer's eyes seemed to light up when he spoke about his work and the things he was passionate about. His enthusiasm was contagious, and you found yourself leaning in closer, captivated by his stories and the way he seemed to pour his heart into everything he did.

"So, Spencer," you said, your voice taking on a more playful tone, "do you always get this nervous around women, or is it just me?"

Spencer let out a soft laugh, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Well, I—I suppose it's not every day I get to talk to someone as captivating as you," he admitted, his honesty shining through despite his awkwardness.

You grinned, clearly enjoying the effect you had on him. "Captivating, huh? I'll take that as a compliment."

"It is," Spencer assured you, his gaze steady despite the flutter of nerves in his chest. "You have this way of commanding attention. It's, um, quite impressive."

You reached across the table, lightly touching his hand with yours. "And you have a way of making people feel appreciated, Spencer. That's a rare quality."

Spencer felt a spark at the contact, his heart beating a little faster. The moment seemed to stretch out, charged with an energy that was both thrilling and a bit nerve-wracking.

"You know," you said softly, your eyes meeting his with a hint of mischief, "I think you're pretty special, too. Not just for your brain, but for who you are."

Spencer swallowed, his mind racing with thoughts he couldn’t quite articulate. He felt a pull toward you, a magnetic force that seemed to draw him closer with every word and gesture.

"Thank you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "That means a lot coming from you."

You smiled, your eyes holding his in a gaze that seemed to speak volumes. As if sensing the moment, the bar around you seemed to fade into the background, leaving just the two of you in your own little world.

Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, his mind caught between doubt and desire. But then he saw the encouragement in your eyes, and the decision seemed to make itself.

He leaned across the table, his movements tentative but filled with intent. You met him halfway, closing the distance with a gentle ease that made the moment feel right.

The kiss was soft and tentative, a sweet brush of lips that carried the promise of something more. Spencer felt his heart soar, the warmth of the connection spreading through him like a gentle tide.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes locked onto his, a smile playing at the corners of your lips. "See?" you teased, your voice a soft murmur. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Spencer chuckled, relief and happiness washing over him. "No," he admitted, his voice filled with newfound confidence. "I guess it wasn't."

You grinned, leaning back with a satisfied air. "Good, because I was planning on doing that again," you said, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

Spencer felt his heart skip at the prospect, the evening stretching out before him with endless possibilities. He realized that this unexpected encounter could be more than just a chance meeting.

And as he sat there, sharing a quiet moment with you in the corner of the bar, Spencer knew that he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

—

“Did you guys see that??” Penelope burst out, her eyes wide with excitement as she pointed toward the cozy corner where you and Spencer were sitting.

Emily turned her head just in time to catch a glimpse of the sweet interaction, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "Looks like our genius finally made his move," she commented, clearly pleased by the development.

Derek, ever the supportive friend, couldn't contain his enthusiasm. “Pretty boy is putting in the work!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together in approval. “I knew he had it in him.”

JJ shook her head with a laugh, leaning back in her chair. "I guess we all underestimated Spencer's game," she said, casting a proud glance toward her colleague.

Beside her, Will LaMontagne joined in the teasing, a playful grin on his face. "JJ, you might have a new travel buddy when you come to see me," he teased, nudging her with his elbow. "Looks like Spencer's found himself a reason to visit New Orleans more often."

JJ chuckled, a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Well, I can’t say I blame him. She's a real catch."

Aaron Hotchner, usually reserved and composed, allowed himself a small smile as he watched the interaction unfold. It was rare for Spencer to let his guard down, and it was heartening to see him embrace this new connection.

"Good for him," Hotch remarked, his tone approving as he raised his glass in a quiet toast to Spencer's success.

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

tag list <333 @spencerreidsreads @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @dirtytissuebox @yokaimoon @reggieswriter @loumouse

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jsmainblog · 28 days ago

Text

not alone - spencer reid જ⁀➴ᡣ𐭩

requests are always open <3

spencer reid x lonely!reader

summary: reader is a university student and hits up bars as a product of feeling isolated/blown off from their friends. but this time they meet a very peculiar person who they spend the night with

a/n: okay don't judge this i'm not the best at writing smut this could be really bad

warnings: 18+, oral (f receiving), p in the v, not overly graphic but its still there yk

❤️‍🔥smut

Here you were again stumbling into another bar. It now seemed like a weekly occurence, which seemed a little sad. I mean if you told someone you end up in a bar at least once a week they'd think you'd have some serious drinking issues, or you were depressed, or both. These vists to bars where mainly fuelled by your friends, they were either busy studying or with their boyfriends, sometimes even leaving days to go back home when college got a bit much. So as you seated yourself at the bar you had the usual expectation of how this night was going to go, a drink and people watching probably and sulking, yeah definitely sulking.

You see the usuals at the bar. A family man slumped over his drink morosely, groups of girlfriends getting drinks and celebrating, asshole men hitting on women, two co workers drinking and laughing. Watching these people made your heart ache a little. How you so desperately wished for a little human connection right now. Any connection would do you wouldn't care, a friend, a stranger, even idle talk with bartender. You even wouldn't mind a little bit of physical connection. Your eyes scan the bar until the landed on him. This guy who sat alone sipping on a drink thoughtfully, he looked meek almost. You could tell he was the kind of guy who'd get bossed around alot by women, especially if they give him a bit of attention. So with a hesitant push to stand up you make your way over to him.

"Hi. You mind if I sit?" you question. You see his face properly for the first time.He was young, shockingly younger than you thought with big round brown eyes and soft pink lips. Why, he's got to be around your age maybe 24? 25?.

"Uh no, no I don't mind, don't mind at all." he stutters. You can see the flustered look on his face obviously indicative that he dosen't get approached alot.

"So whats your name"

"Spencer Reid. I-uhm whats your's?"

"Y/n. So what college do you go to?" you inquire. Maybe this could be your chance to befriend someone to lean on when your friends unsurprisingly blow you off once again.

"College? No I don't go to college, I uhm work for the BAU full time at the FBI." he states. Well that shocked you a bit. This young, lanky looking guy who looked like he couldn't lift anything heavier than a chair was in the FBI? You have got to be joking.

"Don't you have to have a degree for that? And your like what? 24? 25? Degrees take a long time so I'm not understanding how that lines up. Unless your a genius or something."

"I have an iq of 187, an eidetic memory and can read 20,000 words per minute" he rambles, but he notices you shoot him a 'get to the point look'. "Yes I am a genius. And to answer your question yes you need a degree, sometimes even a PHD or a B.A."

You look at him baffled, you could've deducted he was smart from his nerd get up but this smart? Wow how were you supposed to keep up?

"Wait so how old are you?" you inquire

"24"

"Oh same" you say which brings a smile to his face. A very sweet handsome smile. Oh my god are you seriously rambling about some genius you met in a bar less then 10 minutes ago?

"So whats you degree in?" You ask

"Well i have multiple degrees. I have 3 PhD's in chemistry, math and engineering and I have two B.A's in psychology and sociology. So I'm assuming you're a uni student whats your degree in? "

"History."

"Oh yeah?" he says intrigued

"Yeah." you echo like a prayer. This Spencer guy was clearly flustering you a tad and massively impressing you.

So it was even more of a shock to the system when you are clumsily unlocking your apartment dorm with his arms wrapped around you from behind sucking on your neck. The two of you still tipsy crash your lips into one anothers as soon as the door closes. You didn't have a lot of time to think but you could tell where this was going. Now Spencer is a attractive genius you met at a bar 2 hours ago, how well is he going to go during sex? The horrifying thought of him being a virgin crosses your mind as well. You wouldn't usually take a chance on a guy like Spencer but you were lonely and now well a little needy. By the time you two are stumbling into your bedroom practically glued to each other you've accepted Spencer may not satisfy you at all. You were kind of okay with that. At least you were with someone and not sulking alone in your room which you usually do at this hour.

You sit back on the beg tugging on his tie signalling for him to come with you.

"Have you had sex before?" you breathe into his lips. He laughs softly. Why was he laughing? Was he nervous? Did he think your ridiculous for asking such a question?

"Yes I have. Why don't think I can satisfy you baby?" The term of endearment flusters you once again. 'I can't believe you are getting so nervous around a guy who probably plays crosswords in his free time' you say mentally scolding yourself.

You spend so much time talking to yourself in your head you don't even notice the lower half of you is naked and he's eating you out like a man starved eliciting little moans from you. Oh so he's good. You were a little annoyed about his awkwardness falsely led you to thinking he would suck. But you were so wrong. You can't even focus on the pleasure he's giving you because your just thinking about him. How.. No, no not perfect he is. Okay well maybe he's a little perfect. No hookup had ever treated you so gently before. His hand's cradled the backs of his thighs tracing little comforting patterns. You had to admit it gave you a little whiplash. Here he was being all gentle and soothing while his head was practically smooshed into the junction of your thighs. Your hand combs through his mousy hair tugging at the strands. No hookup had ever even bothered on foreplay ever, or was so generous. Your general conclusions about hookups is that 80% of the time it was more about them than you. But, it seems Spencer Reid was an anomaly. When you feel the familiar feeling of warmth and tingles wash over you he kisses your legs softly.

"Your being so good for me." he mumbles more to himself then you and you smile at his praise. He positions himself over you ridding himself of his clothes and the rest of yours between kisses.

"Seems like I got you all smiley huh sweetheart" he teases which earns him a nod and he chuckles leaning into give you a gentle kiss. The way he made you feel when he was inside you was like heaven on earth. Not only did he make you feel physically good, but he made you feel good about yourself. Confident, safe, perhaps even a little loved?

"Yeah that's it. Your being so good for me angel. There we go. Feels good huh? Better than you expected?" he murmurs gently. You roll your eyes at his little surge of confidence but nod a little as your hands tangle together.

"You're so beautiful" you blurt starry eyed before whining.

"Thank you, I should be saying that to you, you know but looks like you beat me to it." he laughs. Before you knew it that wave crashed over you again a little harder this time leading to you moaning his name a little louder than you would've liked. His movements sped up, he himself whining and groaning loudly before squeaking. His release leaking into the latex sheath. You were right about one thing he was a little submissive after all. He slowly guides himself out with a soft pop, discarding the now sticky latex and pulling his boxers on. You try to sit up but his hand guides you to gently lay back down.

"Stay there, let me go get something to clean you up angel. It's the least I can do for you." he whispers pressing a kiss to your cheek before wandering off to the bathroom. You lay there and sticky satisfied mess. Without Spencer you felt a little cold and empty, but he made you feel more at ease and safer then you'd ever felt before which astounded you. He comes back with a warm wet cloth wiping down your intimate areas and sweat all while murmuring sweet words of praise and compliments.

"Do you want to stay here tonight?" you mumble quietly.

"Yeah if that's okay with you my apartments a little far from here. Just.. if I leave before you wake up I'm sorry but my work's pretty demanding. "

"No thats all good." you say as he pulls you to settle in his arms.

"Thank you" he whispers into your hair.

"For what?"

"For letting me see you like that." you smile at his sickenly sweet sentence. 'Is this guy real?' You think to yourself as you drifted into sleep enveloped by his arms.

The next morning your bed's empty but your not too torn up about it because Spencer warned you the night before. You sigh rubbing your face as you sit up and spot a note on your bedside table.

"Y/n I'm sorry that I had to leave I got called in on a case. I really enjoyed what we did last night and again I want to thank you. In fact, I liked it so much I wanna see you again. Maybe this time with a little more clothes on so we can get to know each other a bit better. Anyways heres my number and I hope we can get coffee or something along those lines its really your choice . But hopefully sometime soon :)" - Spencer

You smile at the note giddily. Maybe this was the start of something great?

#spencer reid is a munch confirmed #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid is so sweet I'm gonna cry I wish he was real soooo bad #spencer reid smut #munch

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