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saintrosalyn · 4 months ago

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BIRD DOG - JAILBIRD PART TWO

Part One

Description: Simon’s determined to retrieve his jailbird.

Word count: 4.5k

TW: Parolee! Reader (guys we’ve graduated to parole), stalking, reader is kept as vague as possible, sexual favors in exchange for money, groping, Ghost is a creep (graduated from perv lmao), p in v, oral (m! receiving), p in v, mention of breeding kink, creampie, possessiveness, dub-con, somewhat edited.

Notes: It’s finally done! This took longer than I anticipated since I deviated from the OG plan and was a bit of a stinker to write but it's done. I hope everyone enjoys it! I’ve absolutely loved reading all the comments, asks, and reblogs. Such positive feedback is what led me to posting part two honestly. I'm currently working on the last part of JB so expect that soon💖. Feedback is always appreciated but never expected. Let me know if I missed any tags. Enjoy :)

Also I've never done a tag list before so apologies if it didn't work or I missed anyone😭. Please let me know if the link to part one doesn't work either, this is the first time I'm using Tumblr on my laptop I usually use my phone.

You got used to the slight tremor in your hands, the parting kiss alcoholism left with you, but the violent shaking as you attempted to click the lock of the hotel door closed was difficult for even you to handle. You longed to feel that familiar burn of self-destruction but the only place that would have you end up is back in prison. Parole violation. It was too soon to resort to such dramatic measures, instead you quietly paced your small room, double checking that you clicked the deadbolt shut, closing the curtains as tight as they could go, anything to try and soothe your rising anxiety.

Talking yourself away from the edge again and again until you could finally sit down on the stiff mattress. Every time you managed to calm your heart you blinked and saw that room again. You saw those pictures again.

He-Simon.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to take deep, slow, breaths.

After sleeping together, after discovering the skeleton in his closet, you swallowed the bile in your throat and kissed his jaw. He made dinner which you smiled over and forced into your mouth, every bite downed with a sip of water. The two of you went to bed, your eyes darting to that door, now left open enough you could see a glimpse of his homemade wallpaper. He kept an arm draped over you and fell asleep.

Then you left.

Barefoot, not knowing where your shoes had been placed in your need to-

Jesus Christ you had slept with the man.

You barely made it to the bathroom, puking mostly water and yellowed acid up. It made your eyes water and nose run, blowing it in a piece of toilet paper, flushing it down. There was little comfort to be found in the distance you put between you and him.

Going on foot wasn’t the brightest idea, but risking stealing Simon’s car and having him call the cops on you was foolish even for you. That and you didn’t want the man any angrier at you than you expected he was going to be. You only got so far before you found yourself on the wrong side of town. You had never been in the area before, but you knew the type. Women posted on every corner, bars on the windows, broken glass and sticky residue staining the sidewalks. It didn’t take you long to find the kind of man you needed. Trading a handjob for a bus fare, a blowjob for a new pair of shoes, and a pitiful two minutes of dry thrusting for a hotel room.

Back to your ways. Different city, different time, same person. A bird incapable of changing its tune.

You needed a real job. A record stood in your way of that, but surely there had to be something, anything, that would pay enough for you to keep a roof over your head without having to sell more of yourself.

You needed a job, but you needed space more. As much as you could get. Immigration was out, no one wanted to host a felon, and you were limited to a certain area before your parole officer got testy with you. Fuck. A big cage, that’s what you were trapped in. One you could never get free from.

Your family. Your past. Your cell. Your city. Your whole fucking life, one cage after another. Freedom a concept rather than a reality. Simon could use it against you. He knew of your limits, hell, you fucking told him yourself over a phone call before you got released. Outlined every fucking sentence of where you could and couldn’t go. He knew all of it.

Taking another deep breath you forced your body to lie on the bed, you needed to calm down. You needed to think clearly and come up with a plan. Simon was still asleep in bed, he didn’t know where you were, you were fine.

You were fine.

A good night’s sleep. That’s what you needed. Not likely with how wound tight you were. But you had to try. Anything to escape the panic squeezing your lungs.

___

It took four hours of staring blankly at a dark ceiling, on the edge of a panic attack the entire time, before your body gave in and let you sleep. It was light, but it was enough of a break in your consciousness. The sun was what woke you, shining on your eyes and causing you to squint. Your anxiety a gentle heart palpitation rather than the full blown panic it was last night, exhaustion dulling its edge.

The first thing you did was go business to business looking for a place that was hiring. Most required a resume, those you didn’t even give a second glance (as they no doubt did background checks). It took all of the day before you found a shitty pub that only asked if you were old enough to drink. With a nod of your head an apron was shoved into your hands, and you were bussing for your first shift.

The owner, a balding man who smelled like cigarettes and wore a sweat-stained wife beater, paid you cash. Enough that you were able to buy another night to cover your hotel room and not much else. You walked back to your temporary home, eyes darting to every tall man who crossed the street. For once, you were grateful Simon was such a large man. It would make him easier to spot in a crowd, the orange of a tiger’s fur stark against a green jungle.

When you returned back to your room, it was easy to explain the movement of your things. Hotels had housekeepers. You wouldn’t have even noticed it if it weren’t for your paranoid state. It wasn’t until you went to the bathroom, eager to wash away the grease and grime of the pub, that you noticed a small picture sitting face-down on the bathroom counter. Flipping it over revealed you. You, asleep in your shitty hotel bed, close-up, taken from inside.

You were barely able to flip the toilet lid up before you lost your stomach contents. Vile burning the back of your throat was nothing in comparison to the panic that burned through your veins.

He was inside your hotel room. He was inside your hotel room last night with you.

You barely managed to stand, legs shaking, leaving the bathroom you noticed other signs of his arrival. Dirty tracks that were much too large. The blinds wide-open even though you were sure you closed them before you went to sleep. A single dog tag resting underneath your pillow. It’s owner’s name mocking you.

Riley.

___

He left you more presents. Vestiges of him ever present in your life. It didn’t matter where you went, how many hotels you hopped, how many jobs you changed, he always found you. Truthfully, the both of you knew this song and dance could only go on for so long. You were low on cash and stuck orbiting around the same small area. Days bled into weeks bled into months. Fear gave way to anger. Anger that he wouldn’t leave you alone. Anger that he wouldn’t let you delude yourself into thinking you had found a safe space that he could not intrude on.

On your nth hotel, you decided you were staying. Simon be damned. He obviously had no intentions of killing you just yet, content in tormentation. That and there were only so many jobs willing to pay under-the-table. You needed to save up enough cash to prove that you had a steady place to live, a recommendation from your parole officer. This flightiness made the law suspicious at best and nervous at worst.

You found your way back to the pub, who upgraded you to server. On the wrong side of town its patrons weren’t the best. But they tipped decent enough and if they got too handsy the owner always stepped in. A few pinches on the ass were worth a steady income. You’ve given a lot more of yourself for less.

Perhaps, that was your mistake, you got too comfortable with a wild animal. So sure that your exotic pet would not bite.

The first time you saw him, you thought it was a mistake. Despite his size Simon was able to go about your life as he pleased without you catching even a glimpse of him. Hell, you knew he could stalk you without you being aware of him at all (your prison stint was proof enough of that), he just chose not to. You shouldn’t have been surprised that his behavior would escalate.

You were standing, dead on your feet after your shift working on three hours of sleep, waiting for the bus. And there he was. Across the street, large frame leaning against a wall, arms crossed. When you did a double glance, you were able to make out the tell-tale scars across his face. Then the bus came. It was a coin toss, boarding the bus. A part of you wanted to flee, figuring he could easily cross the street and board the same bus as you, but the alternative was worse. Let it pass and walk home alone. In the dark. With a predator at your heels.

No.

Better to have people around you. Safety in numbers and all that.

The next day, he did it again. And again. And again. Each time coming closer and closer. Until one day you saw his large frame coming up the steps of the bus. You practically vibrated from anxiety in your seat, unshed tears blurring your vision as you stared straight ahead. The black blur of his jacket, the soft squeak of his boots as he moved closer and closer, until he took the seat right behind you.

You didn’t move. Frozen. Fight or flight. Fight or flight. Fight or flight. Or,

Fright.

Until the bus moved and the decision was made for you. Only you couldn’t convince your muscles to move, stuck staring dead ahead. Willing the bus driving to glance in the mirror back at you. Willing the other passengers to notice how close the man behind you was sitting (close enough to feel his breath against your ear, close enough to smell the tobacco on his breath). But this was the last bus and everyone was too tired to notice. A herd of diurnal prey vs a nocturnal predator. It was clear who had the advantage.

You missed your stop. And the one after that. It wasn’t until you felt a violent shake on your shoulder that you jolted out of your trance, eyes darting up… to the bus driver.

“Las’ stop miss. Gotta’ get off.” His voice firm. How long had he been calling out to you?

Giving a jerky nod you looked behind you, but Simon was gone.

___

It didn't stop there. Not that you expected it would, but fucking forgive you for having a little hope in life. Simon took to following a few steps behind you wherever you went. Sitting behind you on the bus. Sitting in the back of the pub, nursing beer after beer. Sometimes he had another man with him. But mostly he was alone. His eyes never left you. For weeks it went on. For weeks you felt his constant presence.

The presents never stopped either. Photos of you, gifts for you (lingerie and cigarettes, the same shade of nail polish he gave you while you were in prison), things of his. He never relented. You never shook that feeling of being watched. You never could get rid of that pit of anxiety in your stomach. Exhaustion was starting to settle heavy in your bones. Give up. Give in. Give yourself to him.

The temptation was intense. You just wanted to be done with it all. Let him do what he wanted with you. At this point, even death would be better than another day of constant anxiety. (Pursuit predator exhausting his prey, closing in).

And then he was gone.

His absence was glaringly obvious on the first day, enough so that you thought for sure that you were going to die soon. Simon had reached some kind of breaking point. But you didn’t. And you didn’t see Simon.

There were no presents left for you. No signs of his stalking. No evidence that he was ever in your life at all. It was such a sudden and stark change that if it weren’t for his dog tag you would have thought you dreamed the whole thing. But he was gone.

A day passed.

Then another.

And another.

The knot in your stomach slowly unworked itself. The tension ever present in your shoulders finally loosened. Weeks passed by. Then months. A part of you still worried. In prison there were times where Simon would go silent for months, but he always came back. And he always made sure to make up for lost times. More gifts, more phone calls, longer visits. It seemed that your anxiety was slowly chipped away, yet it was also slowly building itself back up again.

But Simon stayed gone. More importantly, a date had been set for you to become a truly free woman. No parole. No restrictions. A chance to leave the country. A chance to truly be free.

A chance to slip away from Simon.

___

When a police officer knocked on your door, you had to fight back the panic.

You haven’t done anything wrong.

It wasn’t until you were sitting across from your lawyer did you truly began to realize the situation you were in. His words sounded so far away, so garbled. As if you were trapped underwater, in a fishbowl, letting the world happen around you as you tapped at the glass.

“...Do you understand the situation you’re in?...Enough drugs to get an intent to distribute…a passport…tickets to another country…”

How did you get here?

“Are you listening to me?”

You snapped back to reality, the familiar cold cuffs biting into your wrists.

“Do they have to keep these on me?”

Your lawyer let out a sigh. “Don’t worry about the damn cuffs right now.”

Easy for him to say, he wasn’t the one wearing the damn cuffs.

“They’re distracting.”

He ignored you. “They have you on video buying a plane ticket out of the country.”

You nodded. He didn’t mention the fact that your parole would’ve been up by then. Nothing wrong. You didn’t do anything wrong.

“They found enough cocaine in your hotel room to get intent to sell. With the plane ticket, and your erratic behavior after you got out of prison, things don’t look good for you.”

“It’s not mine I-” Your voice cracked and you cleared your throat, talking so quietly, trying to hold back tears. “I swear.”

Your lawyer didn’t look convinced. “That defense won’t hold up in court.”

He ran his hands through his hair. “Look, I was able to cut a deal for you. It’s better than prison. They’ll tag you-”

Dog tags flickered in your mind. “Huh?”

“House arrest.”

“Oh.”

“You won’t be able to use a hotel, you’ll have to go back to the original residence you reported when you got out of prison.”

"What?” Alarm bells rang through your sluggish thoughts.

Your lawyer sick of you interrupting him, bulldozed on. “Listen to me. I don’t know why they’re offering this to you, but you won’t get a second chance at this. Confess your crime. They’ll confine you to your house for three years and serve parole in tandem. You’ll only serve a year of parole once you’re out.”

Three years. Three years stuck at Simon’s house. Three years with Simon.

“What happens if I don’t take it.”

“You’ll go back to prison. Given you’ve already been, they'll try for maximum. You could be looking at twenty years, ten if you’re lucky. Life on parole.”

Walk into the tiger’s den or let him continue the chase.

How did you get here?

___

They put the ankle monitor on at Simon’s house, now your house you suppose. A part of you had wanted to tell them to take you back to prison instead. But you knew the reality of your situation. Simon would just do the same thing he did before. Get videos of you, pictures of you, he could still watch you in your cell. He would still visit you. And that’s just what he would do while you were in prison, what would happen when you were released again? You were never going to be able to escape him. At least this way you would be more comfortable.

A gilded cage.

Simon talked to the officers, but he seemed to make even them nervous, as they all but ran out of the house. You watched as they shut the door behind them, alone in a room with Simon for the first time in a long time.

How did you get here?

Simon put his hand on the back of your neck, before gliding it upwards jerking your head back. Your eyes met his, and he was smiling.

“Hello, bird.”

“Simon.”

He shuddered when you called his name.

“Missed you.”

“Don’t know how, you never left me.”

He grinned, boyish and proud of himself, “Never.”

Simon kissed you then, feeling far more familiar than he should’ve for a man you’ve only had sex with once. You turned, hoping to relieve some of the pressure in your neck, Simon’s hand stayed instead wrapping around your throat. He gave an experimental squeeze, making you whimper, before he released you.

“Gonna’ be good’ fer me?” He rasped.

You thought about it for a moment, and he let you, time frozen mid-air. But you had been running for so long. And you were so tired. Fight or flight. Fight or flight. Fight or flight. Or,

Surrender.

You had to stand on the tips of your toes to press your lips against his, white flag given. That’s all it took for the dam to break. Simon let out a growl and slammed you into the nearest wall, cradling your head so it didn’t bang against the wall with the force. His body caged you in as he deepened the kiss. You had forgotten just how intense it was to be so close to Simon.

He filled your senses. You breathed him in, you tasted him, you heard his soft grunts against your lips, felt the rough edge of his jeans as he ground himself against you, watched as his blonde eyelashes fluttered open until he was staring at you. Always watching. Even in these moments.

Simon’s hand gripped your ass, grinding you harder against him, moaning from the friction.

“You owe’ me somethin’ birdie. Made your fiance wait so long. Such a fuckin’ tease.” He growled in your ear before fisting your shirt in two hands, ripping it with ease. Hands squeezing your bare tits so tight you expected to find bruises tomorrow.

Confusion knitted your brows together before he shoved you to your knees and you came face to face with his crotch.

How did you get here?

Your hands shook as you undid the button on his jeans, the zipper loud in between Simon and your panting. He helped you pull his jeans down his thighs, his cock dropping out, hard and angry.

Fuck.

You had forgotten just how big the man was down below. Time distorting the memory enough you had convinced yourself that he was average and you were just desperate that night. You were wrong of course. The man was hung as a fucking horse.

It had been awhile since you gave a blowjob. The steady pay the pub provided, the tips you made, pawning a few of Simon’s gifts and you had earned enough to not necessitate them. Not that it would help in this situation. Simon was big enough that all your previous tricks were rather useless. You weren’t even sure if you could open your mouth wide enough to take him, let alone take him down your throat. Your poor poor throat.

Tentatively, you leaned forward and gave the head a gentle kiss, glancing up and meeting Simon’s eyes. Your gaze left his, feeling suddenly shy despite the situation you were in. Pre dribbled and you used the chance to rub it along his sensitive head with your thumb. You gathered as much spit on your tongue licking the underside of his cock, pushing it all the way up until it pressed against his stomach. He groaned, hand resting on the back of your head.

With his dick out of the way, you used your other hand to caress his balls before pressing soft kisses to them. You replaced your hand with your mouth, sucking and swirling your tongue, using your hands to work his cock while you gave your attention elsewhere. His balls were much easier to fit in your mouth, but you could only delay the inevitable so long.

You pulled away fully, his cock falling under the weight of itself. The easy part done, now it was time for the hard part. Your gag reflex was not going to be happy. Bracing your hands against his thick thighs, feeling his muscles flex underneath your fingertips, you pressed your lips against the tip of his cock again, parting the seam of your mouth and letting him slowly slip in. Your tongue lying flat as he invaded your mouth.

Inch by overwhelming inch.

Before you had thought he was overwhelming, it was nowhere near as overwhelming as having his dick in your mouth. Gone were the lingering scents of tobacco and liquor. The outside world stripped away until just the man was left. Until only Simon’s musk filled your nose, wrinkling it as you took him a little deeper. Your jaw already ached from how wide you were stretching it.

Tired of your pace, Simon began to use your head as leverage as he pushed you further down, nails pressing crescents into his skin as you forced your body to relax. You quickly moved your hands back to the base of his length, stopping him from pushing you any further. Twisting your wrists to placate him enough to let you keep them there. Sucking to increase the pressure.

Simon moaned, hands going from gripping your head, to resting. Letting you work.

You took a deep breath through your nose as you began to work him in earnest. Swirling your tongue over the head of his cocked you began to bob faster and faster, unable to stop the lewd gurgling noises as the back of him hit your throat. His hands were at your head again, pushing himself further down your throat and back again. Setting his pace.

This wasn’t a blowjob he was fucking your throat. Using you. His dick twitched in his mouth before he pulled out, as you took in huge gulps of breath. Body hunching in on itself. You felt vulnerable like this. Kneeling in front of him, the top half of you completely nude.

You didn’t get much time to collect yourself before you were pulled to your feet, turned so that your back was pressed against his front, hands bracing against the wall.

Simon kissed your neck, hooking his hands on your pants and jerking them down. They caught on your ankle monitor but he just tore them off, seams ripping. Your underwear was torn with a satisfying rip, before you felt the tip of his bare cock pressing against your hole. He thrusted against your slit, gathering your own slick before he reached a hand down, dragging his dick back before it caught on your hole.

You couldn’t help but whine at the stretch of him, un-prepped. He didn’t stop until his hips met yours, large hands bruising. He paused, leaning his weight onto you, sighing. As if being buried to the hilt in your cunt was the reprieve he had been looking for all his life.

“Missed her’ too. Did she mis’ me?” His voice was hoarse against your ear.

“Huh?”

He removed one hand from your hip bringing it to your clit, brushing one large knuckle against it, causing your knees to buckle. Simon chuckled, easily holding your weight against him.

“Don’ worry, won’ ever leave you for this long again Birdie.”

Simon licked your cheek causing you to try and jerk away from him, before the rough pad of his finger began to circle your clit, your pussy clenching around him almost painfully, grinding his hips into yours as if trying to fuck you deeper somehow. He pulled out before snapping into you. Again and again, hand never leaving your clit.

“Simon! Simon please! Don’t stop!” You couldn’t help but cry, bucking back against him as you felt an orgasm build quickly, faster than one had ever built before.

He growled into your ear. “Ain’t ever gonna run again Bird.”

You nodded your head, trying to do everything in your power to appease him to keep doing what he was doing. To keep thrusting. To keep his hand on your clit. To lick you again. Anything. Everything. You wanted him to consume you wholly.

“Ain’t gonna run no’ more. Ain’t gonna leave the house till everyon’ knows you’re mine.”

His hand left your clit, causing you to whine in protest, cradling your stomach.

“Say it. Tell the whole fuckin’ world who you belong too.”

“You Simon! YoU! Simon! Simon please…plea-” You were babbling, until finally his hand went back to your clit.

“Don’t forget it.”

You came, cunt desperately clutching his cock, squealing as Simon didn’t even slow his thrusts. He pushed you through one orgasm onto the edge of overstimulation as he finally came with a grunt inside of you. He didn’t pull out, keeping his seed nuzzled safely near your womb.

You slumped against his arms, panting softly as the reality of your situation began to wash over you, naked except for the ankle monitor.

How did you get here?

It didn’t matter, because all roads led to Simon.

Tag list: @Sweetlike-sugarplum, @thatpersonamedrook, @aphinthestars, @misscaller06, @shushyoudontknowme, @youknowits-derea, @succubusvalentine, @sundaescreamcheese

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x reader #Simon is such a meanie #He's gonna give reader an ulcer fr

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darkmatilda · 4 months ago

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𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: when you were accommodated in such a shabby hotel, the last thing you needed was a power outage. and upon learning about one of your colleagues' fear of the dark, you can't bring yourself to not help him

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x newbaumember!femalereader, spencer is afraid of the dark and the reader comforts him, they comfort each other tbh, elle&morgan my fav duo, glasses reid obvi.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 4.7k

𝐚/𝐧: these are my official apologies for all the recent stories 🫶🏼 i wanted it to be so much shorter but i just love writing conversations between characters so that's how it turned out. @mggslover i'm so sorry for not adding spencer falling off the bed but i didn't want to ruin that subtle ending :(( maybe next time

"Please, I’m begging you, I’m really begging you—begging in the name of a god I don’t even believe in. Tell me we’ve got the wrong address," Morgan said, squeezing his eyes shut the moment you all crossed the threshold of the motel where you'd been assigned to stay while working on the case in another state.

You noticed Elle’s expression falter as well. From the outside, the place hadn’t looked that bad. Well, perhaps it only seemed that way because the street it was on was so dark you couldn’t make out much of anything. Midnight must have been approaching; the first day of the investigation was officially over.

“We didn’t get it wrong,” Reid declared, stepping inside as the last of you, quickly scanning the interior. “I memorized it perfectly. Besides, there aren’t any other accommodations in the area, so this has to be it.”

“Do you remember that one case,” Elle started, “where the unsub killed women in hotel rooms and decorated the interiors with their intestines?”

You glanced at her, curious—or as curious as you could be under the circumstances. You’d only joined the team fairly recently; this was your third or fourth case at most, and none of them had been quite that… gruesome. Of course, you were well aware cases like that happened. It was only a matter of time before one came your way. Unfortunately.

“This motel totally looks like the kind of place where something like that happens on a daily basis,” Elle continued. “My advice? Don’t look under the beds tonight. Or in the closets, if there even are any.”

“I just hope there’s hot water,” Derek sighed, his voice carrying a tone of resignation. “We once ended up in a place that didn’t have any. I almost handed in my resignation.”

“You deal with gruesome murders every day, but no hot water is too much for you, Princess?” you raised an eyebrow, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye as you made your way toward the reception desk to pick up your room keys. The motel’s walls were yellow—not the cheerful sunflower or sunny kind of yellow, but more like dried-up cat pee yellow.

“He’s got a point, though,” Elle chimed in, taking the key from an elderly woman at the reception desk. “Think about it. You come back after a long, grueling day, from dawn to midnight, just like today. You’re exhausted, barely standing, and you can’t even take a hot shower.”

Morgan pointed at her and nodded in agreement. You shrugged.

“Cold isn’t that bad,” you muttered. Honestly, you hadn’t expected anything luxurious from the place you’d been sent to. It was just a few days, after all.

“Oh, are you one of those people practicing that millionaire morning routine?” Derek teased. “You know—waking up at three, cold shower, steak for breakfast, daily planning, self-help book…”

I just grew up poor, you thought to yourself, but aloud you only let out a short laugh.

“I’d kill to have time to read a book before work. Any book. Not to be yanked out of bed by Hotch at five, like today, and scrambling to get out the door.”

Elle and Morgan exchanged a very brief look, almost secretive. You narrowed your eyes, suspicion suddenly welling up inside you. Before you could ask about it, someone else spoke up.

“He called me at half past six,” Reid said, tilting his head in mild confusion.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the others silencing him with a look.

“Hey, what’s going on?” you stopped in your tracks, demanding an explanation. “He called me half an hour earlier than the rest of you?”

“You live farther away.”

“We’re practically neighbors, Elle Greenaway.”

“I’m about to drop,” Derek suddenly interjected with theatrical exhaustion. A change of subject. A not-so-subtle change of subject. “If I don’t lie down soon, I’ll fall asleep standing up. See you all tomorrow, folks.”

“You’re absolutely right—sleep well.”

With that, he and Elle headed up the stairs to the third floor, where they’d been assigned rooms. You and, as it turned out, Reid were staying on the second floor.

You turned to him slowly, arms crossed over your chest.

You didn’t even need to say anything—your stern gaze alone made it clear you were waiting for an explanation. Reid looked like he was about to throw his hands up in a defensive gesture, clearly regretting that he’d brought up the topic at all.

“Okay,” he sighed nervously. “What I’m about to say is not meant to offend you in any way, not even the slightest…”

“Offend?” you repeated, furrowing your brow. “Jesus Christ, Reid, don’t look at me like that—I’m not about to punch you in the face…”

“It’s just…” he began, a little calmer now. “All of us, including Hotch, I assume, are aware of the fact that, occasionally—just sometimes—you have a slight tendency to…run a bit late to work.”

He looked at you, and a telling silence fell between you.

"Yesterday, you were fourteen and a half minutes late."

"Fifteen minutes doesn't count as being late. And have you heard of a grace period? It's allowed to arrive within that time frame, without any consequences."

"Fine. What about two days ago, twenty-one minutes and seventeen..."

"Metro malfunction. I had no control over that."

"And six days ago, on Tuesday? Twenty-four minutes and..."

"I don’t remember such a situation, because, Mr. Big Brain, not all of us have such a memory. But I assume there was a reason..."

"Alright, fine," Reid interrupted you calmly. "I’m not saying there wasn’t a reason. But still... it happens quite often, and that's a fact. So it’s no surprise that Hotch, when the situation especially calls for it, prefers to call you a little earlier than the rest. Just out of caution."

You sighed, no longer able to argue about it. Maybe he was right; you did sometimes lose track of time in the mornings or fail to wake up to the sound of your alarm, closing your eyes for an extra five minutes... which resulted in small delays. You had never been directly reprimanded for it, so you were unaware that it had become such a big issue. Slightly embarrassed, you pressed your lips together.

"As usual, I guess you're right. And by the way, I’m heading to my room. I had thirty minutes less sleep than all of you, I’m exhausted," you said in a lighter, joking tone. A brief smile crossed Reid’s face. "Good night, wise guy.”

"Good night. And don’t look under the bed."

"Believe me, I wasn’t planning on it!"

With those words, you both disappeared into rooms directly opposite each other. The sounds of doors closing synchronized. You started your usual evening routine, placing your suitcase in the corner of the room. It was really small, narrow, and rectangular. The walls had that same awful color, the light was too bright, causing a headache. So you decided to just turn on the night lamp on the shabby nightstand next to the single bed.

It turned out that the only bathroom was in the hallway. You almost cried; you didn't want to take all your things with you and then come back with them. You remembered that you'd taken a proper shower that morning, so maybe a repeat wasn’t absolutely necessary. You were too sleepy for it, so you just set the alarm for fifteen minutes earlier to do it in the morning. After changing into comfortable clothes, you immediately lay down on the bed. Following Elle’s advice, and then Reid’s too, you didn’t check what might be hiding under it.

You weren’t hiding it, you were a terrible sleeper. Falling asleep in new places usually wasn’t a problem for you, even if it was a place that looked like a dive where someone could stab you in your sleep. But that night, something was bothering you. After giving it some thought, you realized it was Reid’s words.

Of course, it wasn’t that you held it against him. He was just stating facts; he had no intention of offending you, as he assured. And you didn’t even feel offended. More like unpleasantly confronted with a certain fact. You had only been part of the BAU for a short time. Well, just a week ago Derek stopped calling you the new girl. Although on the outside, you came across as very confident, on the inside, you were preoccupied with the team’s opinion of you and what they might think about you. Mainly because they were all older and more experienced.

You were especially worried about the fact that your tardiness and chaos had drawn the boss’s attention. Being on good terms with your superior was incredibly important, in case something ever happened, in case you made a more serious mistake…those small things could influence how the rest of your career would unfold, and the decisions made about you.

But above all, you wanted everyone to like you. Simply like you. So you wouldn’t walk around every day with your heart in your throat, praying for the day to end, constantly overwhelmed by a sense of misfit and loneliness.

You turned to your side, not sure how long you had been lying there, thinking. Suddenly, you realized you had to pee.

With great reluctance and sleepiness, you reached for the bedside lamp to turn it on and go to the bathroom. However, when you tugged at the cord, it... didn’t turn on. The room remained shrouded in darkness. You tried once more, then blindly made your way to the light switch in the room. You pressed it, and nothing.

What was going on, a power outage?

You shook your head in confusion. Whatever was going on, it didn’t change the fact that you had to go to the bathroom. You remembered the flashlight in your jacket pocket, and in the darkness, it took you a while to find it. When you finally had it in your hand, you felt ready to complete the mission. To pee, that is.

The moment you stepped out into the hallway, a light source flared up right before your eyes. You let out a muffled exclamation, partly from surprise, partly from being almost blinded.

“Damn, sorry…” Reid hissed, equally confused, turning his flashlight downward, away from your face.

You rubbed your eyelids, turning off your flashlight. Two light sources were unnecessary.

“Is there no power for you too?” you asked.

Reid nodded. It was only then that you really looked at him—he was wearing very loose pajama pants and...

“Cute,” you clicked your tongue, pointing at his white sweater with a bear wearing glasses. He had them too, worn very low on his nose. He must have put them on absentmindedly, in the dark, right after getting out of bed.

“I got it from Penelope for my birthday,” he said in a tone as if he were giving a statement. His hand briefly touched the fabric, right at the center of the brown bear’s face. “It’s really comfortable and soft. Perfect for sleeping...Anyway, I was heading to the reception to find out what the issue is and whether anything can be done about it. You too?”

"No, I just really need to pee. Do you really want to go there at this hour?" you asked, raising an eyebrow in surprise. "I mean, outages happen, and they'll have to fix it, but it's the middle of the night. We don't really need the lights right now, and if you want to go to the bathroom, you have a flashlight, as I can see."

You kept your gaze on him, realizing that since he noticed the lack of light, he must have been either heading somewhere himself or keeping the light on. Or maybe he had been sleeping with the light on. He did seem a bit tense. One of his hands was still resting on the half-open door, nervously gripping it. The other was pressed tightly to his body, his chest rising in an odd rhythm. Not a quickened pace, like with a panic attack, but more unnatural, like he was trying to control it.

"Are you afraid of the dark?" the question slipped out of you directly. After a moment, you realized it might have been a little too blunt. You had asked it carelessly, suspecting there might be another reason behind his behavior. For some reason, fear of the dark didn’t seem to fit his rational character.

Reid quickly shook his head, firmly denying it.

"No. No, of course not. I was just... reading when the light went out."

Oh, you didn’t even need to be a profiler to see right away that he was lying. You crossed your arms, a little amused by how stubbornly he was denying it.

"You were reading? At this hour? When we’re back to the investigation first thing tomorrow morning?"

He shrugged, shaking his head again.

"I couldn’t sleep."

You sighed. In the end, neither his fear nor his shame were your concern, so you didn’t see the point in interrogating him any further. You signaled that you were dropping the subject, and some expression passed across his face. Gratitude. Gratitude for not pushing the issue or mocking him. You felt a bit offended that he had even thought you might do that.

“If you still plan on going to the reception, wait for me, I’ll go with you. I just need to quickly stop by the bathroom.”

Reid opened his mouth, clearly surprised by your suggestion.

“Well, what?” you replied with a shrug. “I can’t let something eat you on the way. A demonic hand emerging from the darkness…”

“Very funny,” he commented, rolling his eyes. However, the corner of his mouth twitched, and his breathing seemed calmer.

“…The ghost of Richard Ramirez haunting the walls of this hotel. Or some other bloodthirsty maniac.“

"Didn't you really have to pee badly?"

"The team wouldn’t recover from losing you, Reid!" You threw that line over your shoulder as you walked toward the bathroom.

Of course, there was no light there either, so you had to use your flashlight. He was waiting for you, and together, in silence, you headed down the stairs toward the reception. Given how small the motel was, it wasn’t open 24/7. You had to wait a while before someone came to assist you.

“That happens sometimes,” the employee shrugged. “We’re not sure where the problem is exactly, but someone’s supposed to come check it out tomorrow…”

“Can’t anything be done about it now?” Reid asked, a trace of frustration in his voice that he was trying to mask—especially when he glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “Maybe it’s just a simple overload? Where are the fuse boxes…?”

“Reid,” you said gently, placing a hand on his elbow to draw his full attention. He turned his head toward you, surprised by the tone of your voice. You gave the employee a discreet signal that you didn’t have any further questions and he could leave.

“You’re not fixing the electricity in some rundown motel. That would just be… ridiculous.”

“I’m not talking about fixing it,” he clarified quickly, though it was clear he hadn’t let go of the idea. “But in most cases, it’s just a simple short circuit. I could just take a look—”

“—Or you could just sleep in my room.”

The words left your mouth, surprising not only him but also yourself. Yet, it wasn’t as though you regretted them or wanted to take back the offer. On the contrary, the moment you said it out loud, it felt even more fitting. When you were a little kid—like most children, probably—you’d also been afraid of the dark, and running to someone else’s room always helped. Curling up beside someone, just knowing someone was there, made all the difference.

You watched his reaction, the way he shook his head slightly from side to side, a small frown creasing his forehead.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Not at all. Come on.” You grabbed him by the wrist—the hand not holding the flashlight—and pulled him along. He moved hesitantly, but he seemed too caught off guard to plant his feet and stay put.

He stopped only when you reached the door to your room, pulling his hand free from your grasp.

"How do you even imagine this working? There's... there's only one bed in there."

"If that bothers you, grab the mattress and some bedding from your room. You’ll hardly notice the difference—those beds are unbearably uncomfortable anyway."

He lowered the flashlight slightly, letting the surrounding darkness of the hallway creep over his face. It was barely visible now, but the hesitation etched on it was unmistakable. Standing across from him, you held his gaze without saying a word, silently reinforcing the fact that you weren’t joking.

The thought of him struggling to fall asleep for the rest of the night and then suffering through another day made you feel genuinely sorry for him. Besides, even though you hadn’t known each other long, you already considered him a sort of friend. If there was anything you could do to help, you wanted to do it.

"It's no big deal, Spencer," you reassured him one last time, hoping the words would finally sink in. "Really. And if you want... we don't ever have to talk about this again. Tomorrow, or ever."

His chest rose as he drew in a deep breath.

"Th-thank you," he said at last, cautiously, as though he'd packed so many thoughts into the single word that saying it out loud was an effort.

You smiled gently and understandingly. Before stepping into the room, you briefly placed a hand on his arm.

"Oh God, that sweater really is soft..."

He let out a short laugh, perhaps releasing a bit of the embarrassment he’d been holding back. You both disappeared into your respective rooms, and you lay down in bed, waiting for him to show up. Well, the moment dragged on a little too long.

You were almost certain he’d only agreed to your suggestion to get you off his back and had no intention of actually following through. Propping yourself up on one elbow, you debated whether to go to his room and drag him over or just let it go. They say you shouldn’t force help on others. Maybe there was some truth to that.

Shortly after that thought, your door creaked open slowly. You heard it but couldn’t see much—the room was too dark, and he wasn’t using his flashlight. Perhaps he assumed you were already asleep and didn’t want to risk waking you.

Either way, he moved around your bed to lay down a pillow and blanket on the floor, skipping the effort of hauling over an entire mattress.

"Your back is going to hurt," you remarked softly, your voice adjusting to the rhythm of the night, blending with the surrounding darkness.

You lay on your side, facing the spot where he had set up his makeshift bed. All you could see was the outline of his figure, his hands clasped loosely over his stomach, head resting on the pillow. You even caught the slight shrug of his shoulders in response to your comment.

"Actually, sleeping on the floor can have health benefits. It helps maintain a neutral spine position," he replied.

“Seriously?” you scoffed. “Do you really have to come up with a counterargument for everything I say?”

“Such a curse of mine. If you don’t like it, well, you invited me here.”

“Annoying bastard. I guess it’s too late to kick you out?” you wondered aloud, of course, rhetorically. But you quickly added, worried that he might take it seriously, “Sleep well. You and your spine.”

An amused sigh escaped him.

“You… and your spine too.”

Well, you guessed that's enough of the chit-chat. You felt a bit disappointed, but you had brought him here for a reason. To let him sleep, not to entertain you with conversation. To your surprise, you didn’t feel sleepy, even though you had struggled with it earlier. You had been thinking about... hard to even pinpoint what, there were a few things. The little worries typical of the night, suddenly growing to some huge proportions.

You were still lying in the same position, some time had passed. Your cheek was almost touching the edge of the bed, on the same side where Reid slept. Well, actually, he wasn’t sleeping. You could see a faint, barely noticeable gleam of his open eyes. They were cast downward, trying not to stare into the empty blackness above his head.

“Have you always been afraid of the dark?” you decided to ask, with no sarcasm.

“I’m not afraid,” he replied, though he could always pretend to be asleep. But the answer came out automatically.

“Alright, brave guy.” You didn’t even scoff, you just said it calmly and accepting. Maybe later he’ll tell you, when he stops being so embarrassed about it. “So, I guess you came here to get to know me better. And you know, I think you’ve got the chance. Could you... could you tell me something? Just honestly?”

"Me?" he asked, surprised, even sitting up slightly. "I mean... sure. But what?"

You suddenly sighed, regretting even bringing up the topic. God, that was so stupid...

"Just remember, honestly. Do you think the rest of the team likes me?"

Reid was silent, a strange feeling gathered in your stomach. Instead of answering negatively, he propped himself up on both elbows, and you saw a slight movement of his head. A nod.

"Are you asking this completely seriously?"

You shrugged, not sure if he noticed, so you confirmed out loud in a slightly hoarse voice. And then, to your absolute surprise, he just laughed.

"I don’t get it," he confessed after a short moment during which you stared in silence at his silhouette. "How... how could you think it could be any different? You’re always joking with Derek and Elle, and... we get along well too, I hope..."

"You’re right. But... but that’s not what I meant, I just... ugh, seriously, I can’t explain it. Fine, you know what, never mind."

You turned onto your back, as if that would completely sever the conversation. The one you’d stupidly started. You hoped he wouldn’t mention it to anyone. Another stupid thought, after all, he wasn’t like that.

Silence again, broken only by breaths. A new sound joined them, a slight rustle of the sheets. When Reid spoke again, his voice sounded somehow higher, and you were sure he was sitting on the floor as he said it.

"It might be a little surprising, but when I was a kid, I wasn't afraid of the dark," he began, completely changing the tone of his voice. He wasn't surprised like before; it was lower, gentler, despite the topic he was addressing. "I mean, I wasn't afraid of it more than any other kid my age. That... that serious fear, the real fear, started later. I don't want to say it was when I started working for the BAU because that wouldn't be entirely true. But it was around the time I started taking everything seriously. Seeing it with my own eyes, every day."

You didn't even realize when you had turned back onto your side, just to look at him, listening to his words.

"Do you have nightmares?" you asked.

"Sometimes. Actually..." he sighed, swallowing. "All of it, the fear and the nightmares, it's like they don't exist when I'm in a place I know. A place I trust. I can sleep just fine with the lights off in my apartment, the same in a jet. Everything starts in places like this. “

There was silence from your side, and you felt a bit… touched that he decided to tell you this. No beating around the bush, no lying, and, most importantly, no overwhelming embarrassment. It was a normal topic after all; everyone has their fears.

"And you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you have nightmares?"

In the first few days after starting the job, you did. Then they stopped. That’s just how things go, you suppose.

"Not anymore," you admitted, letting out a small laugh. "But that doesn’t mean I sleep well. Now I just worry at night."

"About whether the team likes you?"

"Okay, I know it sounds childish, but it’s really been bothering me lately. They might… they might seem to like me, but deep down, they might not think that highly of me. I… I'm new, not that experienced, I’m always late, and I don’t think I’m bringing anything new to the table..."

"Of course, you’re bringing something," he interrupted you. You hadn’t noticed when, but you were both sitting up now. Your voices weren’t sleepy whispers anymore, you were having a real conversation. "Each of us brings something different, something characteristic of ourselves. That's how it works in a team. That’s why you’re here. Without you… okay, you might not know this, but since you’ve been here, these last four cases have gone much more smoothly."

"Do you really think so?"

"Well, you asked me to be honest. Completely honest."

You've always had a bit of imposter syndrome, doubting your abilities, and approaching others' positive comments about you or your achievements with skepticism.

Something in the way he spoke, his quick words, his engagement in them... made you believe him, somehow.

"Reid," you began, surprised to find that there was less weight in your chest, in your body. "I know, I just know, that you'll refuse, but still, I'll ask. Do you want to lie down with me?"

You didn't even know what exactly prompted the question. Caring about your back, you could answer. But was that really all it was?

For a moment, he was silent, thinking you were joking, but when it dawned on him that you weren't, he scoffed.

"Well, you were right, I'll refuse..."

"Sorry, but I doubt you'll fall asleep any other way. I was watching you, as creepy as that sounds. You were lying there with your eyes open, you were scared."

"I'm an adult man who's afraid of the dark. That's pathetic on its own, without being tucked to sleep by a coworker."

"I never mentioned anything about tucking you in."

He hesitated, embarrassed.

"You took the least important part of my statement..."

"I took what I wanted. The rest is nonsense. Your age doesn't determine what you can or can't be afraid of. I'm a grown woman, and I'm afraid my colleagues don't like me. Which sounds more pathetic, huh? Fear of the dark or that?"

“I think it’s a point we could argue about for hours.”

“Which we don’t have. It’s late, we should go to sleep. Quick question, are you lying down with me, or are you fooling yourself into thinking you’ll fall asleep without it?”

A heavy, resigned sigh escaped him. Without adding anything else to his words, you turned onto your side, your back to him. You heard the rustling of the sheets, and for a moment, you froze, surprised. But no, he hadn’t joined you.

You weren’t sure how you felt. Disappointed seemed like too strong a word. It wasn’t as though he had refused some incredibly important request of yours. It was just… perhaps the best explanation would be that, once you had convinced him to sleep in the same room for the sake of helping him, you wanted him to take something comforting from that night. You wanted it to be one of those good nights, like the ones he had in his apartment or in the jet, the ones he had mentioned. Not one of the others, filled with fear.

But then, the mattress beside you dipped, as someone else settled onto it.

You turned to the other side, and suddenly your faces were right across from each other. Reid swallowed, almost nervously. He seemed to be adjusting to the situation, to the sudden closeness, the small space you shared. You propped your hand under your head, observing him discreetly. It hit you that he always had a bit of an issue with contact with others. A doubt crossed your mind: had you made him uncomfortable?

Minutes passed, though, and his body seemed to sink more comfortably into the bed. His arms were no longer stiff, his hands resting freely, no longer clasped tightly across his chest. You could also hear his breath, and the more peaceful it became, the calmer you felt too.

And even though no words seemed necessary anymore, he decided to speak once again.

"Thank you."

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#spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #spence reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid fanfic #matilda's recs #spencer reid x oc #criminal mind #doctor spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid comfort #spencer reid fluff

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pathologicalreid · 5 months ago

Text

hazardous materials | s.r.

in which Spencer takes care of you after an accident in the lab

margovember

chemist!reader masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff (hurt/comfort) content warnings: chemical burn, lab safety was ignored, first aid, cute banter, tattoos, chemist!reader, kisses word count: 1.24k a/n: every time i write chemist!reader i get bed chem stuck in my head except i've never heard the full song

“Time?” You asked, using the heel of your shoe to slam the door shut once you made your way through. Haphazardly, you dropped your backpack on the ground in front of the coat closet before rushing toward the bedroom.

Spencer was sitting on the couch, a glass of water on the side table and a book in his lap, he glanced over at you when you stopped at the back of the couch to say hi to him, “Forty minutes.” He reached out for your arm, a careful gesture just because he wasn’t ready for you to be out of his view yet, but his hand caught on your forearm.

You hissed at the contact, pulling your arm back and shaking it out, “Tight grip,” you tried to wave it off, but Spencer wasn’t easily convinced.

“I barely touched you,” he said, snapping his book closed and standing up, following you into the bedroom. “Let me see your arm,” he asked, opening the door when you tried to close it behind you.

Spinning on your heel, you shrugged at him, “Not without a warrant,” you told him. Your eyes burned as you begged yourself not to cry at the pain.

Your boyfriend reached out for you again, this time pulling you in by your belt loops, he herded you into the bathroom, holding onto your hips as he beckoned for you to sit on the countertop. The granite was cold even through your jeans, and Spencer took your discomfort as pain as he pulled your shirt off.

You grunted, frowning while he pulled your long sleeve over your head and dropped it in the laundry hamper, “It’s cold,” you grumbled, slouching as Spencer inspected the wound on your forearm. It looked a lot worse now than it had when you left the lab, the burned skin starting to develop a yellowish hue. “I have somewhere to be tonight, you know,” you reminded him.

This would be your second outing with the BAU ladies since you were first introduced to them a few months ago, Garcia had arranged tango lessons, and Emily was meant to be your dance partner. “What did you burn yourself with?” He holds your arm timidly, pinching your wrist between his index and his thumb and eyeing the burn with growing concern.

“Uh,” you hummed, bracing yourself for what is bound to be abject disappointment, “Nitric acid.”

Spencer set your arm down, resting it burnt side up on your thigh while he buried his face in his hands, “Baby,” he said from behind his palms.

When he said it in that tone, it was easily your least favorite nickname. “I didn’t think it was concentrated enough to burn,” you tried to defend yourself, looking down at the obvious mistake you had made. “It must have been mislabeled and no one caught it,” you told him, trying to shrug it off.

Dropping his hands, Spencer resorted to crossing his arms in front of his chest, “A lot of chemicals have been getting mislabeled lately.” It was an accusation, but not toward you, though you tended to be more lenient on lab safety than most of your colleagues.

“I…” You faltered, flexing your fingers and feeling the skin on your arm pull, “Yes, but—”

Spencer shook his head, “No, you have to talk to her.”

The her in question was your grad student, Leslie, who had made a similar mistake with hydrochloric acid last month, also leading to a chemical burn on your arm. You frowned at Spencer, making your expression as pleading as possible in hopes that he’d drop it.

“This can’t keep happening,” Spencer said, “I know you don’t want to make her feel guilty, but maybe she should. Maybe that’s how she learns.”

You furrowed your brows at him, “It wasn’t her fault.” You felt defensive over your lab assistant, knowing that she had asked you to be her thesis advisor made you feel the need to protect her.

He pressed his lips in a thin white line, “It was,” he corrected. “If you don’t say something, I’ll send an email to your boss.”

“Spencer,” you said, shoulders slumped in disappointment and the faint feeling of betrayal.

Raising his eyebrows, Spencer gingerly took your arm back in his hands, “I know that’s your thing around the lab, not wanting to cause trouble. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself, but I need you to take care of yourself, and you can’t do that if you keep being so flippant about these ‘accidents.’”

You knew what he was doing, turning it into something you could do for him instead of something you’d do for yourself. “I’ll talk to her on Monday, and I’ll redo the UV spectroscopy on the nitric acid,” you surrendered, giving yourself the weekend to figure out how to broach the topic.

He set your arm down again, opening the cabinets in the bathroom and shuffling through miscellaneous belongings. Between the two of you, you had quite a remarkable collection of first aid, the basket that Spencer pulled off the shelf was intimidating, “Here, hold your arm over the sink,” he instructed, guiding you gently so he could rinse the burn with saline. “Does that hurt?”

“it’s just cold,” you answered, watching him make sure any debris was flushed from the wound.

His head bobbed, setting down the saline container and moving to coat the wound with a panthenol cream, “Were you wearing your hazardous materials pin?”

Your face warmed at his question. The one time you’d been the root cause of a spill, your boss responded by gifting you an enamel pin with the hazardous materials pin, “I was.”

“Maybe it needs to be bigger,” he proposed, filtering through the bin of first aid supplies and hunting for something specific, reading the labels on everything before he put it on the burn.

The corner of your mouth quirked up when you noticed he was trying to lighten the mood, “Or have lights on it,” you offered, imagining a border of LEDs around the pin.

Spencer hummed, finding silver sulphadiazine to cover the wound with, “Now, there’s an idea.”

You laughed breathily, “I could get it tattooed,” you waggled your eyebrows at him. “It would make a nice tramp stamp,” you told him, watching his gentle fingers apply dressings to your wound, securing them as carefully as he can so your skin doesn’t get irritated.

“But then I’d be the only one to see it,” he countered playfully, inspecting his handiwork.

Conceding, you nodded, “Unless the people in the lab get comfortable with a lot of things really fast.”

Softly, Spencer leaned forward and kissed you, “I want to keep an eye on this tonight,” he whispered against your lips. “If it doesn’t get better by the morning I’m taking you to urgent care,” he told you, kissing you again before gathering the first aid wrappings and putting them in the trash can.

He stepped out for a moment, returning with an old Princeton t-shirt of yours. You gingerly pulled it over your head, making sure not to bump your fresh bandages as you did so, “But what about my dance lessons?”

You hopped off of the countertop to be met by Spencer standing right in front of you, his hands placed gently on your waist before he whispered, “I can teach you to tango perfectly fine in the living room.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x fem!reader #written by margot #chemist!reader #margovember

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sigh-tofm · 6 months ago

Text

when the power goes out one cold and rainy november evening…

… price

- goes full dad. pulls the grill up to the back veranda door and cooks up some mean steaks for you two. gets a fire going in the fireplace to keep the house heated. has half a mind to call the power company and tell them that they don’t need to hurry, he’s got everything covered here. actually, they don’t need to come at all, not for a few days. tells you his thoughts as he pulls the mattress off your bed and deposits it in the living room in front of the fireplace, so you both can keep warm tonight. you let him know in no uncertain terms that he will do no such thing. you’ll let him have is fun tonight, but you will need a hot shower and a working oven in 36 hours, no matter how much he wants to play boyscout. but as you sit in front of the roaring fireplace and your admittedly very rugged and handsome husband feeds you bits of grilled steak and holds a glass of red wine to your lips, a thick, warm blanket covering you both, you must admit that this isn’t bad either.

… kyle

- excitedly improvises. you know, it’s like this every day when we’re in the field, he beams as he brushes the dust off the firepit in the woodshed. doesn’t mean it has to be like this now though, does it, kyle. you pull your jacket tighter around yourself and watch as he finds the least rotten firewood in the shed and uses up eight matches before he can get a light. you almost tell him to leave it and come inside, that you’ll order in tonight, but he’s so engulfed in fanning the little flame to life that you can’t help but play along. you get an umbrella when the rain comes down harder and use it to shield both your boyfriend and his firepit from the weather. when you gently ask how he’s going to cook up the pizza you two were in the middle of preparing when the power went out, he wilts a little, but somehow manages to macgyver a cooking system for it that only leaves it slightly burnt. you know, he says while you two are standing under the awning, admiring your fire baby and nibbling on damp, blackened pizza, in the field we sometimes need to share sleeping bags too.

… johnny

- immediately relents. moans and groans about being off duty and that he shouldn’t be expected to fend for himself like this when he isn’t in an active war zone. you pull up the local takeaway menu on your phone and hand it to him. go get us some warm food, soldier, you prompt him and gather up some supplies while he’s away. the old scottish farmhouse you live in has a fireplace, of course, so you light a fire there and with some effort pull the couch up in front of it. blankets and pillows from the living room, old fair isle knit jumpers from the hallway closet, a sheepskin rug to warm your feet on. when he comes back with his arms full of steaming indian (best to get some extra, mo chridhe), his mood seems to have lightened a little too. especially when he sees you in thigh high knit stockings, wearing his jumper and laying on the sheepskin rug. okay, maybe this isn’t so bad. at least he’s not being shot at.

… simon

- is prepared. goes down to the basement and carries up box after box of emergency equipment. hands you a round little paraffin stove (which you have no idea how to work) and a matching aluminium pan, as well as a large variety of ready-made freeze dried stews and soups. just add water, he says unhelpfully, and continues pulling out equipment from his kit. amongst the various bags of tools and gadgets you can spot tent poles and emergency flares, and it’s obvious he’s been itching to use all this stuff for a while. you decide to entertain him and google your way around the stove, finally getting a light on it. you light candles and pull out your winter coats while the water boils, making it an overall cozy time. hav’ta be prepared, he mutters as he comes to sit with you when the food’s ready, the living room full of his unpacked catastrophe preparations. next time we’ll just go to a hotel, you gently request and serve him year-old mushroom stew, brought back to life with some warm water. he looks longingly at all his equipment. you yield. or camping.

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witherby · 3 months ago

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What would happen if Mouse got sick? Like super, probably at deaths door kind of sick? ok maybe that last part was exaggerating it a bit...But like almost 39 degrees fever, coughing to the point of gagging and vomiting, runny nose, fatigue, no appetite for anything, etc. Based off my own experiences when I get sick. I wanna know what they would do and who would panic the most. Who would lose the little sleep they already have even more. Who would think that the babeh is at deaths door. And who would be the most relieved when Mouse is better a few days later with the help of a paediatric approved medication

-🍨

I like this prompt a lot so I'm gonna do it. Hope u reaaaally like angst tho.

The Littlest Wayne: Sick Bed, part 1

Masterlist is Here!

⚠️ Spoiler/content warning: Young sick child, fever, depiction of seizure ⚠️

It starts with a cough.

"Hey, careful," Jason says, patting your back. The water you'd been sipping sprays across the table as you choke. Tim reaches over to right the glass and Alfred goes and collects a rag to mop up the mess. "You okay?"

"Mhmm," you mutter, wiping your mouth with a napkin. "Sorry...I can clean it, grandpa Alfie."

"It's quite alright, Flittermouse." Alfred gently runs a hand through your hair. "Oh, my, you're quite warm. Why don't you head up to your room and I'll have someone bring a tray to you with soup and crackers?"

"Okay." You push your chair away from the table and duck underneath it, allowing the shadow of the furniture to swallow you up. Bruce watches the dark blob you've become slide out of the dining room and towards the stairs with less energy than usual.

"I'll take it, Alfred," Dick says before anyone else can volunteer, rising from his seat. He sets his leftovers in front of Jason as he passes, helping the butler prepare a tray for you. "Do we have any Tylenol for little kids? If not, I can just crush up a half-pill for them."

"Child-friendly medications will be found in the young master's en-suite bathroom cabinet," Alfred says. "It will just be a few minutes for the soup, Master Dick. I'd recommend you head upstairs and measure out a small dose for your sibling before it's ready."

"Kay, sure," he nods, excusing himself.

Dick hops up the stairs two at a time and enters the family wing of the manor, trailing his hand along the walls and door frames until he finds yours. He knocks lightly and rapidly, a silly little sequence to let you know which brother it is, then opens the door to let himself in.

Your bedroom is almost pitch black. Since the development of your powers, your space has changed to reflect your needs overtime, which means the overhead lightbulbs have been removed and the sheer, pastel blinds over your window have been replaced with thick blackout curtains. For your family who require some form of illumination to see, you have several night lights you pick and choose from; you currently have a round projector plugged in that casts aurora borealis across the ceiling (a gift from Tim) and you've activated the touch sensors installed in the floor that briefly light up everywhere Dick walks, leaving his footprints behind for several seconds until they fade away.

The furniture you originally had, designed in warm, woody colors with bright accents, have also been replaced with black hardware and dark materials. Your bed frame is a dip-dyed wood with silver accents, your mattress and sheets are black, and your dressers, nightstand, and closet have all been painted to match.

At first glance, the large bedroom looks like every goth kid's biggest dream, but the light from the hallway spills briefly into your space when Dick walks inside, showing the bright, colorful books sitting on your black bookshelves, the even more colorful clothes in your wardrobe, your vast collection of toys, and a litany of pictures and photos on all the walls. There is a vibrant, beautiful life in the darkness, which encapsulates you perfectly in his opinion.

"Hi, Flitty," he greets, moving slowly as his eyes adjust to the light. "Alfred's working on your soup, so big bro Dicky's here to do medicine time. Holler at me so I don't accidentally step on you in here."

"Okay," you say from his left. Dick turns and squints, spotting a lump on your bed. He smiles.

"There you are. Lemme see if there's any of the gummies in your med cabinet. Those ones don't taste all gross."

He steps into your bathroom and turns the fairy lights on, bathing the area in a soft glow, and rifles through your cabinet for a minute. Then he makes his way to your bed, sitting on the edge of it with some chewables and a glass of water.

"C'mere," he says, and you comply, shuffling across the bed to give him a quick hug. "Alright. Can you show me you're a big kid and take this for me? Then you'll get a nice bowl of soup and maybe some juice."

You comply without fuss. Dick hears more than he sees you take the medication in the low light, and you go back to hugging him when you're done. Dick wraps his arms around you and lies down, propping you mostly on his chest.

"You okay?" He asks.

"Yeah. Just sleepy," you reply. "And my throat hurts kinda, from when I spit my water."

"Aw, I'm sorry. You only need to stay awake long enough to take a couple bites and then you can rest as long as you want."

"Okay...stay?"

Dick hums, running his fingers gently through your hair. He was supposed to go back to Blüdhaven this afternoon, but...

"Yeah, Flitty. I'll stay."

It turns into a fever.

"I'm sorry to turn you away when you've already come by, Delilah," Bruce says, meeting your private tutor in the vestibule. "Mouse came down with something yesterday, and I don't think they'll be up for lessons for the next few days. I forgot to tell you."

"Oh, that's absolutely no problem, mister Wayne," the tutor smiles, shaking her head. "I wish them a speedy recovery! Let me know if there's anything you need."

"I will, thank you. Take care!"

Bruce closes the door after seeing her out, the Charming Socialite mask slipping off his face as he heads for the stairs. He meets Alfred at the top with a nod, stepping past him and walking up to your bedroom door.

He gently knocks three times against the glossy wood, calling your name. "Can I come in?"

After a moment, he watches it click open, and you squint up at him in the doorway.

"Hi, daddy," you croak, voice dry and harsh from the progression of your flu. Bruce tuts and scoops your clammy body into his arms, carrying you back to your bed.

"Honey, you didn't have to come greet me," he says, "manners get thrown out the window when you're sick, remember? Let's get you tucked in."

You don't fuss or complain, which makes the worry flare up in Bruce's mind. He pushes it back, refusing to catastrophize a cold. All of his children get sick, it's not unheard of. A little fever is fine, and so is your lack of excitable energy. It's normal and expected.

"How do you feel?" He asks, pulling the blankets up to your chest. You squirm a bit, kicking them down.

"Hot," you say, "sleepy."

Bruce compromises by tucking the blanket around your tummy instead. You don't push it down any further. He pulls out a thermometer from his pocket and scans your forehead.

"Yeah, you are running a bit hot," he admits. An even one hundred degrees. Should be easy enough to control with careful attention. "Alfred says you refused breakfast this morning. Do you want to try eating something small for lunch? More soup?"

You shake your head. "Not hungry."

"I know you're not hungry, pumpkin," Bruce says, gently squeezing your hand. "But you don't wanna starve, either. Then you'll shrink up like a raisin! How am I supposed to snuggle a raisin?"

You smile a bit and give a wheezy huff of laughter. Bruce smiles back.

"So, will you try? You can have anything you want. I just need to see you take a few bites of something."

"Okay, daddy. Want...um... I want more soup please."

"You can have more soup," Bruce promises, running a hand through your sweatslick hair. He reminds himself to run you a bath in a couple hours. Maybe after a nap. "Do you want anything else?"

"Mmmyeah. Bedtime story?"

"Yeah," he says. "Any story you want, after we get some soup in you."

You smile again. It eases the knot of dread in Bruce's chest.

It gets worse.

Three days into it, your fever spikes in the middle of the night. You completely refuse any sort of food or drink all day, despite the angry growling of your stomach, and the family unanimously decides to bring you to the hospital in the morning to get looked at. Dinner without you is full of worry and tense glances toward the family wing, and it seems like not a lot of sleep is going to be had before they find out the total extent of your illness.

When tossing and turning in bed for a few hours doesn't lead him anywhere, Damian decides to give in to the nagging in the back of his head and pop in your room to check on you. He rushes to your bed when he sees you seizing and gasping for breath. Your temperature's shot up to a hundred and six and you don't react when he tries to shake you awake.

Fearful and, for once, feeling every bit the child he still is, he clutches your body to his chest and screams.

"BABAA!!"

The door slams open in seconds, though to him it feels like an eternity. Hal and Jason are coaxing Damian to let go of you and Bruce climbs on the bed to roll you onto your side, carefully wiping the foam and drool away from your mouth while he checks your vitals. Tim is in the hallway calling 9-1-1 and texting Dick to let him know what's happening.

"Dami, you gotta move," Jason says, placing his hands overtop his brother's. Damian's grip on your arm is so tight it's bruising. "Let go, they're okay. Let go."

"I'm tracking their pulse, you dumb bastard!" Damian snaps. "Release me!"

"You're hurting them, Dames," Hal says in his ear, wrapping his arms around Damian's waist. "Bruce has them, now. You have to let go and get out of the way for the paramedics."

Green eyes snap to your arm. He seems to finally take stock of what he's doing and eases off, letting Hal pick him up and pass him off to Jason, who carries him into the hallway.

"Stay out here," Jason says. "It's our job to keep out of the way for now."

"Who's going to let the paramedics in?" Damian asks, trying to pry himself out of Jason's grip. As much as he tries to crane his neck, Jason's standing too far away from your door to let him see how you're doing, and his iron grip is unyielding.

"Alfred's by the gate controls, he'll let them inside."

Tim gets off the phone with the emergency dispatcher and glances at your door with a frown. Every hitching gasp and choke you make can be heard from the hall, along with Bruce and Hal's barely-concealed, panicked murmuring, and he crosses his arms tightly and shuffles over to Jason now that his task is done.

"Can we wait downstairs?" He mutters. Jason keeps one arm wrapped around Damian and slings the other around Tim's shoulders, guiding them to the staircase.

"I want to stay!" Damian insists, pulling against Jason, who ends up needing to sling the little assassin over his shoulder to get him to move. "Todd!!"

"Robin," Jason snaps in his best Batman impersonation. It's a damn good one, because Damian quiets immediately, stiffening in his arms and ceasing his struggling without further protest. Tim freezes beside him, but Jason just pats his back and keeps guiding him down the stairs.

The trio is quiet as they file into the main living room. Jason and Tim sit on the couch and Damian gets propped up in his brother's lap. Try as he might, he can't wiggle out of Jason's arms.

"This is asinine," he hisses. "I should be up there."

"Doin' what?" Jason asks. "Bruce and Hal are both in there with Mousey. Alfred's about to guide the EMTs inside. Tim called 911 and then told Dick the situation. You were the one that first found 'em and got help."

Jason gives Damian a squeeze, propping his chin on top of his head.

"You saved their life, Damian. Ya don't need to do more than that right now. Let the grown-ups take the reins for a while."

"But I —"

"You've done more than enough," Jason insists, not unkindly. His tone has been uncharacteristically soft the whole time, Damian realizes belatedly. "I'm sure they'll thank you when they come out the other side of this."

Damian didn't do it for your thanks. He did it because he loves you. Despite you quickly approaching the age where Bruce might offer you the Robin mantle soon, which has filled him with more anxiety and anger than he's had in a long time, he loves you dearly and doesn't want anything to befall you.

In spite of everything, he's your big brother and he loves you just as much as he can't stand you.

"They will be fine," he mutters firmly. "There's no alternative."

"Right," Tim speaks up. He sounds like he needs the reassurance just as much as Damian. "M is gonna be okay."

The three of them turn their heads when several pairs of footsteps enter the vestibule. Four paramedics rush in with a stretcher and duffel bags of medical equipment. Alfred orders them in the direction of your bedroom with simple, firm instructions, and they head off.

The butler then turns, spotting them out of his periphery, and he clears his throat and adjusts the belt around his robe. He's still in his sleepwear, having rushed out of bed to help prep for the emergency like everyone else.

"I've had my fair share of exciting nights," he comments, "but I must say, they never become more enjoyable. Why don't you all join me in the kitchen and I'll prepare some drinks? Hot chocolate should suffice on a chilly evening."

"Sounds fantastic," Jason says, hopping to his feet. He lifts Damian up with him, denying him the chance to refuse, and with a glance and jerk of his chin, coaxes Tim to get up and follow after.

"Put me down," Damian says, reaching up to tug on Jason's night shirt. "I won't run back upstairs. I swear."

"Yeah? You double-swear? Don't make me chase you, kid, I really do not have the patience."

"On Father's life," he insists.

Jason sets him on the floor. Damian follows them into the kitchen and takes a seat at the island, cupping his hands around a warm mug of hot cocoa when Alfred hands it to him a couple minutes later. He watches the wisps of steam curl up into the air and dissipate, unable to stop thinking about your writhing body in bed. Your eyes had rolled back and your limbs had locked up, jerking uncontrollably. And the noises you were making...

The mug gives a foreboding creak under his grip. Alfred gently places his hand on Damian's back and gives it several soft pats.

"Do not fret, master Damian," he says, "our little Flittermouse is very resilient. An illness turning poorly won't keep them down for long."

"I know," he says. Alfred nods, and with a final brush against his shoulder, tends to Tim next to ensure he's also doing okay. When Damian looks at Jason, he sees him calmly drinking from his mug without so much as a furrow in his brow. But there's an almost imperceptible ricketing noise that means he's bouncing his leg nervously. It makes his stomach twist almost painfully, to know he's just as scared as everybody else.

Damian takes a deep breath. He sips his coco. He thinks of the froth pouring out of your mouth when Bruce rolled you into the recovery position. He puts the mug down.

He knows you'll be okay. You have to, because he just can't live with the alternative.

#el speaks #littlest wayne au #batfam x reader #angst #platonic batfam #🍨#tw: depiction of seizure

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partiallysame · 2 months ago

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Okay okay, I LOVEE your writing. & I was wondering if you could work your magic for a little idea I had. Hear me out fem nanny x John price .

Price divorced dad of an infant hires a nanny to watch over sweet little baby thing while he's overseas but comes home early in the middle of the night without notice, ☀️ nanny hears footsteps in the house and in a frantic rush grabs a weapon and hides the baby & herself 😭 idk why I need this but I need to know how John reacts

I hope you like it!!!

John Price x Nanny!reader

The last thing Captain John Price ever expected was a week old infant being dropped in his hands from a one night stand but here he was. The only thing that got him through it was you, his new nanny. You came highly recommended from a few different higher ups who had hired you to help their wives while they were away for long periods of time. Years of experience and too many references to count, John didn’t think twice about hiring you, especially after he saw how good you were with his tiny newborn daughter. He was scared to even touch the poor thing but you walked him through step by step how to care for his daughter. He had turned down a few different missions but this one he wasn’t allowed to say no to. Leaving his 6 week old daughter for two months was not what he wanted to do but he trusted you, and was overjoyed when he was able to return home a week early.

The first sign that panicked you was the neighbor’s dogs barking. You’ve been living in this house for almost 4 months now and have never once heard them bark. Then the security lights in the front of the house lit up and you could hear the doorknob rattling. Fuck. You could feel the pit in your stomach growing, something’s wrong. Reaching under the bed to pull out a hunting knife you had found one day putting away laundry. You really shouldn’t have been surprised when you kept finding hidden weapons in a military captain’s house. Knife in hand you made your way to the room next to you, to grab the baby. The creak of the front door opening sent you into full fight or flight. Hearing the heavy steps at the bottom of the stairs, you quickly grabbed the sleeping infant. “We’re gonna play a lil game of hide and seek ok?” you quietly whispered to her, placing a soft kiss on her forehead as you peaked out her bedroom door to make sure the hallway was clear before making your way to the large closet in the master bedroom. The only closet with a lock on it. You could hear the footsteps get closer, your heartrate picking up as you locked the two of you in the closet. Holding the sweet baby tight to your chest.

Now John began to panic when he went to check on his daughter and she wasn’t there. His feet started moving faster to find your room empty too, a glass of water spilled on the floor, one you hadn’t even realized you had knocked over in your rush out of the room. But what really sent him into a frenzy was the small stuffed bear on the floor in the hallway. The one his baby girl never let go of and would not sleep without. The Captain pulled his gun out and began clearing rooms looking for you two.

As you heard doors begin slamming and the noises of the intruder growing louder you placed the sleeping infant behind a few boxes, out of sight, before standing in front of her and facing the door. The doorknob twisted a few times, the intruder trying to get in, one hand covered your mouth to keep from screaming while the other had a white knuckle grip on the large knife. Suddenly the door flew open, Price kicking it down. You twisted the knife around in your hand, bringing both hands up ready to fight for yours and the child’s life. All you could see was the silhouette of a large man with a gun. The light on in the room behind him, keeping his face dark and identity hidden. Price began to lower his gun, seeing it was you and you started to lunge towards him, knife swinging. He easily dodged and removed the knife from your hands.

“Hey hey y/n. It's me. It's John. You're safe.” You almost didn’t hear him from how hard you had been breathing. His hand went to turn the light in the closet on so he was visible to you. He stood there watching you for a moment, chest heaving and hands still in fists as the adrenaline started to wear off.

“What the fuck John?” He didn’t answer.

“Where’s my daughter?”

“She’s safe” You stepped to the side and moved the boxes you had hidden her behind. John watched you amazed as you revealed his still sleeping daughter all wrapped up in a blanket, safe and sound. Reaching down to hold his tiny girl in his big hands he couldn’t help but look at you. Your hands shaking, eyes full of fear starting to return to normal. He knew he trusted you with his daughter but now? He’d never let anyone else near her. You were ready to fight a fucking home invader and honestly if it wasn’t him who opened the door, he was pretty sure you would have been successful with the knife in your hand. He’s looking at you, standing in your pajamas, hair messy from sleeping and he’s thinking he doesn’t ever want to be without you.

#john price #cod x reader #captain price #price x reader #cod #cod john price #captain john price #price x you

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tryagainenthusiast · 7 months ago

Text

thinking about...

how comforting jaehyun would be when you come home drunk from a night out with friends.

he would be sleeping at first, not hearing you click open the door and stumble into the living room, throwing off your shoes. its only until you call out his name into the darkness of your room that he would stir in his sleep, whispering your name out to you. and when you would slide into bed and mumble drunken thoughts he would wake up, reaching a hand out to stroke your disheveled hair.

“are you drunk?” he would ask even though he knew the answer, and you would try to deny it out of instinct, but he’s able to see right through you. he nods, caressing your alcohol flushed cheeks. and he would make himself get up, even in the midst of the deepest sleeps he’s had just to take care of you.

to get you some water from the kitchen, sleepily pouring it out the jug with weak hands; making sure you drink it all, holding the glass up to you and swiping a finger over your mouth to dry you of the left over droplets.

you would sprawl yourself out on the bed, still dressed up in your clothes and claim that you were “too tired” to change, but when jaehyun would walk towards your closet to grab a t-shirt for you to sleep in suddenly he would find you right next to him again, wrapping your arms around him and leaning your head against his bicep. he would pat the top of your head to savour the moment, knowing how embarrassed you’ll get the morning after for no reason. and when your arms would become too heavy to change yourself he would take his hand and wrap it around your wrists, lifting them up for you and removing your clothes. then guiding them through the arm holes of your t-shirt.

you would still be attached to him when he takes you into the bathroom, helping you sit on the toilet lid while he turns around to grab some makeup wipes from the cabinet, so he can stroke the makeup off your face with a cold touch, moving so gently that you wouldn’t have been able to notice he was doing so if you hadn’t opened your drunken eyes and see his sleepy, focused face. whether there was or wasn’t alcohol running through your bloodstream, you still wouldn’t be able to resist leaning forward with pouted lips and smooch him on what you think are his lips, but in actuality is the side of his face.

after all that, he would tuck you into your bed and watch you fall asleep in an instant, as if you were the one dragging around a grown adult the whole time. but when he lies on his side of the bed and sees your content face he would pepper kisses all over it, even if you couldn’t feel them, and whisper a small goodnight.

#tryagainenthusiast #nct 127 #jaehyun x reader #jaehyun nct #jaehyun imagines #nct imagines #jaehyun smut

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dooberific · 4 months ago

Text

❝ 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘚𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘠𝘰𝘶 ❞

harumasa x fem!reader

genre: fluff

warnings: possibly ooc idk, mentions of illness, depression, nonsexual nudity

wc: 1.9k

When Asaba Harumasa sent you a “U up?” text in the wee hours of the morning you didn’t question it.

You simply rolled onto your back, squinting harshly into the light of your phone screen as you typed out a quick response, your arms falling limply at your sides as you willed yourself from the warm embrace of your comforter.

Late night messages didn’t warrant more care on appearance than a wrinkled sweatshirt dragged on over your pajamas and whatever sneakers were conveniently placed by the door, your hair little more than a rat nest knotted on top of your head. You had no fear walking the streets at this hour, especially when you looked as abysmal as you did on such calls, your fear abating further as the fresh scent of rain assaulted your lungs.

Some part of you questioned your choice to not go back for an umbrella as you dodged puddles on the sidewalk, the hood of your sweatshirt now tied ridiculously around your face as if the thin fabric would save you from the impending chill of the rain.

A good ten minutes had passed before you found yourself standing at his door, a trail of water dripping in your wake. You didn’t bother to knock, you were past that point in your relationship by now, simply extending yourself onto your toes as you swiped your fingertips across the top of the door trim until a familiar golden key flipped easily into your palm.

The apartment was quiet as you padded in, wet sneakers in hand. The mess didn’t shock you anymore, the haphazard pile of sneakers and the odd pair of dress shoes a stark contrast to your orderly placement of your own. Piles of jackets, dress shirts, and ties were strewn across every chair in the small kitchenette to accompany the sink full of dishes and the assortment of glasses at various stages of finished that littered the space as well. You grimaced at the gritty feeling of his floor as you ventured in further, stripping off your wet clothes as you went.

“Haru?” You called, padding down the short hallway towards his room. The door sat slightly ajar, the interior of his bedroom just as dark as the rest of his apartment had been. You rap your knuckles against the door, calling his name again as you push the door open, your shadow splitting the light that spilled in from the hallway.

He didn’t acknowledge you, let alone move from where he sat hunched over on his bed, electrifying eyes dull as he stared blankly out the window. His blankets were strewn wildly across the bed, his sheets barely clinging to the edges of the mattress. You warily eyed the upturned pharmacy bottle on the nightstand, watching your step for stray pills as you picked your way to his bed. You eased up onto the mattress behind him, looping your arms over his shoulders as you rested your chin against the junction of his neck.

The rhythmic tap of the rain mingled with the gentle sound of his breathing and the thumping of your own heart against his back. He was warm in your grasp, his hair tickling your cheek as you rested your weight into his body. On his bad days the best thing you could provide was companionship in his silence, your hands gently running up and down his arms as the rain began to lull your tired mind back to sleep.

“Haru,” you murmured gently against his ear, feeling his body tense at the tickle of your breath against his skin.

“It’s still you.”

He shuddered in your arms.

When Asaba Harumasa asked you to join him in the shower, you didn’t bat an eye.

You ushered him off the bed in silence, pausing just to fish around in his closet for a suitable change of clothes. His bathroom was cramped to be housing two people, but he didn’t utter a peep of complaint despite all the bumped elbows and the rattle of medication bottles being knocked from the countertop and into the sink as you did your best to arrange the space into something reasonable. He looked more gaunt than you remembered under the harsh white light of the bathroom, cheeks more sunken and eye bags darker. You didn’t bother to ask how many days he had already called out of work for, knowing that it may hurt you more to know how long he had silently endured his illness before deigning it worthy to bother you.

The bathroom steamed quickly once you turned the shower on, the air warm and clammy against your skin as you worked to free you both of your clothes. Embarrassment had long died at the idea of being naked in front of him, making the notion of being pressed flush against him in a tiny standing shower an exceedingly natural thing. The warm water was a welcome feeling as it doused over his back and down your chest, your hands traveling up to run through his dark hair. His shampoo hung sweetly in the air as you worked it into his scalp, a grin pulling at your lips as his pretty lashes fluttered and he leaned into your touch.

The rest of the shower progressed in a similar manner, your hands working soap over the firm planes of his chest and arms and watching as the scars notating years of hollow exploration and management vanish for just a moment under a sheen of bubbles. Your fingers paused just shy of his slender neck, fingertips grazing his clavicle before you retracted your hands. He favored washing his neck himself as you had found out the first time you had bathed together, recalling how harshly he had recoiled at your touch. It was never a topic you chose to breach, assuming it to have something to do with the pinpoint scars that littered his pale skin.

You nearly missed the murmur of your name falling from his lips under the rush of water from the shower head. It was the first thing he had managed since you arrived, his voice husky from his silent struggle for god knows how long. His hands, once firm against your fleshy sides, trailed up your arms to catch your wrists as he guided your own hands to rest against the sides of his neck. He held them there for a moment, thumbs tracing over the backs of your hands in a mindless motion before his eyes drew shut and he leaned into the junction of your shoulder. You felt his neck expand under your fingers as he inhaled deeply, arms sliding down to hang loosely around your waist.

How you managed to finish washing up in such a position may be the real miracle of the night, wincing as you pushed the curtain aside only to be assaulted with cold air before you could reach for one of the towels you had set out. With practiced ease you dried him off, watching his hair begin to bounce back to life under your ministrations. You dressed him before tending to yourself, pulling your own clothes back on before winding your hair up in a towel.

You paused, watching quietly as he stared blankly at his water-warped reflection in the steamed bathroom mirror. “Harumasa,” you called, bunching the fabric of your shirt sleeve in your hand as you swiped it across the mirror.

“It’s still you.”

When Asaba Harumasa didn’t ask you to make him a meal, you took it upon yourself to intrude for a moment longer.

He seemed much more comfortable now, lingering just within your personal bubble as you milled around his kitchenette. In terms of groceries things appeared rather grim until you unearthed a couple packs of spicy instant ramen from the back of a cabinet. You made a mental note to work up a list and find something to replenish his cabinets before he fully wasted away, images of fresh meat and veggies dancing in your head as you hummed a mindless tune over the boiling pot you tended on the stove.

You dressed it up as best as you could considering the circumstances, praising your lucky stars as you found some stray utensils from old takeout in one of the drawers. The dishes would be your next battle, but for now stray chopsticks from a local restaurant and the very pot you had cooked in would have to do. You cleared the chairs of his clothes so you could both hunch unceremoniously over the pot, shoulders pressed together as you silently battled each other for whatever caught your fancy.

Asaba Harumasa didn’t have to ask you for help with the dishes, or with the laundry.

He was right there with you, pressed to your side as you gently motivated him alongside your efforts to reclaim his space. He didn’t have to ask you to help him remake his bed, iron his clothes, or pick up the medication spilled all over his floor. You were sure you had heard him mutter “thanks” to you a hundred times already as you milled dutifully around his space with him trailing along behind until you heard the first yawn break his silence.

He didn’t fight when you pushed him back down the hallway to his room and turned the covers over for him, nor when you crawled into bed beside him. The rain had yet to stop, still pattering pleasantly against the window as you scooted closer and rolled to your side to face him, your hair fanning wildly across his pillow.

“Do you want me to hold you?” Your voice came out in a whisper in the dark, the streetlight peeking through the windows just enough to accentuate the warmth in your gaze. He sucked in a breath.

“I would like that.” He breathed, watching your infectious grin dimple your own cheeks.

You drew him closer, pulling his arm over your waist as you draped one of your legs over him. Your hands threaded into his hair, gently massaging his scalp as you pressed his head against your chest.

“Goodnight, Haru.” You hummed, pressing a kiss against the top of his head, your nose wrinkling as his hair tickled your nose.

His grip around you tightened, drawing you closer as he nestled his face into your neck, breathing in the scent of his soap on your skin.

“Goodnight, (y/n).”

…

When his alarm went off at 6am you didn’t stir, your chest still rising and falling in a steady rhythm even as he untangled your limbs so he could get up.

He was still exhausted, his body feeling like it was laced with lead as he stumbled out of bed and down the hall, his work clothes in tow as the scent of coffee met his nose. You must have set the coffee pot timer when you were reclaiming his kitchen.

He flipped on the bathroom light as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, pausing at the flash of orange on the mirror. A multitude of orange sticky notes decorated its surface ringing his reflection, each adorned with your curling script.

Good morning, sleepyhead!

Looking particularly handsome today~

Intelligent and Funny too!

Productive!

Healthy and vital!

A dapper fellow indeed ;D

He reached out, peeling one of the notes off as he brought it closer, electric eyes dancing over your words as a warmth bloomed in his chest. His eyes flickered up to his reflection, boring into his own visage as he sucked in a breath.

Look! It’s still you.

And for the first time he smiled like he believed it.

Rey ‘24, cross posted to ao3

#zenless zone zero #zzz #zzz harumasa #asaba harumasa #harumasa x reader #zzz x reader #harumasa zzz

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l0vergirlwrites · 2 months ago

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it’s so sweet ; spencer reid

synopsis: after coming back home from a late shift, you find a sleepy spencer ready to do your evening routines together.

warnings: established relationship between spencer & nonbaufem!reader, just pure fluff & comfort, sleepy!spencer (he’s so cute ugh)

it was just past eleven o’clock when you hitched a ride home from a trusted co-worker, briskly walking up the apartment steps & fishing your keys from your pocket. you’ve been anxious to go home all day due to the dipping negative temperatures, cold air nipping at exposed skin with each gust as ice solidified in clusters along the sidewalk.

you were tired of winter. but so much more tired of late shifts.

within five minutes, you were on your floor in record time, relief filling your bones as you breathed in the comfort of your apartment, letting your purse hang on the closet door knob, your coat hanging slightly haphazardly on the rack, & keys swished into the bowl where spencer’s resided.

following your routine, you washed your hands, let your coffee tumbler soak in the sink, & quickly made your way through the apartment to find your boyfriend.

you hoped he was awake, but secretly knew that if the amber light wasn’t on in the bedroom, he was likely passed out.

& you were right.

spencer was fast asleep, pink lips slightly parted to let puffs of air escape, fingers gently curled around a book with a knitted blanket covering his body. his mismatched socks peeked through the bottom; one was forest green with orange leaves, the other was navy blue with gray polkadots.

he had fallen asleep on the wall seat, temple pushed against the glass window as his back rested flush to the cold wall. you couldn’t imagine that would be comfortable for more than a few hours. so you walked over to his sleeping form, lifting a hand to brush away some hair that had fallen in front of his eyes.

“spence, i’m home” you spoke low & sweet, letting your hand rub his shoulder to gently wake him up.

he hummed at the feeling, taking a few moments to become conscious & let his eyes open, taking your face in while his brain processed the stimuli—you’re home.

“i was waiting up for you… must’ve fallen asleep…” he blinked slow, letting a yawn escape his lips before taking your hand in yours, a sleepy smile overtaking his face.

you squeezed his hand. “it’s okay, your body must’ve needed the extra rest” he nodded at your words, agreeing as he rubbed his eyes.

“did you have a good shift?” spencer implored, tossing the book to his feet so you could sit on his lap, his fingers craving the warmth of your thighs & the plush of your skin. his heart strings physically pulled when you leaned into his touch gratefully.

you shrugged your shoulders, letting out an exhausted sigh. “it was alright. just happy to be home” you emphasized, eyes dancing over his face like you hadn’t already had it memorized in your mind.

you liked coming home to him.

“me too” he quickly agreed, pulling you closer so he could kiss you, to express how much he missed you in the hours you were gone & because he just loved having the privilege to do this with you.

“did you have dinner?” he thoughtfully asked with his forehead against yours, heart thumping when your hands played with the v-neck of his sweater vest.

you nodded. “packed some of the left over thai from last night” you got that sticky feeling in your chest when spencer hummed, stroking your cheek in a way that made you never want him to stop.

“did you shower yet?” you asked him, seeing him shake his head.

“c’mon” you stood up, interlocking your fingers with his. “we can conserve water… if you want” you gave him an out, but he didn’t take it. he let you lead him to your shared bathroom, where your toothbrushes stood side by side, where your hair ties laid next to his face wash, where your drawers were colour coded & organized to a t.

the next twenty minutes were filled with light talk of your work days, each of you taking turns washing the other’s skin, spencer’s hand not faltering from your waist, you fingers fixing his hair behind his ears when some locks escaped the ponytail you tied, hugging with towels on, taking turns using the sink, spencer making faces at you in the mirror while you brushed your teeth—just the good stuff that made you feel lucky.

“are you off tomorrow?” he asked once you both returned back to the bedroom, bodies shed of towels & dawned in respective pyjamas.

yours was an old t-shirt of spencer’s from the bureau & sleep shorts, while his was one of your band tees & boxer shorts.

“uh huh, off until monday—but don’t you have—“

“hotch is giving me the weekend off”

you looked to him with surprise once you both got comfy under the sheets, your body basically draped over spencer’s but he didn’t mind one bit. his hands were comfortably on you within an instant, rubbing circles into your skin.

“really? is that what you want?”

he nodded, biting his lip between his teeth as he smiled. he was never one to accept a day from work off so easily, but with you in his life, they allowed him to get to spend quality time with you. what more could he want?

“yeah” he responded without missing a beat, as if it was the easiest question to answer. “we can do whatever you want, baby”.

you couldn’t help but pout in awe. he knew how much getting time off work to properly spend with you meant. it was a sacrifice you cherished.

“we’ll come up with plan in the morning, but i don’t really care—just as long as your with me” you said honestly, eyes growing sleepy as the heat radiating from spencer’s body cocooned you.

he nodded his head, pressing one last kiss to your hair. “sounds like a great plan”.

letting your eyes fall closed, ear pressed to his heart, spencer’s heartbeat lulled you sleep, a faint smile staying in place on your lips.

“love you” you whispered, still feeling the circular movements of his hand on your arm.

spencer contently hummed, eyes closed, only thinking of you behind his lids, “love you too”.

#l0vergirlwrites💌#spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid criminal minds #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #mgg #matthew gray gubler #matthew gray gubbler x reader

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venomvalley · 19 days ago

Text

POISON AND PANACEA

pitfighter!vi x fem!reader | 5.3k words

SUMMARY: After ten years without a word, Vi comes back into your life like a whirlwind—sudden and destructive. What follows is a series of one-night stands that you both swear mean absolutely nothing. (Yeah, right.)

TAGS: 18+ only! switch!vi, childhood friends to fwb to ???, mental health issues, mentions of alcohol, blood and injury, sex as a coping mechanism, pining, angst, ambiguous ending.

NOTES: vi drives me absolutely insane idk what else to say. hopefully this is good and somewhat in-character cause im very nervous about that.

-> READ ON AO3 | ARCANE MASTERLIST

Through the whispers of nosy neighbors and bar gossip, your past comes back to haunt you. It takes the form of a woman fighting her way through champions in the Pit, some no-name hothead who reminds you of the angry little girl you befriended a long, long time ago.

Things were simple back then, but never easy; better times when you weren’t responsible for putting food on the table, and you never understood why your mom stressed the importance of staying close to home. Now, you work a job at a local consignment shop and pay your skeevy landlord way too much for such a shit apartment.

You knew her before she shortened her name to Vi, and before you could comprehend the idea of a crush. Violet was your first crush—you liked the way she stood up for you against the neighborhood bullies, always so brave and nice and cool with her pink hair—and you haven't seen her in over ten years. Last you heard, she was thrown in Stillwater for murder, and Powder fucked off to Janna-knows-where in the aftermath.

So you don’t expect a pounding on your front door in the middle of the night, and you really don’t expect the older version of your childhood friend to greet you. For a long moment, you consider the possibility that this is all just a vivid, lucid dream ripped straight from some dusty folder in your memory bank.

And then she speaks, shuffling on her feet in a strange, vertigo-esque dance. “I thought I’d find you here.”

The messy slur to her words gives her away. Drunk. Given the distance of your apartment to the nearest bar, you wonder how in the hell she even made it this far. What brought her here in the first place.

“Vi?”

Her but not. Choppy black hair, a blue-bruised undereye, taller than you remember. A nose ring that gives an edge to the soft features of her face now filled out with age. Tattooed on the cheek and neck and the bare skin of her forearms that you only notice when she steadies herself with a hand against the door frame.

“In the flesh.” She stretches out her arms and dips into a bow, almost plowing face-first into the floor. A good thing, then, that you saw it coming and use your own body to fight the gravity weighing her down.

Janna's tits, she's heavy. Skin woven over sinew, thick around the biceps that you grab to steady her. “Okay, uh. How about I get you some water?”

You open the door and wait patiently as she shuffles inside your apartment, before shutting it with a click then a metallic thump of the lock. When you turn around, she's sprawled out on the couch, a drawn-out, muffled groan reaching your ears.

This is fucking weird. After so many years, for her to show up at your door unannounced— rumors of her imprisonment notwithstanding—throws you off kilter. Really, you never thought you'd see her again. The flash of pink hair in a crowd at most, not… not this: her sucking the air from your living room, drooling a puddle into the fabric beneath her head, already snoring a symphony.

With a huff of breath, you leave to fetch a blanket from your closet, and come back to untie her scuffed-up boots before tucking her in for the night. You put her shoes next to the door, fill up a glass of water, and settle in for a sleep curled up on the floor in the living room. It’s instinct at this point. Staying close to listen for her cries, or the sound of her gagging, or her nightmare-catalyzed fussing.

(After her parents died, she suffered from horrible dreams. You stopped sleeping in her bed for a while during sleepovers, after one too many times of jolting awake to the sensation of bruising pain. A fist to your back, a kick to your knee, as if she was fighting something you couldn't comprehend.)

Throughout the night, she mumbles in her sleep. Wakes long enough to adjust her blanket then roll over, again and again. Until—

“You awake?”

Her voice filters through the static of the ether, and your eyes blink open to the blurry sight of the water-stained ceiling, a blue cast to the room from your moon-filtered window.

“You sober?”

“Unfortunately,” she grumbles, voice dragged through sharded glass. “Sorry about… everything.”

The couch creaks beneath her shifting weight as she turns to look at you, eyes unbearably blue even through the darkness. So pretty.

“How are you?” A pressing question you've been itching to know, alongside the curious what the hell happened? and a less polite why are you here?

“What do you think?”

“I haven't seen you in ten years. How the hell would I know?”

You can feel the snark coming, an electric sizzle to the air, and the bickering reminds you of old times with such bittersweet nostalgia that each pump of your heart physically aches. Deep down, shoved in some cobwebbed corner of grey-matter denial, you missed this. Missed Vi in all her stubborn, impulsive, heart-on-sleeve glory.

“I don't even know who I am anymore,” she says, voice a secretive mutter, resigned and exhausted. So many confessions woven into eight simple words.

You sit up from the floor, back cracking in protest, and plop down beside the couch. Face-to-face with Vi, her features slowly sharpening into view. She looks away, showcasing the slope of her profile—the dark smudge of her lashes, the small bump on her nose, the pout of her lower lip. There's a bruise taking shape just beneath her jawline, a mottled purple-black that you trace with your eyes.

“Where'd you get these bruises from?” you ask, thumb a perfect fit inside its irregular edges.

She jolts at the contact, but doesn't pull away. Says, “The Pit.”

All the air rushes from your lungs in a single, drawn-out breath. You can't believe it, even though you should. She gravitates toward violence, a penchant that began after the death of her parents. Street fights are one thing, but The Pit? That's…

“Janna's tits, Violet. You got a death wish?”

“I guess you could call it that.” Her shadowed form shrugs. “Doesn't matter anyway. I need the money, and fighting is the only thing I'm good for.”

You click your tongue, offended on her behalf. “Says who?”

“Me.”

Your heart sinks. Is that really how she sees herself? Good for nothing but violence?

“Vi—”

“Can I borrow your shower before I leave?”

The sharp shift in topic sends you reeling, and you barely manage to scoot away from the couch before she throws her legs over the side, feet planted right where you just sat.

“Uh, yeah. I should have some clothes that fit you, if you need.”

“That would be great, actually.”

You fail to mention, for reasons unbeknownst to you, that the clothes you hand her a few minutes later belonged to an ex-girlfriend from a year or two back. Drawing a similar conclusion takes no effort, though, and Vi inspects the underwear with a puppydog tilt to her head.

“Girlfriend?”

“Ex.“

She scoffs, balling the clothes up beneath her arm. “Been there, done that.”

Then she stands there for a long few moments, gaze glued to the sheets of your bed, lips twisted into a sour frown. And then, as if nothing happened, she blinks out of her trance, head snapping toward you.

“Come with me,” she says, nodding to the open bathroom door and the orange glow spilling from within.

“What, like… shower with you?”

Another shrug. “I could use the company.”

Following her into the bathroom is easy. Easier than it should be, given the long passage of time, but you're no stranger to one-night stands. Picking a pretty woman up from a bar, bringing her home, cooking breakfast the next morning to cancel out the hangover before never seeing her again.

This is different, though. Special. An opportunity that you should really take a second to mull over, but you're already watching her undress with the door closed, and the sight of her naked back smashes your self-control to bits. Intricate lines of dark ink paint her skin shoulder-to-shoulder, trailing down the back of each arm, following the soft curves of her muscles. Beautiful work—whether because of the canvas or in spite of it, you aren't sure.

“I like your tattoos,” you say, embarrassingly breathless.

She spins around fast as a whip, barely giving you time to register the glint of metal peeking from either side of her nipples before you're gawking at the huge shoe-sized bruise curling over her ribs.

“You can't shower with your clothes on,” she says, a playful quirk to her lips that sends you into action.

She's given you tunnel vision in the worst way. At the sight of the barbell pierced through each nipple, and the stretchmarks that fan over her hips and thighs, and the sinew of her biceps, you forget to bitch at her about the physical shape she's in. Injuries that don't seem to slow her down at all.

You've never stripped so fast in your life, trapped beneath her low-lidded gaze. To be fair, it's been a while. You entered a dry spell after your most recent breakup and never really recovered, and now there's a beautiful woman standing in front of you. Naked. Staring at you like she wants to eats you up then lick her fingers clean.

“Nice.”

You can’t help but laugh at her reaction, suppressing the urge to hide yourself. You feel flayed open, desperate, hot beneath the skin. No better time to step around her and turn the shower on.

As you wait for the water to heat up, a spare toothbrush set aside for her to use, the air in the room sizzles with electricity. Tension. You can't take your eyes off each other in the mirror, even as you spit toothpaste in the sink. When you crawled into bed last night, you never could have imagined that this is where you’d end up, but you aren’t about to complain. She's beautiful, and she actually wants you. What more do you need?

When Vi steps beneath the shower spray, grey-dyed droplets sluice down her face and back to pool an opaque puddle at her feet. She sweeps strings of wet hair off her forehead, lashes brushing against her cheeks. Her closed eyes give you the opportunity to openly stare, stomach taut with lines of muscle, a nest of dark pink fur at the apex of her thighs. Tattoos, heavy tits, thick, toned legs.

Janna's mercy, what a woman.

Once she's scrubbed herself down and washed half the dye from her hair (while you freeze to death in the corner), it doesn't take long for her to step into your space, hands both calloused and warm curling around your waist. You audibly swallow, trapped in the sea of her eyes and the cute freckles peppered across her nose and cheeks. Your gaze drifts down to her lips, entranced by the scar that bisects pink flesh.

With a shuddering sigh, you whisper, “I missed you.”

And then she kisses you, hands moving to cup your face as you press against the steadfast line of her body. This isn't about love, or intimacy, or anything other than brain-stem urges—and from the way she kisses you, all rough and wanting, she's needed this for a while, too.

Her teeth sink into the pulse of your neck, breath a wet heat over your chest that strikes a shiver up your spine. “I didn't want to leave you.”

“I know.”

“It wasn't by choice.”

“It's okay. You're here now.”

She pulls away from your neck with an audible pop, nodding her head, eyes glittering like the out-of-reach stars. A contradiction of hope and melancholy written in the wrinkle of her brow.

“I need this.”

With a tender smile, you smooth the hair away from her face. “You have me, Skipper.”

Vi groans, nose scrunching (a lot cuter than it has any right to be). “Way to ruin the moment.”

You had no choice, really. Things were getting a bit too intimate for comfort, given the fact that she already planned on leaving. No sense in digging up old feelings that you'd have to bury again a few hours from now.

“What? It's a cute nickname.”

“No, it's embarrassing.” Still, she latches onto you, even as she physically recoils from discomfort. Runs her thumbs over the soft skin of your waist, over and over and over again.

“I can make it up to you,” you purr, fingertips trailing down the soft grooves of her stomach, toward the fluff of pink hair on her mound.

Her eyes widen a fraction, crystalline in their make-up—the kind of blue you've only seen in your dreams. Gone is the playful tenderness of moments previous, nothing left but a raging fire of heat. Desperation.

She kisses you hard on the mouth, forces you back against the cold shower wall with a muted thump. Your lips part on a groan, and her tongue slips between your teeth. She tastes like the mint of toothpaste and the bitter afterglow of alcohol, chest a purring vibration against your own.

You tilt your head back with a gasp, far enough away to speak.

“I have—” canine teeth sharp against the pulse of your neck, “a bed—” a thick arm curling around your back, “that we can use.”

“Not a fan of shower sex?” she asks, mouthing over the curve of your shoulder.

“Shit, who is?”

Her breath fans hot over your skin as she laughs. “Good point.”

You're a flurried tangle of limbs from the shower to the next-room mattress. The bedroom is small, barely wide enough to fit a dresser and a twin-sized bed and a desk. The rent in this part of the Undercity remains dirt cheap, but you sacrifice certain luxuries as a result.

At least you have a headboard. The very same that knocks against the wall when you shove her back onto the bed, springs creaking in protest. You stand between her spread thighs, hypnotized by the splay of her wet hair (and the black dye seeping into your sheets), her body painting the perfect, Vi-sized outline from the water neither of you bothered to dry off.

“I had the fattest crush on you when we were kids.”

You aren't sure why you say it. Too consumed by the dark freckle beside her belly button to filter your thoughts, but that one in particular? A fantastic way to ruin the mood. The era of your friendship might constitute the worst years of her life.

She exhales a laugh. “I liked you, too,” said all quiet and tender, and you lock your knees to keep from pouncing on her.

No, you have to take this slow, to savor everything that comes next.

You lower to your knees, the floor rock-solid and freezing, and scoot into her space when she spreads her legs for you, your fingers splayed over her thighs.

“You don't have to…” her sentence trails off, palm calloused and warm over your knuckles.

“I want to, though.” Tufts of coarse pink hair frame the puffy flesh of her clit, swollen and blush-red. As beautiful as the rest of her. Your mouth waters at the thought of her taste. “As long as you want me to.”

“Fuck, I—” her head collapses back against the bed, hips tilting up toward your face, “please.”

How could you ever say no to that?

You start by ghosting wet kisses over the sensitive skin inside her knee, soft pecks that trail up to the crook between thigh and pelvis, the downy hairs on her leg tickling your nose. So warm and soft against your mouth, muscles tightening in anticipation.

Just when she reaches for you with a trembling sigh, you switch to the other side, lips twitching into a smile at her frustrated groan. Can't spend too long away from her pretty cunt, though. You spread her puffy labia to find her already wet, clenching and empty.

“So pretty,” you coo, thumb circling over her hole, mouth puckering around her clit in a tender kiss.

Her thighs close on either side of your head, effectively muffling your hearing. She says something that you can’t make out, and you suckle on that little bundle of nerves until she’s grinding into your face, hard enough to bloody your nose. But it excites you—the enthusiasm in her reaction, the salt-musk taste of her cunt, the slick that smears over your cheeks and chin. A hand finds the back of your head, the other curling over your fingers that squeeze the fat of her thigh.

You slide two free fingers into her, groaning at the tight, wet heat—a burning sun—that engulfs them. Soft as silk, perfect juxtaposition to the wiry hairs that tickle your knuckles. Every part of her is perfect. Breathtaking in that rare, once-in-a-lifetime way.

She spreads her legs, feet flat on the bed, and arches up into your mouth. A shudder flows through her like spitting water, muscles tensing beneath your hand each time your fingers bottom out, noisy and slick. You're in ecstasy, floating somewhere thoughtless and warm and wonderful. The needy pulse between your legs means little when you have her taste on your tongue and her cunt milking your fingers.

She comes with a broken gasp, back arching off the bed, pretty tits bouncing as she paws at your hand and head, grip so tight you fear her breaking a bone. For a moment, you struggle to breathe, nose buried in the curls on her mound, lips suckling quick and rhythmic on her clit.

Fuck, you like being used for her pleasure.

When the afterglow fades, neither of you talk about what just happened. You fetch a wet washcloth to wipe her up then clean your hands and face in the bathroom sink. Nothing needs to be said when you both got what you wanted. Satiation blankets the room in a dense fog of fatigue, and you curl into each other beneath the sheets, naked bodies pressed together. She's warm, and soft, and smells like you.

(Distantly, like an itch at the back your brain, you think you could get used to this.)

The next morning, you wake to a cold, empty apartment. You go back to bed.

You're used to being alone.

—

A week later, the budding loneliness leads you to a nearby club. Your neighborhood likens to a ghost town of shadowed streets and poverty. Apartment buildings stalwart despite the foundational rot, landlords that deal in theft, broken windows on first floors—the stink of melancholy permeates this place.

Apex Eleven burns bright with life, with sex and shimmer and the sweat of drunken bodies. In a nearby corner, a woman stands bent over, hands pressed to the wall, a man rutting against her. Shameless beneath the neon lights. The sight does nothing for you, and you quickly search for something else to occupy your curiosity. You press into the crowd, through a fog of smoke and grinding couples, the floor beneath your shoes sticky from spilled alcohol. Your destination is the bar, and beyond that, the bed of a pretty woman. Anything to wash the taste of Vi from your mouth.

But Janna's grace is a fickle thing, and the sight of Vi sat at the bar leaves you begging for mercy. While you had a great time, and, sure, your stomach flips at the sight of her again, the problem with her presence lies in your own tangle of hang-ups—one such issue being insecurity. Better to leave your relationships as one-night stands and acquaintances than to cope with the inevitable. At an early age, you learned that losing people hurts. The Undercity only nurtured that pain over the years, proved to you that attachments just aren’t worth it.

She's talking with a pretty woman stood to her right, elbow balanced atop the table, head cradled in her hand. A pile of glasses surround her, stacked haphazardly in groups of twos and threes. It shouldn’t matter. You had your night, and you’ve gone your separate ways. What she does or who she talks to is none of your business, loaded-gun history or otherwise.

So you choose a spot a few chairs down from her left, shielded by two rowdy men seated between you. All you need is a drink or five, the kind that burns something awful on the way down. Maybe a pretty girl to dance with, if you're really lucky.

To that wish, Janna laughs in your face. She whisks Vi over with an invisible tug to her shirt and deposits the woman of your long-held fantasies right beside you.

“Need a drink?” Vi asks, waving the bartender over with a suspiciously sober call of his name.

With all the empty glasses that surrounded her, there’s no conceivable way she could even form words, let alone stroll over to your seat as if she’s conquered the world. Maybe she has. This is Vi, after all.

“What's the occasion?”

She rests her forearms on the bar, raising two fingers at the bartender. “Beat the champion tonight. I thought I should celebrate.”

“By buying drinks for pretty girls?”

A tired shrug. “That's the idea.”

Her head swivels to face you before her eyes do, and during that split-second blip of time, woven in the subtle knot of her brow, you see it. Pain. Regret, maybe. You're unsure of the source, but it cloaks her like a second skin.

The man slides two drinks across the counter with a nod of his head, and before you can thank him, Vi gulps down the liquid inside her glass. Sucks a breath through grit teeth and shakes the shock from her brain.

Once again, you witness the slip of her bravado. All bite; canine teeth and bruised knuckles. A dog attacking out of fear.

But why?

“Dance with me.” Her clammy hand wraps around your fingers, tugging you toward the packed crowd on the dance floor.

She glances back at you with a teasing grin, beautiful beneath the neon lights as bass-filled music thrums and vibrates your ribs. You find a good spot nearby, but the dancers surrounding you push your bodies together. Chest-to-chest, she leans forward, hands steady on your waist.

“You look nice,” she says, lips pressed to your ear.

Already, a hunger gnaws deep in the pit of your belly. Despite the heat, her leather jacket remains cool beneath your fingers as you tug her closer. Then you kiss her. Bottom lip split at the center, vodka and metal on your tongue, and you collapse against her. Weak, eager, running on impulse.

You never get the chance to actually dance. What starts out as kissing eventually escalates to her groping your ass right there on the floor, which escalates to you tugging her toward the bathroom with its dingy lighting and graffiti-covered walls. She chooses a stall furthest away from the door and shoves you back against the flimsy wall. The lock clicks with a solid thud. She drops to her knees.

“I never got to pay you back for last week,” she says, yanking your pants then underwear down.

You step out of one leg, then hook your knee over her shoulder.

Vi makes you stupid. You know this, you understand this, and yet you're weak to fight her gravitational pull. Really, you don’t even want to. You can’t even blame your impulsivity on the alcohol. Barely have a buzz.

All the second-guessing fizzles out as soon as her lips meet your cunt. She eats you out like it's all she's been thinking about. Messy and reverent. Loud with her muffled moans, gaze low-lidded and cloudy each time she pulls back to look at you all spread out for her.

It's the hottest thing you've ever seen, and despite her sloppy technique, you can't bring yourself to care when she looks up at you with crystalline eyes. Your fingers comb through her hair, the strands soft, hairline slick with sweat.

She circles your clit with her tongue and the leg holding you upright almost collapses. The back of your head smacks against the wall as the muscles of your abdomen clench. Her hands rise to cup your tits through your shirt, lips wrapping around your swollen clit. When she starts to hum, the vibration settles deep in your bones and turns your insides to putty.

You come with a bitten-off groan, breath catching in your throat, chest curling toward the top of her head. If not for her steadfast grip around your waist, your ass would hit the floor from how hard and fast the pleasure slams into you. For a long few moments, you're swept away, floating somewhere thoughtless and euphoric.

When you come back to your body, she kisses you. Soft and lazy. Tender. Splays her hands over your back and holds you like you're something precious. Like you're worthy enough to keep. Her tongue sweeps slow over your own and your arms curl around her neck, trapping her in place.

You’ve never been kissed like this, held like this before. Sharing intimacy likens to scratching an instinctual itch. You fuck for pleasure, you kiss for pleasure, you cuddle to burn the chill from your skin.

But this? This means something. The closest thing to love you'll most likely ever get. Might as well savor it while you can.

You bring her back to your apartment. Follow the same routine as last time (though a lot easier without her drunken stumbling): sharing a shower, eating her out, cleaning the both of you up afterward. You fetch a snack from the kitchen to share in bed, and your concern for her well-being only grows when she inhales her portion. Like she hasn't eaten in days.

“You can stay here whenever you want, ya know.” Said after another snack, both of you tucked in beneath the sheets.

Her fingers stop their back-and-forth stroking of your arm. “Yeah. I know.”

“It's just me here, so…”

“I appreciate it, but I'm okay.”

You try to brush off the declined invitation, but it stings regardless. An emotion that pings around inside your ribs, that you swallow down with a smile.

“Okay.”

—

There's blood on your bathroom floor and an injured Vi curled up naked in the tub. A bar fight, she said when she showed up at your door, teeth chattering from leftover adrenaline.

You don't get it. What she keeps fighting against. Why the blood doesn't matter to her.

The pool of water in the sink turned red a while ago as her clothes sit in some homemade mixture taught by your mom to help remove stains. You pick glass out of her scalp with a pair of shitty tweezers that don't even close all the way, cooped up in the pathetically small bathroom by a spread of every first-aid item found inside the apartment.

She makes you angry, makes you wanna cry sometimes when you think too hard about her pain.

“Why'd you do it?” you ask, voice whispered and wavering.

She hasn't looked at you since you opened the front door.

“It doesn't matter.”

“It does to me.”

She offers up one of her signature shrugs in explanation, and you want to scream. “It's funny. The whole time, I thought I was doing what's right, and it still cost me everything.”

You don't understand what she means, but you don't think she's in the mood for explanations. So you dab the blood from her hair and listen.

“At least I have you, right?”

Your heart tenders like a fresh bruise at the rasp in her voice and the empty look in her eyes. You want to pull her to your chest and say tell me all your troubles so I can help carry them.

You're in too deep. She gazes at you like you’re the only person left in the world, and you’re in too deep. Her blood is on your hands, beneath your fingernails, staining your floor. You'll never wash her out of this place.

“Always, Skipper.”

You're fucked. You're fucked.

“I can't protect you. Can't protect anybody anymore.”

“That's not your job. Besides, I have a gun for a reason.” You pause, washcloth pressed to where the blood still seeps. “Don't tell anybody I said that.”

Her first laugh of the night exhales soft out of her mouth. A lovely sound given her current condition. You could listen to it every day for the rest of your life.

“Do you think I could stay here a few days? At least until I heal up a bit.”

“Stay as long as you need, Vi. To be honest, I’d appreciate the company.”

“My company, or—”

“Specifically yours.”

She remains quiet for a moment, lips twitching at the corners, before she mutters, “Huh. Good to know.”

After you patch her up then help her to bed, she passes out. Stretched across the mattress, halfway under the sheets, drooling a wet spot in the pillow. You decide to leave her be and resign yourself to a night on the couch.

The rest of the week is eventless. You both talk a lot, mostly about your shared childhood and what happened in the years you were separated. Having someone to warm your bed, to fill the empty space of your lonely apartment is… nice. Once again, you find yourself slipping into the unnatural realm of domestication. The routine of waking up next to her, then fixing breakfast, then going to work, then coming home to her sprawled out on the couch.

Toward the end of the week, she finally tells you about her ex. The betrayal, losing Powder (Jinx), losing everything she had left in one fell swoop. You get it now—the drinking, the violence, the Pit, all her pain. Would no doubt do the same if you experienced even half the suffering she's been through.

The conversation happens when your dreams start bleeding through to your consciousness, in that odd state of pseudo-sleep brought on by exhaustion. A good time to bear her heart, when her words filter through the cotton of your ears. Still, you catch all of them.

When you wake the next morning to find all proof of her gone from your apartment, you aren't even surprised. She isn't ready to face the things chasing her, and you can't fix this on your own (no matter how badly you wish you could).

But you can go to the club and find solace in a pretty woman's bed.

—

You don't see her again until the battle against Noxus. Stood beside the infamous Commander Kiramman, speaking in intimate whispers, familiar in a way that settles betrayal in the pit of your stomach—maybe a bit more jealousy than you'd like to admit.

All the breath drains from your lungs when the woman circles a hand around her arm and the realization hits you. She's the ex Vi talked about, and despite the very important details Vi chose to leave out, there’s no mistaking blue eyes and deep blue hair and tall and thin and pretty.

(You were doomed from the fucking start. How could you ever compete with a piltie? One of the richest, most influential of them all?)

Vi gazes out at the crowd with thick arms crossed over her chest, and you hope she skips over your unremarkable form in a sea of unremarkable people. The time you spent together meant nothing—less than nothing. It's your own fault for betraying all you learned over the years. The only person you can blame is yourself.

Her gaze meets yours, and your heart skitters to a stop. Those pretty eyes widen. Time stills. Anger burns a hole through your chest. You shake your head at her when she takes a step forward, and spin on your heel to flee into the crowd.

Until you hear the familiar call of your name.

#arcane x reader #arcane x you #vi x reader #vi x you #vi smut #vi angst #my fics #fic: poison and panacea #ns/ft

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teaboot · 9 months ago

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I do not have Boy Knowledge to trade, but can I ask for dinner party hosting tips???

Sure!

I grew up broke but the great-grandparents passed on all their old etiquette, so *fart noise* got a lot of old fashioned shit kickin around, this is what we'd do

PREP:

Clean the house in advance. And not just common areas- the whole place. Minimum the kitchen, living room, bathroom, entrance. Take out all the trash, no dirty dishes, scrub out the toilet. (This is less vital with super casual close friends and family.)

Have snacks ready before arrival. Ask in advance about any allergies and accommodate. Same for actual food.

Aim for business-casual clothing. Jeans are okay if they're well-fitted and clean, with no holes, but nothing acid-wash. Sleeveless shirts should be at least three fingers wide, typically women-only but fuck gender conformity I don't give a shit.

Put coffee or the kettle on a minute or two before you expect people to arrive. Coffee should be fresh and kettle should be boiled around the same time folks arrive.

Have a place for people to put their coats and shoes. An area rug works for shoes, ans if you don't have a coat rack or closet for jackets it's handy to have a bedroom cleaned out and a bed made so people can keep coats, scarves, bags, and purses somewhere.

In some cultures cooking doesn't start until guests arrive. The way I was raised, cooking starts much earlier, and things should be coming out of the oven after they've been there a few minutes and had time to chat.

Set the table before guests arrive: Typical setting when I was younger was matching placemats at every seat, plate next. Fork on the left, knife and then spoon on the right. Wine glass on the right, saucer on the right, cup on saucer for hot drinks. Cloth napkin under the spoon and knife on the right, unless rolled with a napkin ring, in which case it could be set at the top of the plate, on the plate, or on the right hand side. Salt, pepper, and a butter dish is to be set out- one of each for every four to six seats is a decent rule of thumb.

DURING:

Guests are expected to announce themselves by knocking or ringing the bell. When this happens, usually a younger member of the family is sent to answer the door and let them in. Hosts follow shortly after, and hugs and greetings take place. The host offers to take people's coats and bags, or otherwise indicates where they can be placed. Shoes come off and are left at the door.

Tour of the house. This doesn't happen every time, but a quick, "let me show you around" may happen if you expect to be there a full day or longer, or if someone needs to politely stall for time, or if the host is especially happy to have you there or to show you something. This usually skips bedrooms, but a nod will usually be given to indicate adult's rooms, and kid's rooms may be peeked at to show off or do introductions with small children.

Offering seats. Usually starts in the living room, where, "can I get you anything?" Is asked. Options usually include wine, beer, water, some kind of juice, coffee, or tea. Possibly ginger ale or cola, but not usually much in the way of sodas.

At this point, a tray of cookies, biscuits, crackers, or other small snacks might be set our to be shared. Here, it's polite to eat a little and join in on smalltalk.

Dinner. When food is ready to come out of the oven, someone in the host's home will announce that dinner is ready, and guests and hosts will relocate to the dinner table and pick seats. (If there is not enough room at the dinner table for everybody, children's plates will be set at a folding table elsewhere, or in the vacated living room area.)

Some hosts will have guests line up in the kitchen and serve their own food one at a time. The way I was taught, hosts bring food and serving utensils to the table and sit once everything is placed. Dishes are then passed in a circle from person to person as people fill their own plates. It is generally assumed that you will take your portion in such volume that everyone else can receive the same amount as you, or more.

Meal usually includes a meat-based dish, a starch like rice or potato, one to three vegetable dishes, and a bread like a bun or roll that may be buttered.

It is here preferred that you ask for something to be passed rather than reach over food. "Could you pass me the..." or "may I borrow the ..." are good ways to ask.

Elbows stay off the table. You may rest your forearms on the edge if you like, depending on how formal we're talking, but no elbows.

Napkin is spread out flat on your lap to catch anything that may drop or spill. Some people may choose to tuck I into their shirt collar to protect their suit or tie, but I've only really ever seen old folks do that, or people doing it to babies and small children.

It is polite to eat everything on your plate, especially if you served yourself. Once everyone has eaten their plate, seconds may be offered or mentioned. It's considered rude to go in for second servings if others haven't finished their firsts yet. This is a good place for conversation to pick up.

Once everyone is finished eating, a member of the hosts' house (usually a kid, sometimes a volunteer guest assisting) will clear the table, gathering empty plates and such from the guests and taking them to the kitchen to be cleaned. Drinks might be refilled now, and dessert forks or spoons might be brought in.

Dessert usually happens. While the meal itself is traditionally homemade, it is perfectly normal for dessert to be store-bought.

The serving of dessert is much less communal than dinner. The person dishing dessert will normally take a stack of plates and send a runner (again, usually a kid) to take stock of who wants dessert and carry theirs to them.

After dessert, dishes will again be gathered and removed, with the exception of cups. Coffee and tea is customary at this point, and alcohol will disappear. This is when conversation comes back in full swing- talking and unwinding is the goal here, and letting any liquor digest so drivers who may have had a sip will be safe to drive afterwards.

END:

Someone will sigh and take note of the time. This is different depending on the group, but a second round of hugs will be in order. Farewells will be made at the door. If there are plenty of leftovers, the host may insist the guest take some. Borrowed dishes and containers will ostensibly be returned at a casual future meeting, possibly as an excuse to meet up and chat over coffee.

It is polite of the guest to offer a hand with cleaning up. It is polite of the host to insist they not. If they are an acquaintance or someone to be impressed, the guest will not be allowed to help clean unless they make it clear that offense will be taken otherwise. If they're a close friend or family member, they may be accepted with some minimal pushback.

The host might start cleaning while the guest is still at the table. This is not intended as an insult.

It is polite to leave around the same time that children begin getting ready for best- usually around 8, 8:30, 9-9:30 on special occasions.

If the weather is especially terrible, or driving conditions are poor, the host might offer the guest a bed for the night. If this is done, it is best to fetch them clean sheets and blankets, a fresh towel, and whatever else they might need. They will be expected to stay no later than breakfast the following morning, unless further plans have been agreed upon. An especially prepared host might have a spare set of pajamas (close friends and family only, usually) and a new toothbrush ready for use.

I think that's everything? A lot of it is weird unspoken shit but yeah lol that's most of what I remember.

I'd love to hear what everyone else grew up with!! Share with me your food culturrrrrrre

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