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suddencolds · 21 hours ago

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duffel bag, packed light (yves/vincent AU fic)

Hello! Happy (definitely-not-late) Valentines day. <3 I hesitated on posting this because it's a little disjointed, but I think I need to kick it out of my drafts (go! leave!) before it gets stuck in there forever.

My kind anonymous prompter dropped some of the most fire prompts known to mankind in their submission 😭🙏 These are the two which I went with:

Write an AU oneshot that is completely different from the current Yvescent setting using a combination of 3 or more of the following emojis: 🏝️🎒🛳️🗓️📓🌧️🍱🌠🎬 + hear me out what if we got um spicy kink!Yves or kink!Vincent au 👀 and flowers or an irritant of your choosing

This whole fic is AU!Yves + AU!Vincent w/ the kink, in which they are not coworkers, but instead meet as strangers on a cruise, and Yves turns out to be allergic to something unexpected 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️. I should apologize for the long exposition; the first half of this reads more like a character study. If you don't care about how they meet, you can scroll down to the section labeled "Firsts"!

—

The stranger breaks the silence first.

“It’s a nice view,” he says.

They’re on one of the rooftop floors. It’s surprisingly crowded out here—apparently Vincent’s idea to take an evening walk was far from original. Vincent looks out at the unending expanse of water before them, the sky dark, the cruise deck high enough that the waves below them are almost too small to make out.

“It is,” Vincent agrees.

“I’m sure you’ve seen the ocean plenty,” the stranger says, leaning out onto the railing. The wind picks up on the strands of his light brown hair. “Assuming you’re a cruise person.”

Vincent contemplates going with the assumption. He is not obligated to tell the truth, of course—that he is terribly out of place here; that, if he’s being honest, it is a little strange and embarrassing to be here alone.

“I am not a cruise person,” Vincent says. “I won the tickets through a work raffle.”

“A work raffle?” The stranger turns to him, perking up.

Vincent nods.

“You’re kidding me,” the stranger says, suddenly animated. “You should’ve bought a lottery ticket right after, with that kind of luck.”

“I think I’ve used up all my luck reserves,” Vincent says. “Out of everyone who could have won, I may be the least suited to be doing this.”

“What does that mean? That you don’t like cruises?” When Vincent shakes his head, the stranger stills, contemplative. “Do you get seasick or something?”

“I am not the kind of person who would pay for a cruise.”

“Huh. Well, I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t have to pay for this one.”

Vincent supposes that is true. His coworkers had been happy for him when the announcement had come out—are you serious? I’m so jealous! And you’re going to love it! And Take lots of pictures! We’ll definitely be grilling you for them when you get back!—he thinks he probably ought to be happy, too, considering how expensive this kind of thing would be normally, considering how statistically unlikely it had been for him to win.

Instead, he’d felt a sort of blankness, bewilderment veering on apathy—but it would be ungrateful to turn this kind of thing down, or to sell it off to someone else, wouldn’t it? In the end, he’d nodded a little stiffly at them, and smiled, and promised them their pictures.

“And what about you?” Briefly, Vincent entertains the possibility that this stranger is someone who takes ten cruises a year—the exact opposite kind of person that Vincent is, the kind of person who likes being hundred of miles out from the nearest coast, who likes the extravagance of the room service and the on-deck waterslides and the quaint high class diners, who likes talking to strangers. “Is this your hundredth cruise?”

The stranger laughs. “It’s actually my second. I was planning to go with someone. We bought two tickets way back—not company-sponsored, by the way, though I wish they were.”

“Did they decide to call it a night early?” Vincent asks.

The stranger laughs—a short, curt laugh. Vincent cannot tell if it’s genuine. “She’s actually not here. She couldn’t make it.”

It seems strange, to Vincent, that someone might miss something as expensive as a cruise. “Something else came up?”

“To be frank, I was in a relationship with her up until two weeks ago,” the stranger says. Then he laughs again, a little self-deprecatingly. “Sorry, that’s probably too much information.”

“Oh,” Vincent says. “I’m sorry about the breakup.”

The stranger waves a hand. “It’s fine. She left me the tickets, which wasn’t cool, but I found someone to resell hers to, even though it was sort of last minute. Facebook marketplace is the maker of miracles. The guy who bought it is somewhere on this ship, though I don’t think I could point him out to you.”

“Are you alright?”

The stranger blinks at him. He looks a little caught off guard. “Sorry?”

“With the breakup,” Vincent clarifies. “Two weeks ago is still recent. Are you alright?”

The stranger is quiet for a moment. “That’s very considerate of you to ask,” he says, at last.

Vincent looks away from him. “That’s not an answer.”

The stars are starting to come out. The ocean stretches out, wide and dark, beyond them. The stranger says, after a moment: “With a view like this, who wouldn’t be?”

He reaches up a hand to swipe at his eyes. His sleeve doesn’t linger for very long. If Vincent weren’t looking, he might mistake the motion for something casual, something unassuming.

The stranger squeezes his eyes shut, and takes in a breath. The exhale that follows is carefully, meticulously even.

Vincent doesn’t know what it is that prompts him to open his mouth. It’s a stupid, impulsive decision, directed towards someone to which he has no allegiance. It’s entirely unlike him.

And yet.

“My cabin number’s 3-75-F.” he says, before he can think better of himself. “If you need company, or if you want to talk about how your ex was the worst person on earth, we can get dinner, or just take a walk. If you don’t, I won’t take it personally.”

He turns, starts off in the direction of the deck entrance—this is preferable, he thinks, to sticking around to hear the stranger’s response. Judging by the size of the cruise ship, there are probably two thousand people on board. Vincent tells himself that it’s statistically unlikely he will run into this particular stranger again, which means his offer doesn’t have to mean anything at all.

“Wait,” the stranger says, falling into step with him.

Vincent turns.

“That actually sounds really nice. I’m glad you offered. Dinner, tomorrow at 6?” The stranger extends a hand. When Vincent looks up, he is surprised to find that he’s smiling. “I’m Yves.”

Vincent takes it. “Vincent.” he tries to keep his surprise out of his voice. “I’ll be free.”

Yves says: “Great! I hear there’s a restaurant on the third floor which people really like. Do you like seafood?”

“Seafood’s great.”

Yves grins. “I’ll make the reservation tonight. Goodnight, Vincent.”

“Goodnight,” Vincent says, before he can second guess himself into taking it back. He has the distinct sense that he’s just gotten himself into something he’s fundamentally ill-equipped to handle.

—

In truth, the first time Yves meets Vincent is not the first time they meet. Vincent meets Yves for the first time when he’s in line to board. This, like their second meeting, is a coincidence.

—

Before.

The stranger is smiling.

The girl he’s talking is interested in him. That’s the first thing Vincent notices. It’s not a secret—it’s evident in the way she cranes her entire body towards the stranger as he speaks. Evident in the way she laughs, her shoulders shaking, after he tells her something Vincent can’t quite decipher; evident in the way her eyes snap to his hands as he gesticulates.

Briefly, Vincent wonders how they know each other. A couple? But the more Vincent watches, the more he realizes that that doesn’t make sense. His body language is so deceptively open, as if to dismantle any line upheld between the two of them, but he is careful not to touch her. Likewise, she doesn’t reach for him, even though—from the way her gaze lingers on his arm, too long, loaded—Vincent thinks she probably wants to.

Long-time friends, then? Whatever the stranger is saying is too novel, and the girl is nodding vigorously at him, now, and Vincent can see that she’s trying to make a good impression. Have they just met tonight, then? The girl rummages through her purse for her phone, pauses briefly to type something out. Holds the screen up so he can see it.

The stranger leans in, his face intimately close to her, to peer down at it, too. There is something so confoundingly thoughtless about the gesture. It is almost as though there is a gap in how long they have known each other—as if she is, to him, already a longtime friend. There is no nervousness to the way he regards her, no pointed self-consciousness.

It’s a little interesting, Vincent thinks. He wonders, briefly, if the stranger knows that she likes him.

What strikes him about the arrangement is how open he is. It’s peculiar. It is as if they are not strangers at all. He holds the conversation seamlessly, with such warmth that Vincent marvels at it, as easily as if he has known her for years.

—

Dinner.

It’s around 5:41 when Vincent hears the knock on his cabin door.

The cruise room is more comfortable than he’d expected it to be. The ship is large enough that it feels oddly stationary, and the room—despite its relatively low ceilings and narrow walkways—has an excellent view of the ocean when he pulls back the curtain—the unmoving blue line of it, the inky sky above it, the clouds low on the horizon.

Vincent, who had been half expecting Yves to not show up at all, puts his book down on the nightstand and heads towards the door.

When he opens it, Yves is dressed in a button-down collared shirt and slacks. He looks boyishly handsome, Vincent thinks—kind of like he could be a movie star, probably someone who would play a childhood-friend-turned-lover.

“You’re early,” Vincent says.

Yves checks his watch. “I guess I am. Did I catch you unprepared?”

“No, I’m ready,” Vincent says, nodding towards the hallway. “Lead the way.”

The living quarters on the cruise are ordered in neat rows. They head down a long hallway toward the central elevators. Yves talks about his morning—about how he’d spent his time perusing the second floor shops, how he’d played one game at a casino, won twenty dollars, and now he’s determined to never go back. (“I need to keep the net positive,” he says, “statistically unlikely as it is.” “You’re already doing better than everyone else in the casino,” Vincent says.)

The elevator ride is short. The cruise technically has fifteen floors—more if you count the partial floors at the top: the rooftop bar, the rooftop garden and grill.

“I can’t wait till we get to shore,” Yves says. “Not that the cruise isn’t nice, and all, but whenever I take a walk on deck, it never really feels like I’m stretching my legs.”

It’s Thursday evening. They’ll dock early tomorrow morning at the Amber Cove cruise island, spend a few hours there out on the beach, and then head back onto the cruise for their next stop. Vincent has packed swim trunks, sunglasses, a couple bottles of sunscreen, but the idea of going to the beach on his own feels distinctly out of character. He’s never been the kind of person to seek out experiences like this—sunny and indulgent—on his own, without someone else to pull him into them.

He supposes this isn’t really an exception. The company tickets which landed him on this ship in the first place were the catalyst to everything.

“You haven’t eaten here before,” Yves asks, as they round the corner to the door of the restaurant, “have you?”

“No,” Vincent says. “I’ve only been to the diner on the second floor.”

Yves smiles back at him. “That’s good. I don’t have to cancel my reservation, then.” “I wouldn’t have made you cancel it anyway.”

“You seem too polite to do that sort of thing,” Yves says, with a laugh. “There are too many things to do on deck for me to be dragging you to the same few places.”

Yves relays his reservation name and time to the waiter, who shows them to a table by the window. The restaurant is dimly lit—the majority of the light is coming from a single candle that sits in front of them, next to a vase of tastefully arranged flowers.

“This place is very romantic,” Vincent says.

Yves blinks at him. “I guess it is. Does that bother you?”

Vincent thinks that he can easily imagine another version of this evening—a dinner in which the seat across from Yves is occupied by his ex. An evening where they talk and laugh over a shared bottle of wine and eat the best seafood on the ship.

“I can see why you would have wanted to come here with her,” Vincent says. “I’m sure you had a lot to look forward to. I’m sorry.”

Yves glances back at him, his expression unreadable. Then he looks down. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he says. “You didn’t have any part in it.”

“In your decision?” “In hers.” He shakes his head with a laugh that doesn’t quite show in his eyes. “It wasn’t mine to decide. She rekindled an old relationship at a bar. It was with this guy who went to the same college as the both of us, though I didn’t know him that well.”

He unfolds his cloth napkin and positions it gingerly on his lap. “I didn’t even know that they were friends, or that she would be meeting up with him. We were still together when it all happened, and then suddenly we weren’t.”

“That must have been painful for you,” Vincent says.

“I probably should’ve known better,” Yves says, tilting his head up to the ceiling. He smiles, a little self-deprecating.“I think there were probably signs that I missed. It’s the sort of thing you dwell on, you know. If everything really came out of left field, or if she’s already been falling out of love for a long time. This is depressing, but I keep thinking about—well, if maybe I could’ve done something to fix things if I’d realized it sooner.”

“You shouldn’t have had to,” Vincent says.

Yves blinks at him. “What?”

Vincent looks down—at the flowers between them, arranged artfully in a shallow glass vase. “You shouldn’t have had to do anything. You shouldn’t have had to speculate at all.” He doesn’t know why he’s saying this. It is none of his business, he knows, and besides, it’s not as though Yves has asked for his opinion. He finds himself thinking, abruptly, to Yves’s conversation with the girl in line, a couple spots ahead of him—the girl smiling, leaning close; Yves somehow reflecting back her interest with warmth.

It is part of the reason why Vincent is here, right now, if he’s honest with himself. Vincent understands exactly why people would be drawn to that particular sort of warmth. It’s the sort of warmth he doesn’t know how to cultivate, probably wouldn’t be able to cultivate, even if he tried. It is evident even now, in the way Yves seems to so readily offer his ex the benefit of the doubt, in the way his warmth extends towards her still.

“If she was having second thoughts, then she should’ve said something. You shouldn’t have been expected to read her mind,” Vincent says. Perhaps being so honest is overkill, but even if no one else in Yves’s life will say it, Vincent finds he has no such reservations. “At the very least, she should’ve ended things with you before looking for other options. Frankly, your ex sounds like a terrible person.”

Yves blinks at him, a little taken aback. “I’m sure I’m giving you a very biased impression of her. She’s a pretty reasonable person.”

“Reasonable people can do bad things,” Vincent says, crossing his arms. On some level, he understands—of course Yves, with his proximity to the problem, would not see it this way. “Your ex hooked up with someone behind your back. I find it hard to believe that someone who had your best interests in mind would do that.”

Yves seems to consider this.

“I don’t think I’ll be in the business of forgiveness anytime soon,” he says, as if he is choosing his words carefully. “You’re right to say that what she did was pretty terrible.”

Vincent raises an eyebrow. “But?”

Yves is quiet, for a moment.

“I think it would be easier,” he says, at last, with a small smile. “If I thought about her that way.”

It’s a confession that Vincent has already figured out. “You still think highly of her. It makes sense.”

“She was my best friend for three years.” he shakes his head, smiling. “I thought—I don’t know what I thought. When I thought about a future with her, everything seemed so intuitive. Like all the problems that could come up would be things we’d already know how to work through.”

The waiter stops by their table to ask them for their choice in refreshments. Yves greets him with a polite smile—one that Vincent finds no holes in—and asks for one of the drinks on the cocktail menu. Vincent picks something at random, to match.

“Sorry,” Yves says, after the waiter leaves. “I didn’t mean to get into such a depressing tangent. We don’t have to talk about my ex. I’ll give you time to actually look over the menu.”

Vincent says, “You don’t have to apologize. I won’t take long.” He opens the menu—it is nice, he thinks, that all the food and drink is included in the cruise fare which he didn’t have to pay for—makes a mental list of all the items which look interesting, and stack ranks them in his head. Then he shuts the menu and sets it off to the edge of the table, so the waiter won’t have to lean over to pick it up.

He feels, without looking, that Yves is watching him.

“You weren’t kidding. You’re very efficient.”

Vincent meets his eyes from across the table. Yves has his own menu open, too, but he’s pretty sure Yves has been waiting for him. “You decided more quickly than I did.”

“I cheated and looked up the menu beforehand,” Yves says. “I didn’t want to subject you to my indecisiveness.”

This makes sense to Vincent—as does the early knock on his door. “You were looking forward to eating here.”

“With a hot stranger,” Yves says, with a laugh. “Yes.”

The compliment is unexpected. It settles something inside of him, something nervous and wanting, though Yves says it offhandedly enough that Vincent thinks he probably shouldn’t take it to heart. He raises an eyebrow. “Am I still a stranger? We’ve exchanged names.”

Yves laughs. “I guess we can be acquaintances, then.”

The waiter arrives with their cocktails—Yves’s has a sprig of lavender near the rim, and Vincent’s has a dried orange slice and a stem of mint—and sets them down in the middle of the table. They place their orders.

After the waiter leaves, Vincent shifts his cocktail a little closer to him. He’s not much of a drinker, but his drink of choice is usually on the sweeter side.

“Does it live up to your expectations?” Yves asks.

“The drink?”

“The cruise.”

“I don’t know if I had many expectations to begin with,” Vincent says. “The ship is bigger than I thought it would be. I’m still finding my way around.”

“Have you explored everything already?”

“Not everything.” Vincent thinks through his morning. “I walked around the shopping center, and then the fourth floor plaza.” he says. “I stopped by the theater, too, though I didn’t sit down for a show.”

He thinks, distantly, that perhaps the ship’s amenities are getting wasted on him—during his walk through the shopping center, he’d briefly thought about bringing gifts back for his coworkers and ultimately decided that if he’s going to do any shopping, it should probably be on his last day here, not his second. “I went up to the deck to see the pools. There were more distinct pools than I imagined—I had assumed they’d all be connected.”

“Did you go swimming?”

“I didn’t.”

“So you just walked around all twelve of the pools,” Yves says, incredulous, “without ever getting in?”

Vincent can see how this fact could potentially be off-putting. “The pools were all pretty crowded. I decided it’d be more symbolic if the first time I change into a swimsuit is tomorrow, after we dock.”

It isn’t entirely the truth. Truthfully—and he thinks this might be worse—he’d been more preoccupied with taking pictures of everything—nicely framed shots of the different pools, the different entrances of the shopping center, the crowds gathered around the theater for the midday show—half so he can have something to show his coworkers when he gets back to work (and thus, dispel any accusations of his own ungratefulness around winning) and half so he can have something to send back to his family (particularly Ji-Sung, who he thinks will get a kick out of seeing all of the amenities).

“You’re really serious about this,” Yves says, looking strangely amused. “Are the vacations you go on always so structured?”

Vincent says, “something like that. The cruise is not the main attraction, anyway.”

“For some people, it is.”

“For the same people who make it a mission to take a swim in all twelve of the pools, maybe,” Vincent says, and Yves smiles.

Yves, as it turns out, is an easy person to talk to. Vincent finds out that he doesn’t get seasick—or carsick, for that matter—but that he feels a little claustrophobic if he doesn’t go up to the deck (“to remind me that we’re actually still making progress towards some destination,” he says. “That way, I don’t feel as though I’m trapped in some giant feat of human engineering.”) He finds out that Yves has two siblings, both of them younger; that most of his extended family lives in france; that he likes vacationing in warm places; that the next time he steps foot onto a cruise, it will probably be with his younger sister and his younger brother. That he’d been working late for three weeks in a row to make this trip happen; that it feels a little wrong, now, to have nothing pressing to do.

It turns out to be a nice night, after all.

—

Firsts.

The cologne is an offhanded purchase.

It’s not something Vincent thinks much about when he picks it up. It’s on the third day that he purchases it, after he holds too long of a conversation with the sales assistant—who seems to have an uncanny ability for translating whatever it is he says into one recommendation, and another, and another—to feel like he can walk away unguiltily. In the end, he settles with a tall, sleek bottle with a wooden cap. The cap is lined in gold—to suggest that this is a classy choice, presumably—to match the serif lettering on the front, which says Wood & Flame.

It’s not something he intends on using, either—that is, until Yves messages him, dinner? And then, a moment later: feeling kind of lazy tonight. Mb we can order in

Vincent texts back, Sure. Let’s order in. 6:30?

Yves’s response is immediate. You haven’t been to my room yet, right? I can host :)

It doesn’t mean anything, Vincent thinks, that the dress shirt he picks out is the newest one he owns, that he spends time ironing the creases out of it. It doesn’t have to mean anything, when he lingers longer than usual in front of the bathroom mirror, suddenly apprehensive. Yves is asking him out of friendly camaraderie, and nothing more. He runs another hand through his hair, catches himself, lowers it. Fixes his tie, straightens his collar, finds himself having to fix it again.

With a hot stranger, Yves had said, as if it was nothing. So offhandedly it seemed almost like it didn’t even matter—a throwaway comment, maybe.

The cologne is an afterthought—he spritzes some on his wrists, and then, upon further thought, sprays some in behind his ears. It’s probably not going to be noticeable anyways, unless Yves gets close enough, which is unlikely. The scent of it is somewhat mild, understated—that had been one of the factors which had led him to pick it up in the first place—even when he lifts his wrist to his face, it’s not nearly as obvious as he expects it to be.

The bottle is large enough that it seems as though it will never run out—the liquid in it seems to be at the same level as before, even though he feels like he’s been generous enough in his application of it. He’s starting to think he won’t have enough occasions to wear it to.

Perhaps he will get some mileage out of this purchase tonight. Or perhaps, optimistically, this bottle will last him the rest of his life, he’ll never have to shop for cologne again in his lifetime. If he thinks about it that way, it doesn’t seem like such a financially bad investment.

—

Through his walk down the long, narrow hallway, and up two flights of stairs, Vincent prepares himself for the moment when Yves opens the door.

He’s still caught off guard, though, when the door swings open. Yves is dressed in a green button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows—the shirt is loose-fitting, but the way the fabric tightens around his arms does not do a good job of obscuring the muscle definition underneath—and well-fitted khaki chinos. His light brown hair is tied up in its usual low ponytail, but the strands which were too short to secure are tucked behind his ear.

“You made it!” He grins—it’s the kind of charming smile that completely overtakes his features—and steps aside to let Vincent in. “Now you can compare how different the rooms are three floors up.”

Vincent looks past him, at the arrangement of the room. “It looks like the same elements have undergone a few different transformations,” he says. “The wall art in this room looks more like it’s trying to remind you what you’re here for.”

Yves follows his gaze to the large landscape painting which hangs in the living room, to the right of the TV. It’s a watercolor drawing of waves crashing onto a white sand beach, except it’s drawn in a way that the waves closer to shore are saturated and dazzling, and the waves further from the shore fade out in color into the horizon. There’s faint detailing of buildings in the distance, too. Vincent is pretty sure it’s supposed to be the shoreline of Nassau, which they’re set to dock at two days from now.

“Huh,” Yves says. “It’s sort of like it’s taunting me. What’s in yours?”

“Mostly abstract art,” Vincent says. “Aside from that, a photograph of a conch shell, up close. There’s also a photograph of a ship out at sea, with no land in sight.”

Yves laughs. “That’s pretty ironic. I heard that lower floors are better for seasickness. It would probably suck to be seasick, and then when you look up you’re forced to look at some sailboat in the middle of nowhere. Super on-the-nose.”

Vincent smiles. “It’s probably a good reality check.” he presses closer in to leave his jacket—which he is realizing now that he doesn’t need, but which he brought with him just in case, on the occasion that their evening culminates in a night-time walk on the deck—folded on Yves’s couch. “Were you thinking of ordering room service?”

“Yep,” Yves says. “I think everything on there is complimentary except for the wine. Do you need the room service menu?”

“I took a look at it already,” Vincent says. “I recalled that a certain someone does his research early.”

Yves looks briefly taken aback. Then he laughs. “You caught me. I totally did look at it beforehand. Though I was ready to act indecisive if you needed more time.”

“Very gentlemanly,” Vincent says. “Should we call in?”

Yves ends up calling for room service, on both of their behalf. (“That sounds really good,” he says, when Vincent recites his order to him. “It was probably my second choice.” “You can try some when it comes,” Vincent says.) He orders wine, too, to share, and waves off Vincent’s offer to split the cost.

After that, they settle on the living room couch. Yves says: “I’m thinking we can put something on while we wait for dinner to arrive? But probably not something you care about too much, because I might talk over it.” he passes the remote over to Vincent.

Vincent flips through the channels. There’s some sitcom which is playing which seems somewhat suitable, up until one of the couples gets into a sincere-seeming argument onscreen and Vincent thinks that, considering Yves’s semi-recent breakup, maybe everything with romance should be quietly vetoed. He eventually settles on one of those reality TV shows where people have to partake in increasingly difficult obstacle courses in order to not get eliminated.

“These are always fun,” Yves says. “You know about hysterical strength? I’ve always wondered if being nervous on these kinds of shows helps you or hurts you.”

He reaches up with a hand to scrub at his eyes. Vincent looks over at him with a frown.

“Are you tired?”

“No,” Yves says. He blinks, and then sniffles—if Vincent isn’t mistaken, his eyes are a little watery.

“Bored of the competition already?”

“Not at all. I think these kinds of shows are manufactured so that you can’t get bored.”

“There’s probably an optimal amount of nervousness,” Vincent says, “to answer your question. I’ve found that to be true with public speaking.”

“Huh,” Yves says. “Does your work require a lot of public speaking?”

“Not particularly. Mostly internal presentations, occasionally a conference.” He looks over at Yves. “If you weren’t tired before, talking about my work is going to make you tired for sure.”

Yves laughs. “No way. I love hearing about other people’s work.”

“It’s not very life or death. There are no obstacle courses. Just a lot of regression analysis.”

Yves blinks at him. “Do you work in business, by any chance?”

Vincent nods. “I’m a quantitative analyst.”

“Huh,” Yves says, contemplative. “I heard it’s very competitive.” He sniffles again, quietly enough that it almost goes unheard. “You must be good at math.”

“A small subset of math,” Vincent says. “What do you work in?”

“Wealth management. It’s a little more client-centric, so I had to plan pretty far ahead to take time off for thihh-!” The inhale is sharp, unexpected. They’re sitting close enough to each other that Vincent can feel Yves stiffen beside him, can feel the sharp upwards stutter of his shoulders as his breath hitches again. “hHeh-!” He pivots away from Vincent, burying his face into his elbow—polite, Vincent thinks—and then, after a long, torturous moment, loses the fight to a loud, vocal, “HhHEh-IIDZschH-iEEw!”

Vincent wills himself not to look. “Bless you,” he says, staring straight ahead. Onscreen, a contestant loses her balance on a high mounted totem and drops straight down into the water, much to the dismay of her teammates. It is a wholly ineffective means of distraction.

Yves’s sneeze—like Yves—is painfully Vincent’s type.

“Ugh,” Yves says, sniffling again. He lowers his elbow slowly. “Sorry about that. Where was I?”

“You said you had to plan far ahead to take time off,” Vincent says. It’s no small miracle that he remembers this.

“Right, yeah,” Yves says, and launches into a story about the hoops he’d had to jump through to make sure all the clients he was assigned to would have their needs accounted for.

“That’s a lot of work for a week’s absence,” Vincent says.

Yves laughs. “Yeah. Sometimes the pickier clients really hate the idea of not getting round-the-clock attention. I’m— hh-! hHEH-!” He reaches up with a hand to scrub at his nose, though the look of ticklish irritation doesn’t quite leave his expression—Vincent really shouldn’t have looked. After a moment, he lowers his hand, takes in another uncertain breath, as if he’s still testing the waters. “Ugh, I lost it. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. This must be distracting for you.”

Distracting is an understatement. “Don’t worry about it,” Vincent says. “Is it worse during tax season?”

“Oh, yeah. No one in their right mind really takes off during tax season, snf-! It’s not like, officially against any rules, but it’s pretty openly acknowledged as one of those suggestions that’s not actually very optional. That doesn’t affect you guys as much, does it?”

“No,” Vincent says. “My free time is mostly dependent on project deadlines.”

“The ticket you won happened to not conflict with any of those?”

“I brought my work laptop with me,” Vincent says, a little sheepishly.

Yves’s eyes widen. “No way.”

“It’s not like I’m working long hours,” Vincent says. “Just some catch-up work, here and there. I don’t want there to be any surprises when I get back.”

“Always putting out fires,” Yves says, shaking his head. “It’s probably good that you won the—” He reaches over to lay a hand on Vincent’s arm—presumably as a comforting gesture—only he wrenches away at the last second. “The— Hheh-! Hh… hHEH-!” There’s another brief pause, as though whatever is affecting him has left him stranded again on the precipice of a sneeze. For a moment, Vincent prepares himself mentally for another false start.

But then Yves takes in another sharp, ticklish breath, and it turns out to be enough to set him over the edge. “hh’hEHh’iITSSSCHh-EEw!”

The sneeze snaps him forward at the waist to meet the crook of a hastily-raised arm. It’s just as attractive as the first, if not more—Vincent can hear his voice in the ending syllable, can hear the ticklish desperation in the release. Yves keeps his face buried in his elbow for a moment longer, sniffling wetly.

It takes everything in Vincent to not visibly shiver. What are the chances, really, that the attractive stranger-slash-acquaintance he’s having dinner with—someone who, when this cruise is over, he probably will never see again—just happens to have a sneeze which happens to be perfectly aligned with his tastes?

“Bless you again,” he says. “Are you okay?”

“I feel fine,” Yves says, with another sniffle, his eyebrows furrowing. “I don’t think I’m getting sick. I was fine earlier.”

“Are you allergic to anything?”

“Not that I know of,” Yves says. “No seasonal allergies. Nothing pet-wise, either.”

Vincent tries, and fails, to think of what else might be causing this. The cabins seem too clean, too well-ventilated, to be dusty. There are no flowers anywhere in sight. Is Yves coming down with something, then? But he’d said I don’t think I’m getting sick, with the certainty of someone who probably isn’t.

“Let me know if you start feeling worse,” Vincent says.

Yves smiles at him. “I will. I’m really fine, I promise. It’s just—” he reaches up with a hand to rub his nose. A distant look crosses his expression for a moment—as though he’s warring against the need to do something about it—before his breathing levels off. “—tickish, snf! Not unpleasant.”

The sneezing doesn’t stop. Yves, for the most part, proceeds as though he’s completely unaffected by it—he’s no quieter than usual. It’s as though every time he feels the need to sneeze, he is intent on ignoring it until the need is too pressing to ignore. When that happens, he turns away just in time, except for a couple close calls when he misjudges and instead doubles forward with a sneeze directed into his lap, sniffling afterwards.

Vincent blesses him intermittently, but otherwise offers up no comment. Yves apologizes sheepishly, after the fourth or fifth sneeze, for interrupting the show. Vincent doesn’t tell him that he probably couldn’t care less about the show. Truthfully, he has no clue what’s going on onscreen anymore—obstacle course shows are interesting, but not that interesting.

Dinner arrives not too long after. Vincent can barely focus on the seafood pasta he’s ordered, though he offers Yves a bite, as promised. Yves unfolds one of the napkins room service leaves for them and blows his nose quietly into it. He sniffles afterwards—as though his nose is properly running, now—and resumes talking as usual.

Vincent crosses his legs, does his best to ignore the heat radiating below his stomach. This is really bad timing. The entire inexplicable setup—the fact that they’re sitting so close to each other; the fact that he can physically feel Yves tense beside him, rigid with anticipation, his shoulders jolting upwards with every inhale—is honestly nothing short of torturous.

It’s worse, too, that Vincent can see the ticklish irritation in Yves’s features—the crease of his eyebrows, the fluttering eyelashes, the sharp, uncontrolled gasp—before he wrenches forward with another desperate sneeze. It’s always a full-body endeavor—something that snaps him forward at the waist, leaves him bent over, a little breathless, sniffling wetly.

It absolutely doesn’t help that the underside of Yves’s nose is slightly flushed red, now, from the unusual attention—perhaps this is to be expected, seeing as Yves keeps rubbing it. More than once, Vincent contemplates asking to use Yves’s bathroom, and subsequently, well, getting rid of the problem at hand. Yves has no idea what this is all doing to him. After all, how would he know?

It’s only when they’re almost done with dinner that it clicks.

“Hold on,” Vincent says. Yves had said he wasn’t allergic to anything, but there’s a first time for everything, right? Particularly, there’s always a first time exposure to allergens. That first time might come later in life for those that are less commonplace.

It seems glaringly obvious, in hindsight. Yves hadn’t been sniffling when he’d opened the door for Vincent, had he? From the way he’d reacted to the first sneeze, it didn’t seem like this has been going on for long.

But of course. He’d been so focused on the environment that he hadn’t considered it. There’s only one thing Vincent did tonight which was pointedly out of the ordinary.

The realization leaves him feeling suddenly cold.

“Yves.” Vincent flinches away. “I think I know what’s causing this.”

Yves pauses. “What is it?”

“I’m wearing new cologne,” he says. “I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it earlier. I didn’t think much of it when I was applying it.” He feels a little like an asshole, now that they’re discussing it. It wasn’t his intention to leave Yves suffering. He hadn’t known. But still, the fact that they’ve been sitting in such close proximity this whole time definitely hasn’t helped.

The last thing he wants to do right now is look at Yves, but he forces himself to, anyway—wrenches his gaze upwards until he meets Yves’s eyes. “I’m really sorry. I should’ve made the connection earlier.”

Yves blinks at him. He doesn’t seem as upset about this as Vincent thinks he should be—strangely, he doesn’t seem upset at all. “Are you saying you think I’m allergic?”

“Allergic, or sensitive, yes,” Vincent says, frowning. “In any case, I take full responsibility. I should probably just—”

“Wait,” Yves says, reaching out with a hand to latch onto Vincent’s wrist. “I haven’t been allergic to anything before.”

“It’s probably not something common,” Vincent says, wondering if he should pull away.

“You applied it to your wrists?” Yves asks.

Vincent nods, a little stiffly. He doesn’t quite trust himself to speak. It feels like Yves’s fingertips are burning holes into his arm.

Everything that happens after happens in a flash. Yves tightens his grip around Vincent’s wrist, pulls it gently towards him, and leans down to take a long, indulgent inhale.

Vincent feels all of the blood drain from his face. He rounds on Yves, wide-eyed. “What are you—?”

The reaction is almost immediate. Yves drops Vincent’s arm as if he’s been scalded. He shuts his eyes, barely turns to the side in time for a harsh, “hhEHH’iiDZZSHH-iEW!”

The sneeze is so forceful he coughs a little afterwards, his eyes watering. His shoulders jerk upwards again, his nose twitching. “hHEH… HEHH… hehH’IITSSCHh-EEW! Ugh… coughcough, you’re right, it’s defidetely… hHEH—!!”

Vincent can only watch, frozen in place, as Yves jerks forward again, burying his nose into his sleeve. “IHHHh’DZschH-IIEW! Snf-!” He lowers his arm slightly—Vincent can see him scrunching his nose up, trying to rid himself of what must be the worst tickle he’s been faced with all night. That thought sends a wave of electricity down Vincent’s spine. “Hh-hHeh-! Definitely the cologne that’s… hh-! that’s… hEHH… setting me… hh… HhEH’IDDzShHH-IIEW!! —off, snf, f-fuck… hh-Hehh-hhEHH’IITTSHhh-IIEEW!” The sneeze explodes from him, barely contained, snapping his entire body forward with the sheer intensity. Yves barely manages a breath in between before he’s doubling over with another: “IIIiDDDzSCHHh-YyiEW!”

Vincent swallows hard. He’s, well, so turned on that he can barely speak. It feels a little like the heat he feels—more of a full-body-flush, at this point—might actually melt the clothes off of his arms. “Bless you.” It’s remarkable that his voice manages to come out as evenly as it does.

He stands, heads over to the coffee table to retrieve a small box of tissues. Takes in a deep breath.

When he gets back to the couch, Yves has cupped both his hands over his nose and mouth. Vincent tilts the opening of the tissue box towards him without comment.

“Thadks,” Yves says, with a laugh. He takes a handful and blows his nose. “I needed those. That was probably ndot the best idea, in hindsight.”

Understatement of the fucking century. Vincent stares at him, disbelieving. “Your first idea after learning you’re allergic to something is to test it out?”

“Scientific rigor, and whatnot,” Yves says. “I had to be sure. Like I said, I’ve never actually been allergic to something before. This was quite the… hHeh-!” He raises the handful of tissues back up to his face, his gaze going unfocused. “Just a sec—hh… hH… hHEH’IIDZSCHh-IIEW! snf!”

“Bless you,” Vincent says. “I guess this answered your question, then.” Yves laughs. “It definitely did.”

“I think you—” Vincent places the tissue box—which is at risk of falling off the edge of the couch—directly into Yves’s lap. “—should take this.” He takes a cautious step backwards. “And I should go take a long shower back in my room.”

Yves looks up at him, still a little teary-eyed. “It doesn’t bother me that much,” he says earnestly. “It’s just sneezing. I don’t mind it.” Just sneezing. Vincent shakes his head.

Yves stills, his expression probing. “Unless…” His voice comes out a little softer, now. Uncertain. “...Unless it bothers you?”

That couldn’t be further from the truth. Not in the sense that Yves means it, at least.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Vincent says. “But I’ve been in your situation before, so I know what it feels like. I… know it isn’t pleasant.”

This information seems to surprise Yves. “You’ve experienced this before too?”

Vincent nods. “Every spring, more or less. I’m allergic to tree pollen.” His face feels hot from the admission—it feels strangely inappropriate to be admitting this, but then again, it’s not as though he’s bringing it up out of nowhere. “You can imagine that’s harder to avoid than a singular kind of cologne.”

Yves’s eyes widen. “That sounds terribly - hhEH-! hH… HEHh’iITSHH-iIEWW! snf-! terribly incodvenient. I can’t imagine having to deal with this feeling for an edtire season.”

“It is. That’s why I don’t want to subject you to this for longer than I have to.” He steps past Yves to grab his jacket from the couch, which he ties around his waist. It will be better for both of them if he leaves now. “I really should shower and get changed. Your symptoms are not going to get better if I stick around.”

Yves seems to be coming around to this. “Sorry to have to end things off early,” he says, frowning. “You came all the way here.”

“It was barely a walk,” Vincent says. “And this wouldn’t have happened if not for me. I should be the one saying sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Yves says, with a laugh. “It was an illuminating experience. I’ll see you, then?”

The possibility is so fleeting that Vincent almost dismisses it. Could Yves really be disappointed?

“I have some Claritin back in my room,” Vincent says, trying his luck, though a part of him recognizes that this kind of confidence is categorically unlike him. “We can resume our night when you can get through two sentences without having to sneeze.” And after Vincent takes care of something else, and preferably spends enough time in his room flipping through boring travel pamphlets and sensational catalogues to get his mind out of the gutter, so he can face Yves again with some semblance of normalcy. “...If you still want to.”

Yves brightens.

“Of course,” he says, with sincerity. “I’ll look forward to it.”

#sneeze kink #snz kink #sneeze fic #snz fic #ocpromptexchange #😭 to be honest it was sort of relief to write an au fic... i felt a little less like i was betraying whatever i wrote in canon :')#i feel a slight need to apologize for the fact that there's a time skip in the middle of this (+ a few missing scenes in between);#i'm not sure how much vanilla interaction people would want to read? (this fic is probably already pushing the limits 😭)#anyways. i have wanted to write kink vincent for awhile 🙏#not sure if this does him justice (or if this is even spicy at all 😭)#a part of me feels compelled to scrap this and write something spicier. but i really need to banish this from my drafts #so i hope someone enjoys 🥲#yvverse #au yvverse #kink vincent #my fic #p.s. thank you dearly to the prompter (whoever you are) 😭 i feel so honored to have received such thoughtful prompts and good ideas 🙇‍♀️#the real au is the suddencolds who wrote an allergy fic hahah haha because she never... okay sorry i am hitting post

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sonknuxadow · 2 years ago

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what is even going on at artfight right now they said that early team registrations would be out a few days before the fight. well its the 28th and theyre still not there. Hello

#maybe my memory just sucks but i feel like in past years they had already started early team registration by now.#and before the theme reveal they had disabled the teams from the year before and switched everyone over to spectator #which they havent even done yet everyone is still on the team they were on last year ?#at this point im just refreshing the page every few hours until my username isnt green anymore #like im not trying to hate on the mods or anything i know organizing an event like this is difficult and time consuming #but i feel like setting up team registrations would be one of the easier thigns?#and waiting so long to put them up just feels a bit. disorganized i guess #i hope early registrations arent gonna get cancelled or something #because if the random team assigner thing leaves me stuck on the team i dont want after ive been waiting for this theme for so long #im becoming the joker for real #also its just nice to be able to see what team a lot of people are gonna be on....#makes it easier to pick out some characters youd like to draw because its always a good idea to save some in advance #with the site barely working on the first day and all

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gilverrwrites · 6 months ago

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I love imaging Dick, Tim, and Damian sneaking around trying to meet Jasons new gf because they just wanna be involved in his life and they know if they they leave it to Jay they wont meet her u til they're married with kids 😭

AND ‘omg us meeting Jason’s siblings when’

AN: Ngl I love this idea too, its so shitty of them but they have the best of intentions.

Damian

A boy no older than 14 with eyes that pierce the soul was not what you'd expected to find on Jason's couch the very first time he'd left you alone there. Jason had to dip out unexpectedly early, and had promised you run of the place until he got back so you'd slept in as long as you could and were on your way to make breakfast when you're greeted by the hell-child.

Once your initial fright wears off you realise you recognize him from a photo Jay had showed you which makes you feel slightly more at ease.

“Good morning? Damian right?” You offer as you pass him, be-lining for the coffee machine, you're gonna need caffeine if you're meeting any member of Jay's family for the first time. “Can I get you anything?”

“Alfred says it's unbecoming to sleep past 9.” Besides the initial glare he'd graced you with as you emerged from the bedroom, he doesn't even look up at you, his eyes glued to the pages of a book. Like brother like brother, you guess.

“Oh, well. Good thing Alfreds not here then.” You add a small laugh, trying to inject some humour to the situation. Damian does not respond in kind. “Is that a no? I think there's some chocolate cereal around here somewhere.”

“What do you do for work that allows you to be in my brother's home in the middle of the day?”

Jeez this kid is no-nonsense. “Or I could make pancakes, I make really good pancakes.”

“And tell me what exactly are your intentions with my baby brother?” Baby?

“I think there's some chocolate chips around here somewhere. Jason says you like chocolate. Chocolate pancakes?”

“Do you always avoid questions?”

“Are you always so intense?”

He slams the book closed and you nearly jump on the spot. He finally looks at you, really looks at you and as you stare back his features begin to soften slightly.

“I’ll have a coffee.”

You're certain from the sly look on his face that he's probably not allowed coffee. He certainly doesn't need any. But screw it, he's not your kid and if it gets him to like a little, you'll take the risk.

So you pour two coffees and join him on the couch. His questions do not cease until Jason returns about an hour later. He couldn't care less about the coffee, but he does care about Damian breaking in to interrogate his partner and immediately kicks Damian out.

Dick

Dick finds out about your existence from one of Damian’s letters, and he's subtle but pushy about meeting you. Not that you're aware. He keeps ‘dropping by’ Jason's apartment ‘just to see his lil brother’, no other reason but is told to get lost or downright ignored anytime you're there, until he decides to cut out the middle man and turn up at your home instead.

“Let me tell you, you are a hard person to get a hold of.” He informs as he invites himself through your front door.

“Um, hello Dick?” As you stare at his lush hair and sculpted abs you wonder what Alfred feeds these boys.

“Yep! I can't stay so I’ve gotta make this quick.” he gestures for you to come closer, speaking in a playful, conspiratorial whisper. “Jay doesn't know I'm here.”

That would be why he can't stay, Jason is due at your door any minute now.

“But you two seem to be getting pretty serious and I think it's important that we all get to know each other. You following?”

You nod, and he gives you the perkiest, most genuine smile. That or he has that exact look practised to a T. From what Jay tells you, either is possible.

“So, Barbara and I, that's my wife” You nod once more, you're aware of Barbara also. “have booked a table at Casa Gotica for Thursday night. We need you to get Jason there without letting on that it's a double date.”

“I don’t know.” you finally give your nodding head a break. “Jay and I don’t lie to each other.”

“Right. I can't begrudge that. Very glad to hear he's picked an honest one.” He takes a moment to straighten his thoughts, but his moment is cut short but the echo of Jason’s combat boots approaching your door. Dick’s eyes rapidly scan the room for a secondary exit before he settles on an open window. “Don't think of it as lying, think of it as omitting the truth. Whatever you have to do just be there for 6.30. Oh, and it's great to meet you!”

“You too.”

“Thursday, 6.30!”

Before you can agree he’s gone, presumably scaling the side of your building as Jay steps inside.

Tim

Tim was actually the first to be aware of you and your relationship with his brother, however, the very real possibility of being gutted by Jason for snooping in his personal life was too high for him to make a move.

But you seeking him out is a different story; or rather, you being the first to say hi when you bump into each other in line at the grocery store is different. It would be rude not to respond to your attempts at initiating a conversation.

“Hello, hi, are you Tim? You don't know me but I’m Jasons partner. Its so great to meet you.”

“I know who you are.” He states rather ominously, eyes darting around behind you. “Is he here?”

“No, but he's picking me up after.” His shoulders visibly ease.

“Cool cool cool.” He’s suddenly much more personable. “So, I hear you're into…”

That chatting doesn't dry or lul at all as the queue dwindles and both buy your groceries. He waits with you until you get confirmation from Jay that he's on his way. He's easily the chillest sibling you've met thus far.

When Jason arrives he gets out of the car to open the boot and passenger door for you as always, but not before he thrusts his phone in your face. “Where is he?”

Displayed on the screen is a selfie of Tim with you in the background, you absolutely do not remember it being taken.

#anon #thanks for the request #/ask #dc #Jason Todd #jason todd/reader #jason todd x reader #red hood/reader #red hood x reader #red hood #batfam x reader #batfam #damian wayne #robin #nightwing #dick grayson #tim drake #red robin #3K

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julymusings · 3 months ago

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dark chocolate cherry

i want to bring you flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses. i want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

or; your boyfriend shows up when you just want some alone time [3.2k]

jason todd x fem!reader; reader gets her period and describes painful symptoms; just fluff; jason "words don't come easy so here's acts of service" todd this is earlier in the relationship which is why he's still a little shy but she knows he's red hood? idk man. i was just going with it; can you guess what inspired this? (everything is awful)

The day started at 2 AM when you woke to shooting pains in your abdomen and blood everywhere. It continued until 2:45 while you cleaned yourself, changed clothes, put on a fresh pad, took some painkillers, and changed the sheets. It paused for about an hour until you woke up again at 4:00, courtesy of Gotham’s patented night-life that had taught you to completely tune out the sound of police sirens. Tonight, however, they weren’t tuning out.

The sirens quieted at 4:10, by which angry tears collected in the corners of your eyes as you flopped around in bed in an attempt to get comfortable. No matter what you did, there was always something wrong; the pillow was too hard, the blanket was too scratchy, the position hurt your arm.

From 4:11 to 4:12, you screamed into your pillow.

By 4:15 you had settled in front of the TV with a bowl of dry cereal (it took everything in you not to cry over the lack of milk in your fridge), a heating pad, and your favorite comfort show queued up.

At 8 AM you managed to drag yourself to work, where you half-assed the day’s tasks, took a 15-minute break to cry in your car, then dipped out a half-hour early.

Now, at 5 PM on a Friday evening, you’re curled into the fetal position in front of your TV with your comfort show resumed and your trusty heating pad cranked to the highest setting. Prepared to spend the entire night here, you already changed into pajamas and kept a couple blankets within reach. Your phone buzzes on the coffee table, and you stretch to reach it, careful not to lose your comfortable position or roll off the couch.

Jason About to leave Be there in 20

You groan out loud. You want to throw your phone across the room, but decide against it because no amount of hormones from hell are worth six hundred dollars. You’re still angry, though, for being so stupid as to forget about the date you had planned for tonight. Scrolling up to earlier messages, you see another text from today wishing you a good morning and telling you he was excited to see you tonight. But, too down to bother checking any messages today, you had missed it.

You I can’t tonight anymore I’m sorry I don’t feel great

After hitting send, you place your phone on the ground, not even having the energy to reach for the coffee table again. Or the energy to lift your arm back up, apparently, given how it hangs limply over the edge of the couch. You feel guilty about cancelling, but you are in no state to go out tonight. You’re used to the symptoms of your period hitting so hard. As much as you and Jason care about each other, you’re not sure you’re ready for him to see you like this. You’ve managed to plan your relationship around your hormone cycle so far, but today it came early.

Your phone’s buzzing is muffled by the rug, and you almost don’t hear it. Jason’s photo is displayed on the screen.

Your hanging hand clicks ‘answer’ and puts it on speaker so you can take the call without moving from how you're curled up.

“Is everything okay? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m fine, I just don’t feel up for going out tonight. I’d rather stay home.”

“Did something happen?”

“No, I just got my period so I’m not really in the mood.”

“Okay, we can stay in tonight. What do you feel like eating? I can pick something up.”

“No, Jason…I want to stay home alone tonight.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the line.

“Okay…did I do something?” His voice comes out a little smaller.

“No, you’re fine, I promise. I just don’t feel like seeing anyone right now.”

“…Not even me?”

Your hand presses against your temples to soothe the building tension headache. The self-doubt in his tone brings the anguish of the entire day bubbling up your throat. You feel like the worst person in the world. Exactly how you don’t want him to see you.

“Jason…it’s not you. I just…I feel like shit right now, honestly. Everything hurts, I’m miserable and sad and angry at everything, I’m breaking out all over.” You feel yourself welling up at all these little stresses coming out. “I’m craving everything but feel too sick to eat anything…I feel pretty disgusting right now, and frankly, I don’t want you to see me like this.” You finish your rant with a sniffle. You wipe your nose, trying to hold back the sob that’s threatening to break through. But at his silence, your worst, most improbable fears claw their way to the surface: he hates you now. You scared him away. You exhale heavily into your sleeve as more tears spill.

The phone is quiet for a long moment. Then; “I could never find you disgusting,” he says, gently. “But if that’s what you want, then we’ll reschedule.”

“Thank you. And sorry.”

He speaks with a tone you can’t quite parse. “Don’t apologize. Just feel better.”

It’s one hour after your phone call, and at the first knock, you know who it is. Who else could it be? With that soft, somewhat hesitant, one-knuckle rap on the door. Only one person knocks on your door like that.

“Jason, I told you not to come here,” you say a little more cutting than you intend to, but your back and shoulders feel like they’re about to snap under a phantom pressure and the frustration of your request being outright ignored leaves a burning bitterness that channels itself into a violent wrenching open of the door.

He jumps a little at the abruptness of your greeting. One look at your face and he visibly deflates.

“I’m sorry…I know you said not to come, but…” his gaze casts downward to his hands. You follow; he’s clutching a reusable grocery bag. Peeking out of the top is a gallon of Neapolitan ice cream. The ice cream carton’s condensation seeped through a small patch of the cloth bag and dripped onto the other items; a bushel of greens, among some other fruits and vegetables, as well as a parcel of brown paper that was fastened closed with a twine string. You return your gaze to his face.

“I think—” he cuts himself off, free hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. Then he drops his hand and sighs. “I’m sorry. This was a bad idea. You told me not to come here and I ignored you, but I thought…” he trails off, probably hoping you’ll say something so he can gauge your reaction.

You just stare at him.

He shifts his weight back and forth. His hand twitches.

“Okay, yeah, I’ll—”

Then, you burst into tears.

Jason’s eyes widen. He reaches out to touch you, then stops himself. “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, this was stupid. Please stop crying, I’m so sorry—” He’s panicked, trying to calm you down with apologies and soothing assurances that he will leave immediately and never go against your wishes again. All the while you stand in the doorway, blubbering like a toddler with a skinned knee, new tears forming faster than you can wipe the old ones away.

He once again raises a hand towards you, before it stutters, then clenches into a fist as if it takes all his strength to fight against the instinct to be close to you, fighting against the string that tethers him to you. He drags his hand down his face, then it falls back to his side.

“Okay, I—I’m leaving now. I’m leaving. Do you…want this?” He holds the bag out to you.

With it now in front of you, its further contents are visible. You manage to tamp down your tears enough to get a few words out.

“Did you—hic—buy me groceries?”

“Yeah…” There’s a wince in his tone, as if he’s only now realizing that his gesture is not translating as he intended.

You look back up at him with pursed lips and knitted brows, sniffling. Sure, the ice cream you can understand, but…you have no idea what to make of the rest.

The bag drops back to his side. “I figured…it’s just— it’s the stuff that you’re supposed to—” He strokes his palm over his mouth, eyes screwing shut for a moment. He huffs at himself, then continues. “I mean I’m sure you already know all of this, so maybe you already have all these things, and now I’m realizing how unnecessary all this was, and I shouldn’t have assumed—”

“Jason,” you say. Your upset has since been overshadowed by something else, though you can’t tell what it is. And your crying has stopped, but its lingering effects have you feeling congested and a little foggy. You’re half expecting this to be a fever dream that you’re moments away from waking up from in a cold sweat.

“—because obviously you know what helps you feel better much more than I do—”

“Jason.”

“And you— yeah?” His eyes are a little harried when they find yours again. But off your tired and still-confused look, he gets the message and collects himself.

“Right, yeah, I just thought that…maybe I could bring you some of the stuff with all those minerals that are supposed to help women when they’re…menstruating.” He briefly breaks eye contact at the end of his sentence, red rouge creeping up his neck.

You can’t help it; you start to giggle. You can’t remember the last time you heard a man use the term ‘menstruating’ in a non-medical context. And the fact that he’s so shy about it— upset as you may be (though not at him), there’s no denying how adorable your boyfriend is. His head shoots back to you as your laughter intensifies. He blushes harder.

“It’s not that funny,” he mutters.

You step away from the door, finally closing the space between you, and wrap your arms around his torso. Your head nestles into his chest. He gently drops the grocery bag on the ground and reciprocates your hug. He rests his chin on your head, which fits perfectly under his. Like two puzzle pieces clicking into place. You breathe him in.

“Sorry I’m such a mess,” you murmur into his shirt.

He breathes into your hair. “You have nothing to apologize for. And you’re not a mess.”

You look up, chin resting in the space between his collarbones. He looks down at you with a small smile, but some wariness is still etched into his features. Fear of unwittingly upsetting you again. He brings up a hand to push some hair out of your face and tuck it behind your ear. His hand remains there, toying with the hair that falls below your shoulder.

"Thank you for the food,” you whisper. The moment feels too intimate to speak any other way.

“I’m sorry for not listening to you. I just…” He imitates your quietness, like his admission is also too vulnerable to say loudly. “I really wanted to see you. And I hated the idea of you feeling bad about yourself, or being in pain. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Your eyes feel wet again. The first instinct is to hide your face, maybe press it to his chest once more. But, for some reason, you don’t. You want him to see you like this, messy and emotional and upset. You want him to see every part of you, and you want to see every part of him, the good and the bad.

“You didn’t.” A tear slips past the effort to keep it at bay. He shows no reaction to it, eyes never leaving yours, other than a quick swiping away with his thumb. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before. That’s why I was crying. Not because you showed up.”

“That doesn’t seem right. This is nothing. You deserve even more.”

With no words to fully, adequately communicate the blooming in your chest, you stand on your toes, reaching up to him for a kiss. But given his stature, your lips only reach his chin and brush over its underside.

At your quiet whine, he chuckles and leans down to meet you in the middle. The kiss is soft; filled with the innocence of fresh blossoms in the spring, and the sweetness of its borne fruit.

You pull away when a vicious cramp roots you back to the present. Your limps tighten around Jason with a groan.

“I need to go back inside. I’ve been away from my heating pad for too long.”

His shoulders sag when you step away from him. “Oh, um…do you still…want me to leave?”

With a simple exhale of humorous disbelief, you grasp his hand in yours and tug him to your front door. He’s like an excited puppy, eyes brightened and perking up as he grabs the grocery bag and happily trails after you.

He goes straight to the kitchen, pulling out a chair at the counter for you to settle into, then sets the bag on the counter. The ice cream carton has dampened most of the cloth by now, and likely the rest of its contents, but rather than attending to the groceries, his first action is retrieving your heating pad from where it rests on the couch. He unplugs it from the wall outlet and brings it to you. You curl up on the chair with it pressed flat against your lower stomach. It only takes a minute for the pressure in your hips to abate.

Then he moves to the groceries. The ice cream immediately goes in the freezer, and he unloads what’s remaining onto the counter, one by one, and you take note of each item. There’s spinach, carrots, apples, oranges, dark chocolate, some kind of meat wrapped in brown paper, and, strangely enough, an entire block of cheese.

You give him a quizzical look, picking it up to read the label. “You got me…cheddar cheese?”

He retrieves a cutting board and knife from its spot next to the sink, then takes the cheese from you. “Good for certain symptoms.” He slices open the plastic wrapping and cuts out some cubes with skilled efficiency. He does the same with an apple. “They all are,” he says, referring to his entire haul. He completes the makeshift charcuterie board with a couple squares of dark chocolate and slides it across the counter.

You look down at the cutting board, thinking about everything he’s done for you; everything you never even had to ask for. The words sit on your tongue, encaged by your clenched teeth; an admission that coils itself around your spine and squeezes tight, restricts your breathing and pumps your heart at thrice its speed. But you feel yourself welling up again, and the first bout of tears already exhausted you so much that all you can manage is, “I don’t know what to do with all this. I don’t have the energy to make anything good.”

But he just smiles and says, “That’s what I’m here for, honey. Can I make you something?”

You nod. He gets to work. The immediacy of his actions, how he takes no time to decide on a dish or find a recipe, makes you think his previously stated intentions of ‘just dropping this off’ were less genuine than he lead you to believe. Nevertheless, you munch on the snacks he laid out for you and watch him work. The cheese and apples are a surprisingly cohesive combination, the meshing of sweet crispiness and savory creaminess eliciting a contented sigh from you. You try to ignore the way Jason smirks in the corner of your periphery. The chocolate is incredible, yet unfamiliar. You read the label on the packaging: 80% Dark Chocolate with Cherry and Almond Filling. Even if you hadn’t tasted it yet, the quality of the packaging itself would have been enough to let you know that this chocolate is extremely high-quality. Like, special-order-from-Europe quality. Not stop-at-the-grocery-store-on-the-way-home quality.

“Where is this from? Did you buy this today?” You ask him through a mouthful of the rich, melting chocolate.

He doesn’t look up from the carrots he’s dicing. “Uh…no.”

Anyone else would attribute his avoidance of eye-contact to standard kitchen-knife caution. You are not anyone else. You could blindfold him, spin him around ten times, put a sharp knife in his hand, and he could still pull off a perfect julienne. You look closer. His cheeks are dusted with pink.

You let out a laugh. “Jason, you’re not embarrassed about liking fancy chocolate, are you?”

“No! Not at all,” he says, ceasing his chopping. He looks up, but not quite at you.

“Then?”

“‘Then’ what?” He asks.

“Then why are you being so shifty right now?” You try to catch his gaze.

“I’m not!” He defends. “It’s just chocolate! Do you like it? I’ll bring you more.” He’s stealthy with the way he avoids your eyes; you almost can’t notice how hard he’s trying not to make eye contact.

“Jason!” You reach across the counter, having to rise off the chair slightly, and take his face in your hands, making him look at you. When he does, he wears a sheepish smile.

“It’s…” His removes your hands from his face, holding them in his. He mumbles something, turning his head to the side. But you catch the tail end of it, a goading grin already creeping up your face.

“What was that?” You tilt your ear towards him, exaggerating the action.

“It’s Bruce’s.” He, in turn, exaggerates the enunciation, rolling his eyes at your simpering. “I…found it. In his pantry one day. And I liked it, so I took it. And then I…kept taking it. Every time I visited.”

You pout teasingly. “And you’re ashamed to admit that you think he has good taste in something?”

He doesn’t say anything, only hiding his face in his shoulder. You pull on your intertwined hands and he gets the message, skirting around the kitchen counter to come closer.

“You are so adorable, you know that?” You say. You reach up and pinch his cheeks. He swats your hands away, but there’s no mistaking his broad, childish grin for anything but affection.

He breaks off another square from the chocolate bar and holds it to your lips. You bite off a small portion, then push it back to him. He takes the remaining piece in his mouth and his eyes close for a brief moment as he savors the sweet, tart, and nutty flavors. You simply watch, entranced by him. Then, he kisses you. You lean into it, hands sliding up his shirt to grip the fabric and bring him even closer. His hold finds your waist.

He tastes like cherries and dark chocolate.

He breaks the kiss to rest his forehead on yours, and you want to tell him that. That, and so much more. But from the look on his face, the way his eyes find yours and the tips of his ears have a similar heat to the one in your chest, you can tell he already knows.

when it comes to jason's post-pit-repressed-teenager characterization (aka despite being older he's still as inexperienced and confused and insecure about the world outside of vigilantism and w/ women as a 15 y/o would be) (aka my favorite characterization tee hee), i think that he's mature about periods, knows they're normal and not gross or shameful etc, but still gets shy about saying the actual word, for no other reason than the 'shy around women' part always makes me giggle

also bruce is keeping the chocolate stocked specifically because he knows jason likes it and will keep taking it because he loves his son even if his son doesn't love him (he does he's just in his angsty teen 'i hate this family you don't understand me' phase rn)

divider is from here

quote at the beginning is pablo neruda <3

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solelifauna · 4 months ago

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With Bared Teeth & Prayers (Yandere Batfam X Neglected Reader) (Dark!!! Werewolf AU) (PT. 1)

TW: Mentions/allusions to cannibalism, death, and violence.

Three years had passed since that fateful day and your life had only gotten more miserable. Whatever hopes you had for being a part of a family were thwarted as soon as you stepped foot in the household. Bruce doesn't care about you, Dick was straight up mean, Jason (as the pack protector) was aggressive, Tim found you annoying, and Damien simply loathed your existence and would join Dick with his cruelty.

Both Stephanie and Barbara were civil with you, but neither really cared about what you did. Cassandra was nice, sometimes signing to you and giving you scented clothing, but she still didn't really go out of her way to engage with you. The only person who you felt truly cared about you was Alfred.

The first two years you tried your hardest to fit in and get the others to like you. You did whatever they wanted, made sure to learn their interests so you could talk to them, never complained, and made sure to respect the pack's boundaries.

You hoped that eventually, you’d all move past this hurdle and soon you would get along and be allowed in the pack den and other pack activities. Unfortunately, you realized that you would never be considered part of the family or the pack. Which as heartbreaking as it was, was the least of your worries.

You see, there was an ancient custom in werewolf culture concerning new pack members and pack initiation. When a new werewolf is introduced to a pack and their territory, the new werewolf has a certain amount of time to be accepted into the pack; if they’re not, well, they're killed and eaten.

Yeah… quite terrifying and barbaric if you think about it, but mostly only the old lineages still continue this practice. Which is why you’re absolutely fucked. See, typically when children come to a pack they get accepted immediately, pups were (usually) considered precious.

In your case, being a half-blood severely reduced your chances and well, you guessed the Wayne family just didn't like you. Which sucks because you only have until your 18th birthday to get them to accept you, and considering your 16th birthday was coming up, your time was coming to a close.

Or, you could always just run away. Hey! It was an option, one that you weren't sure the Bats would even let happen. Still it was worth a try. Which leads to your current situation in Bruce's office; you were trying to cut your losses a little early.

~~~~~~

“Look, I just feel as though this is the best course of action for your pack’s and my own safety.” Came your exasperated and desperate voice.

“Safety?” Bruce questions, causally flipping through some Wayne Industries documents, as if he doesn't know exactly what you're talking about.

“Considering Damian’s tried to kill me five times, two of his attempts almost being successful, and Jason's pit aggression that has him ready to rip my throat out, you can see why someone would feel unsafe.” You state, voice raising slightly in pitch.

He hummed noncommittally, his eyes still focusing on whatever paperwork he was going over.

“I'll think about it.” He replies, still disinterested.

“There’s nothing to think about! I should be allowed to leave if I want to, and if anything I'll finally be out of your pack's way.” You say, finally letting your frustration show through.

Why couldn't he just let you leave? Did he seriously want to keep you here just to kill– sorry, eat you in another two years?

“Excuse me?” He finally looks up from his work, his blue eyes meeting yours. He was unimpressed, you could tell that much at least, coupled with a dark look of simmering anger.

Okay, so maybe you should tone it down a notch.

“Come on, I'm not an idiot. I know me being here is simply a public formality, good fluff bits for the press y'know. But I'm not part of your family, and I'm certainly not part of your pack. You and the others have made that very clear. So please, allow me to do us both a favor and get out of your way.” You add.

“Where would you go?”

“Huh?” You blink in surprise.

“Where would you go?” Bruce repeats again.

“That–that is honestly none of your concern.”

“None of my concern? Aren't I entitled to know where my kid is?”

“No, you’re not. Sure you're biologically considered my father, but we all know I'm not really considered your kid.”

“Is that what you think?” He questions.

“Am I supposed to think any differently?”

“You carry the Wayne surname do you not?”

“I do.”

“Then you belong to the Waynes. To me. Which means that I decide what happens to you.”

There was the familiar darkness that you saw pooling in Bruce’s eyes, the type that left the Joker a tortured mess, the type that disemboweled Ra’s Al Ghul, the type of darkness that reminded you that Batman doesn’t kill. Oh no, he maims and tortures instead.

You unconsciously take a careful step back.

Bruce’s stare felt like ice, and his words hung in the air, thick and heavy with an authority that was absolute. You wanted to argue, to say something, but every instinct in your body screamed for caution. There was a darkness in his gaze that you had seen glimpses of before, but never directed at you, and now it was there, unblinking, cutting through any hope you’d harbored for mercy or understanding.

Your heart hammered, yet you forced yourself to stand straighter, swallowing down the instinctive fear.

“With all due respect,” you began, your voice smaller than you intended but steady, “staying here for another two years just for you all to—to follow through with that—custom, doesn’t seem fair.”

Bruce’s expression didn’t soften, but his posture shifted slightly, his gaze piercing through you like he could see every thought you tried to hide.

“Belonging is earned. It isn’t granted because of blood,” he stated coldly. “If you truly wish to belong somewhere, you work for it.”

“I’ve tried,” you said, voice thick with frustration. “I’ve tried everything. I’ve followed your rules, I tried with everyone, and stayed out of everyone’s way. But nothing I do is good enough.”

“You assume that acceptance is given on your terms,” he replied, voice as controlled as ever. “Pack structure doesn’t bend to anyone’s whims. Least of all a half-blood who hasn’t proven their loyalty.”

The words stung, tearing open a wound that you thought had scarred over. You clenched your fists, feeling the sharp ache of your own nails digging into your palms. “And what exactly does proving myself look like here? Surviving Damian’s attacks? Letting Jason rip me apart every chance he gets?”

“Watch your tone,” he warned, his voice low, cutting through any retort you’d planned.

You took a shaky breath, forcing yourself to take another step back from his desk. Challenging him wouldn’t help. He’d already decided where you stood, and nothing you said would change that. Maybe it was better to save your energy, conserve your strength for the day you’d finally slip away.

“Understood,” you said, swallowing the bitterness in your throat. “If that’s how it is, then I’ll stay out of everyone’s way.”

But you’d still leave when the time comes.

Bruce’s gaze hardened, like he knew what you were thinking. “Your place is here until I decide otherwise,” he said, a finality in his tone that told you any further argument would only worsen things.

He dismissed you with a look, returning to his papers as if the conversation were over, as if you were no longer there. Every step you took out of the office felt heavier, like the manor itself was holding you down, binding you to this place that was never truly a home.

As you closed the door behind you, the cold emptiness of the hallway wrapped around you, and you knew then—you were on your own. If you were to survive this, it would be on your own terms.

It's like clockwork when Alfred calls you down for dinner. The same time, the same routine.

You show up to dinner, hands still shaking and mind still reeling from your disturbingly cryptic conversation with Bruce. But, never mind that you’d just eat quietly and leave like you always do. You moved to your normal seat only to find that all the chairs near the end of the table had disappeared. What the actual fuck. Was this some type of powerplay? Something to imply that you didn’t even have a seat at their table anymore?

You mean, you wouldn't mind eating in the safety and comfort of your own room. With an exasperated sigh, which had a couple of heads turn their attention to you, you grabbed an empty plate and started loading it up with food. You were about to head back to your room when you heard an outraged growl from behind you.

The kind of growl that had you tensing, ready to submit and roll onto your back.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Jason growled out from behind you.

You freeze.

“To my room?” You responded meekly, curling in on yourself as much as you could.

“And pray tell, why do you think that’d be acceptable?”

“Uh–um, ‘cause my seats’ gone?”

Jason only smirked, the feral kind that almost always promised pain to his enemies.

“Oh, but your chair isn't gone, it's right here.” Jason says pointing to a chair right near the head of the table.

You blanked. That's not right. Only pack was allowed that close to the head of the table, where Bruce sat, where the pack leader sat.

“B-But, I can’t–”

“Did that sound like a suggestion?”

You shook your head no, swallowing down a whimper that almost escaped your lungs.

“Then sit your ass down,” Jason growled.

He didn't have to tell you twice.

Immediately you shakily sat down in your new seat, on the left side of Bruce’s seat at the head of the table with Jason sitting at your left shoulder and Dick across from you. Not good, not good at all. You could feel the acidic, green gaze of Jason burning into the side of your face whilst Dick languidly sipped his wine, a sickeningly sweet smile (with way too many teeth to be considered anything but malicious), plastered on his face as he stared at the new seating chart. You let out a shaky breath, trying to get your heart rate back to normal; you were so gonna die tonight.

Thankfully, Bruce arrived and sat himself in his seat at the head of the table; right next to you. You closed your eyes, trying to focus on getting air in your lungs and slowing your racing heart. Unbeknownst to you, Bruce shot a knowing stare at the rest of the table. As much as you tried to conceal it, they could all hear your rapidly fluttering heartbeat and your poorly hidden breathing. Tim and Jason both watched you amused; you looked so darn pathetic, sitting there trembling like a leaf.

You glanced down at your plate, picking at the food without really tasting it, hoping that staying silent would help you melt into the background.

Bruce, however, remained still and silent, his presence looming over you, radiating the authority that seemed to keep everyone else in check. But even that felt like a facade; the way his gaze lingered on you for a split second too long told you he was watching closely, assessing.

You forced yourself to take a bite, trying to steady your hands enough to appear somewhat composed. But the sound of your own heartbeat seemed to echo in your ears, loud and unrelenting, as if amplifying the anxiety that twisted in your gut. They could hear it too; you knew that much from the way Jason’s smirk deepened, from the way Tim’s lips twitched with barely-contained laughter.

As the dinner dragged on, every clink of a fork, every quiet murmur, felt like it was directed at you. The food turned to ash in your mouth, each bite only reminding you of the eyes trained on you, dissecting you with every chew and every breath.

The rest of the dinner passed in strained silence, every second an endurance test as you forced yourself to stay seated, to keep your head down. When Bruce finally pushed his chair back and dismissed everyone, the wave of relief was almost enough to make you lightheaded. Quick as a whip, you practically ran up the stairs towards the safety and solace of your room.

When you make it, the locks on your door are immediately fastened (not that it would do much if anyone wanted to actually force their way in). You exhale in relief as you try to collect your thoughts. Fuck, everything was going to shit; the worst part being you had school tomorrow (which thankfully you did not go to Gotham Prep; you'd kill yourself if you did). You groaned at the thought, digging the heels of your palms into your eyes to relieve the ache shooting through them.

Looks like another night of shitty sleep.

Taglist!!: @lostsomewhereinthegarden, @the-rouge-robin, @confused-they

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nicksolemnlyswears · 5 months ago

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JUST TEASIN’

summary: you call joel an old man…amongst other names

pairing: joel miller x reader

word count: 4.4k [i need to learn how to keep things concise]

warnings: 18+, cursing, spanking, p in v, fingering, oral (male receiving), age gap? totally legal though, joel's in his early 40s and reader is in her early 30s, joel is an ass guy which is strange cause i always make my men boob guys, idk i guess this is pretty tame

a/n: as a joke i tend to call pedro and joel peepaw cause he’s older and a total dilf but i love these men so fucking much. i'll be the first to get on my knees

thought i’d make a sweet oneshot about how they’d react to you calling them old. it’s a mix of fluff and smut. a little something for everyone!

also don’t judge me, this is my first time writing for joel 🥺

there’s a little nudge to another favorite fictional men of mine

i want to thank @yxtkiwiyxt for providing me with all the pedro pascal pictures and gifs and movie trailers and for ranting with me all day every day about how amazing this human is… if anyone is to blame about this oneshot it’s her ❤️

It’s one of those lazy Sunday mornings where everyone sleeps in, leaving the Miller household at complete ease. There are no responsibilities to tend to and nowhere to go.

You’re the only one awake, singing quietly under your breath and flipping pancakes until they’re nice and golden. Joel will come seeking you out soon, missing the warmth of your body and Sarah will follow when Joel cracks her door open to let the sweet smell of batter waft into her room.

No matter how hard you try you’re always the first one up. Sometimes you stay in bed with your husband, tracing figures on his bare skin until he pulls you into him and kisses your head good morning, raspy voice begging you for five more minutes.

But most of the time you decide on getting up and having an early start to your day, which includes making breakfast and sorting through your work emails.

The puppy Sarah adopted a couple weeks ago, sits on your feet, licking your legs as if begging for the fluffy sweetness of the pancakes. He had a taste of it when batter dripped on the floor, he licked it up before you had the chance of cleaning it.

Lost in your little world, singing to the tune of Lana del Rey you fail to notice your husband coming down the stairs. Joel leans against the kitchen island admiring you in your distracted state. The loose brown curls in a disarray at the top of his head.

His eyes scan you from head to toe, noting your messy hair pulled up to a half ponytail half bun thing he can’t begin to explain. Down they go to the cropped tshirt with his company’s logo on the back. The frayed edges are the byproduct of your use of kitchen scissors to crop it yourself.

Joel bites his lip as he ogles at your ass and thick thighs framed by the tiniest cotton shorts he’s ever seen. They fail to cover the bottom of your butt cheeks, exposing a sliver of the indigo panties and the crease where thighs meet butt.

Unable to stay away, Joel wraps his warm arms around your waist as he presses a kiss to your temple. He squeezes you to him, bodies pressed flushed to reveal the stiffness in his pajama pants.

The puppy wags his tail in the presence of his favorite human, standing on two legs to call his attention. The man didn’t want him in the first place but was out voted by the females in the household.

“Morning,” Joel murmurs, placing kisses all over your cheeks and down your neck until he finally presses a warm kiss on your shoulder where he rests his chin to look over at the stovetop.

“Morning old man,” you say with a giggle as his scruffy beard tickles your skin. Your lips press against his in a quick kiss, muffling his sigh of disappointment.

“Don’t start, sweetheart,” he warns. His lips brushing against your ear. Joel’s hands find themselves under your tshirt, his thumbs ghosting over your underboob. At the same time the fingertips of his other hand teasingly dip on the waistband of your shorts.

“Or what?” You say with a bite to your lip, flipping over the last batch of pancakes. Couple more seconds and they would’ve burned—that’s how much he distracts you.

“It’s too early for this!” Sarah’s high pitched voice yells. “Not in the kitchen and not in front of the baby, please!”

The puppy scrambles over to Sarah, jumping into her arms. He recognizes she’s the one who will cave and give him scraps of food.

Joel, startled, takes his hands off of you, facing Sarah with an apologetic smile, not that she sees it as she covers her eyes with a hand. “Are you decent? Can I look now? I’m really hungry if you don’t mind.”

You laugh loudly, shaking your head at Sarah’s dramatics. She takes after Joel and is well on her way to beat him at his own game.

“We’re not doin’ anythin’,” Joel mumbles, sitting on one of the kitchen island stools and petting the pups fluffy head, and the ear that flipped over cutely.

“Not yet,” you whisper to him as you place his stack of pancakes in front of him.

“I heard that!” Sarah yells, covering her ears this time. Joel laughs, nudging her shoulder and telling her to pass the syrup.

You lean across from them, grabbing a sliced strawberry to plop into your mouth. Sarah takes over the conversation as you and Joel share a glance. This is far from over.

Later on the day you head outside with a tray of lemonade and pie in your hands. You’ve gotta take care of your dear husband before the Texas heat gets the best of him.

You nudge Joel’s leg with your foot. He’s under the beat up truck, fixing some odd part. He has the means to replace the old thing but he likes to remind you that ‘Betsy,’ as he’s named his truck, is a part of the family and will never be replaced.

“Thanks, darlin,‘“ he drawls, wiping his dirty hands on a random rag he found on the bed of the truck.

Joel takes a second too long to get up from the floor. You see the hesitance in his eyes as he tries to think the best way to stand without hurting or pulling a muscle.

This is your chance. “Need help there, grandpa?” You pipe up, resting the tray on the portable table scattered with tools.

Joel openly glares at you while you smile broadly at him. It’s not often you make fun of his age, or rather, the age gap between the two of you. It’s only when you’re feeling a particular sort of way.

The age gap between the two of you isn’t the craziest but it’s large enough for people to notice. Joel is easily through the first half of his fourth decade, while you are barely entering your third.

“Watch your mouth,” Joel warns you, standing up quickly despite the cracking of his knees and the ache on his lower back.

Your eyes spark when he grabs the glass of cool lemonade and begins chugging it. The drops of sweat sliding down his neck and into the damp collar of his shirt stealing your attention and any innocent thought you’ve might’ve had about him. They weren’t many to begin with.

You clench your thighs together as you imagine licking that same trail, tasting his salty skin. Say what you want but you love a man that works with his hands and gets all dirty and grimy.

Joel catches onto the glazed look covering your eyes and grasps your chin between his thumb and pointer finger. His body gravitating towards yours as if nature demanded it.

You’re overly conscious of the motor oil covering his hands if not you would’ve sucked his thumb into your mouth, reminding him just exactly you can do with your tongue.

“What’s in that pretty lil head of yours, darlin’?”

Him. It’s all about him. He’s always interrupting whatever sane thought you have. Scenarios of you being bent over the hood of the truck as he sinks his aching length from behind. You riding him in the front seat as you’ve done on more than one occasion, fogging up the windows. The time he was knuckles deep inside of you, teasing fingers drenched during his lunch break.

“How good gray looks on you,” you reply, diverting the conversation somewhere else entirely. A delicate fingers wraps around the charming curl that constantly falls over his forehead, twirling it around.

Joel doesn’t take kindly to your comment, rolling his eyes and clicking his jaw as he lets go of you to return to the truck. Your hand which had been playing with his curl drops to your side as you cock your hip to assess him.

He’s much too aware of the age gap, it makes him insecure. Like you’ll one day realize you’re with an old man and leave him for someone younger.

Except in your eyes he’s the most perfect man alive. The grey streaks of hair that mix with the typical brown of his curls give him an air of authority, making him look dashing in all ways. A silver fox. Strong muscles from working manual labor most of his life are now covered with a healthy layer of fat but remain strong nonetheless. Warm brown eyes that sweep you off your feet every morning as soon as they open.

That man is aging like fine wine and he doesn’t begin to realize it. You feel extremely lucky to be the only one to enjoy it…squeaky joints and all.

Joel is experienced and mature and loyal. He simply wants to have a nice life with his family. A family you’re now a part of. It’s all a woman could ask for.

“You know I love you,” you tell him, wrapping your arms around him as he leans over the hood.

“Love to torture me,” he scoffs, taking hold of one of your hands affectionately. He can never stay mad at you.

“I don’t know what you mean? I brought you lemonade and even that apple pie you love so much,” you feign innocence, pressing a kiss to the middle of his back.

Facing you with a sigh, he lets his heavy hands fall on your hips, “What’re you playing at?”

“Me? Nothing,” you say with a wicked smile, “I’m gonna go with Sarah to the mall to get her homecoming dress. Will you be alright here with Ghost?”

He’s quickly distracted by the words Sarah and Homecoming. His babygirl is growing too fast, starting High School and going on dances with boys. She hasn’t told him yet if she’s been invited by someone and he hopes it stays that way.

There’s no way he’s letting her go with a date and you can’t convince him other wise. If she wants a date she can take the puppy she adopted, Ghost. Joel is determined to teach the ball of fur how to defend his daughter.

“Here,” he says, pulling out his wallet to hand you his credit card.

“No, it’s my treat!” You say, pushing his hand away.

“Take it,” Joel insists, trying to slip it into the tight pair of jeans you’re wearing. Fuck. How didn’t he notice until now.

It should be illegal to wear jeans that make you look THAT good. The blue material hugs your thighs tightly and lifts your perky ass to heaven—not that you other wise need it.

He doesn’t hold back and slides his palms on your back pockets, giving you a firm squeeze. You stumble, falling onto him with a weak protest.

“‘M so fucking lucky you’re my woman,” he groans, taking another feel. Temporarily forgetting the conversation at hand, yet another comment directed at his age snaps Joel back to reality.

“Honey, I know I married an older man but it wasn’t for your money,” you tease again, patting his cheek and removing his hands from your pockets—credit card and all.

A sharp slap to your ass, startles you, eliciting a cheeky giggle. All this teasing and you’re leaving him home alone with the mutt.

You don’t apologize, you’ll never apologize for teasing him. Unless it’s in the right circumstances…in his bed.

Towards the end of the night you finish pushing him to the edge of no return. Remember, opportunities are always around when you’re determined.

“Dad, can you sign this for school?” Sarah comes into the living room where you and Joel are watching a movie. Ghost’s head is plopped on his lap, where Joel had been ‘forced’ to pet him.

“What’s this for?” Joel tries to read the paper but has to keep it at arms reach to be able to read it. Failing, he searches for his glasses until Sarah points at his head where they’ve been resting for half the night, nestled between his curls.

You stifle a laugh as you think of what to say. “Sorry Sarah, good old peepaw needs his glasses to read.”

It’s clear you’re pushing it far as Joel freezes only to glare at you. If looks could kill you’d be six feet underground. Sarah laughs until her belly hurts, repeating the word peepaw between breaths.

“You two are bullies,” Joel shakes his head in disbelief, signing the permit and handing it to Sarah who is wiping her tears away.

“I’m heading to bed, goodnight old man,” Sarah tells a pouting Joel, kissing his cheek and running up the stairs. “Come on, Ghost. Bedtime!”

“Peepaw? Really?” Joel raises his eyebrows at you when both Sarah and Ghost are gone.

You shrug feigning innocence, hiding your smile with the edge of the blanket. ”Yeah, peepaw. It’s cute.”

“It ain’t cute,” Joel kisses his teeth before turning off the TV and standing from the couch, leaving you behind.

“Where are you going?” You call after him.

“To bed,” he dryly responds, shutting off the lights and climbing the stairs. He only leaves the lamp by the couch on. How considerate of him.

“What? Joel it’s barely 10!” Hiding your satisfaction is difficult. Joel’s ticked off, a day of calling him old will do that. It’s exactly what you hoped for.

“Guess that’s what old men do, darlin,’” Joel says sarcastically half way up the stairs.

With a hand over your mouth, you follow him, “Honey, come on. Don’t be angry, it’s harmless teasing. Are you really heading to bed?”

Joel turns at the top of the stairs, glaring down at you, “You really think I’m an old man?”

“Technically speaking you are an older man,” you quip, scrunching your nose cutely.

“You know that’s not what I mean.” Joel crosses his arms, reprimanding you for your cheekiness.

“I dunno why you get like this, you should know I love my older men,” you say sultrily, although it falls on deaf ears as Joel retreats to the bedroom.

When you step into the bedroom you’re instantly pressed against the door, slamming it shut. Joel’s sneaky hands lock it. “You’re playing a dangerous game, darlin.’ Don’t make me bend you over my knee and give you a spanking.”

The thought alone makes you shudder in delight. Wetness instantly seeping into your underwear. You’ve finally succeeded. You have him right where you want him.

With your hands braced on his chest you deliver the final blow. “You sure your knees can take it?”

Disbelief flashes in Joel’s eyes, “That’s it!”

Grabbing your arms Joel leads you to the bed where he sits on the edge. He roughly pull down on your jeans, panties and all, leaving them pooled on your knees, limiting your mobility.

With another tug he lays you face down on his lap, holding your wrists behind you in a tight grip. Joel shakes his head at your upturned ass that’s waiting a little too eagerly for his touch.

Delight bubbles out of you and Joel is determined to take you down a notch or two. Let’s see how you handle this after fucking with him all damn day.

The first swat comes without warning, eliciting a gasp from you. It’s sharp and borderline painful. A red handprint magically appearing on your left butt cheek.

Joel massages and paws at the skin, getting ready to deliver another one. “Cat got your tongue?” He questions at your sudden silence.

You try to look over your shoulder and say, “Is that all you got?”

A sarcastic chuckle leaves Joel’s mouth. Then, three fast slaps are delivered, successfully earning him a whine from your pretty lips. He rubs on the sweltering flesh, easing some of the sting.

Finding their way to your thighs his fingers dig between them to cup your pussy. It’s no surprise that it’s warm, messy and slick. Clear strands extending from it to the inside of your thighs and covering his digits.

You’re a fucking vixen who loves to torture him for your own fucking pleasure and he’s the damn fool who falls for it each and every time.

“Touch me,” you huff, wiggling on his lap to grind on his hand, hoping to gain more contact with his coated digits.

“Touch you? Oh, darlin’ you’re not getting off the hook so easily,” Joel mentions darkly, retrieving his hand and landing yet another smack to your ass, making it ripple from the impact.

“Ow!” You flinch yet remain in the same position, expecting more. You fucking love when Joel gets rough with you. It’s a shame you have to gauge it out of him like this.

“Wasn’t this what you wanted? Hm?” Joel’s asks and when he doesn’t get a response his hand flies down once more. “What was it you called me?”

There’s a beat of silence before his hand strikes, this time aiming towards the middle. “Gra-grandpa,” you stutter at the small burst of pleasure.

“Mhm, what else darlin’?” He prompts again. His middle finger tracing the slit of your pussy, feeling you grow impossibly wetter. His pretty little wife is always so reactive to his touch.

“Old man.”

The stinging in your skin grows warmer, no doubt turning a considerable shade of cherry red. Yet the ache in your cunt obscures it all. The scraps of attention only makes your arousal worse.

“I think there was one more,” Joel hums, urging you on. His slick finger teasing your weeping entrance.

“P-peepaw,” you gasp when Joel pushes it in until his knuckle meets your delicate skin.

“That’s right, peepaw,” Joel repeats absentmindedly, pushing his middle finger in and out. Listening intently to the squishing sound your pussy makes.

He’ll have you calling him something else by the end of the night.

Tight walls grip his finger like a vice, refusing to let go. Soft puffs of air tumble out of your mouth and he knows your eyes are closed as you concentrate on the minimal pleasure he’s providing you with. It’ll never be enough to make you cum but it’ll keep you bothered.

“Get up,” Joel orders with a softer smack to your bottom, wiping his slick covered finger on your skin. He helps you up from the restrained position he kept you in and makes work of taking off your clothes.

Joel pulls and tugs on your shirt roughly, throwing it mindlessly across the room. He palms your tits briefly, pinching one of your nipples to make you whine his name. With cracking knees he kneels on the floor to help you out your jeans and underwear, kneading your thighs with his big strong hands.

He catches a glance of your reddening skin and feels a prickle of pride at the mark he left. Most of it will fade by morning but you’ll feel it nonetheless.

Sitting back on the edge of the bed he wordlessly motions you to get on your knees. A wicked smile spreads on your cheeks as you do as you’re told, kneeling between his spread legs.

Eager hands grasp his belt, undoing the worn leather to get to the button of his jeans. He provides no help, leaning back on his hands and simply watching you with hooded and expecting eyes.

You pull down on his jeans and underwear, revealing the happy trail that comes down his navel to the patch of brown at his pelvis.

His hard cock springs free once you’ve worked his pants down enough. A throaty groan coming from above you at the release of tension.

“Mmm,” you hum, grasping his length in your fist. His eyes meet yours when you look up to press a kiss to the tip, your hand pulling the thin skin back to reveal it.

“Stop with the teasin,’” Joel growls audibly, chastising you.

You rolls your eyes obnoxiosuly, “You’re no fun, g-“

A hand flies to your hair, gripping the roots tightly. Your eyes fly open, starting up at Joel. “You sure you want to finish that sentence, babygirl?”

“Maybe not,” you shrug with a pout, your hand mindlessly pumping his length.

“That’s what I thought.” Joel keeps his grip on your hair, pulling it back to see every detail of you taking his cock into your pretty mouth.

Your tongue goes flat against the underside of his shaft, tracing the vein that runs along his length and letting saliva drip all down and into your fisted hand. Joel watches intently as your lips wrap around the angry red tip of his cock.

You start off slow taking more of his length with each bob of your head. Your eyes never leaves his face, observing every small reaction he makes. The sharp intake of breath when your tongue grazes his tip, the furrowing of his eyebrows, the bobbing of his adam’s apple as he fails to keep his moans in.

The sudden jerk of Joel’s hips causes your eyes to water and screw shut. The initial intrusion of his cockhead unexpected yet welcome. Joel throws his head back, “That’s a fucking good girl.”

Those magic words make everything worth it as you messily continue to suck and lick every inch of his cock. Neither the tears in the corner of your eyes nor the saliva dripping down his length stop you from tasting him.

You swear you’re dripping on the floor as your pussy flutters at his pleased words. You could touch yourself but all your energy and attention goes to pleasing the man above you.

The pain of kneeling hard wood floor for an extended period of time doesn’t bother you and the ache on your jaw is barely noticeable because all your concentration is on Joel and making him feel good.

Joel continues to set the pace, his grip tight on your scalp. “Fuck, just like that,” he moans when you tease the crown of his cock expertly.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Joel’s voice lilts in a reprimanding voice.

A string of saliva connects you to the tip of him as your hand continuing to work on the rest of his length.

Joel takes note of your red rimmed eyes and flushed nose as well as in your swollen lips and moussed hair. The picture of you completely filthy and sexy.

Joel cups the back of your neck, bringing you up to his height. He brings you into a sloppy kiss consisting of teeth and tongue and saliva. Joel loves that can taste himself in your mouth. A job well done.

You straddle his lap so his cock grazes your dripping pussy, tugging needily at his tshirt. “Take it off,” you beg. Your lips separate for a brief second as the shirt comes off before they smash back together.

He complies but quickly reminds himself that this all started because you were calling him old. He can’t be quick to reward you.

You foolishly believe that’s it and you get to have him. Eagerly you try to sink into his cock but he holds you still, not letting you take him to the hilt.

“Who’s the tease now?” You pant against his lips, stealing another long kiss before whispering in his ear begging him to take you, to use you.

“I like to see you begging for it.” That’s Joel’s response as he pushes you off of him.

You protest but fall silent when he removes his remaining clothes. God you’re like a teenager desperate to fuck with clothes and all.

It drives Joel nuts the way you look at him with lust filled eyes. You bite your lip as you take him in all his glory, hands reaching to touch his chest.

He pulls you back to him, his cock wedged between the two of you. The saliva covering it, sticking to your skin. He cups your face, “You have something to say?”

“Nope.”

Joel to cos his head in disappointment, pushing you into bed and maneuvering you till your head is buried in the pillows and your ass is high in the air. It’s tinged a dozen shades of pink and red from his hands.

You wiggle your hips offering yourself to him. Air hits your pussy, giving you an idea of how aroused you are. That’s what happens whenever you have the pleasure of going down in Joel.

Joel grips himself, spreading his pre before pumping his hand. Smack. His hand flies down to strike your ass once more. Your back arches when Joel teases your entrance with the tip. He runs it up and down your slit, wetting it with your slick. He lightly pushes into you so only the tip is inside before he pulls out again.

“Please fuck me,” you plead breathlessly, attempting to rock back to get more of him inside you.

Joel laughs. “Now you’re nice and polite. Is there something else you want to tell me?” He asks expecting an apology.

“No,” you repeat stubbornly.

He’ll get you soon enough. There’s no way you’ll resist.

Joel’s cock brushes against your clit, making you jump and moan. He does it again and again. Your pussy clenches desperately wanting him inside of you.

“You sure? You don’t want to apologize?” He gives you another chance. Sinking his cock deeper into you to give you a taste before he pulls out.

You huff and pout but you can’t take it anymore. You need him. “I’m sorry!”

“Now, was that so hard,” Joel grunts, pushing his length all the way in, rewarding you.

You bury your head into the pillow, stifling the guttural moan that rips from your throat. You could die like this suffocated and blissfully impaled on Joel’s cock and be happy.

With a tight grip on your waist Joel fucks into you at his own pace, watching how easily you accept him, covering him with your essence. It feels fucking fantastic.

His skin slaps against yours rhythmically. You swear you can cum at that moment but Joel knows all your tells and he slows his pace, pushing into you only when the tip remains. Long, slow strokes keeping you from cumming.

“I wanna cum,” you cry out frustrated but he ignores you, edging you.

“If you want to cum tonight you have to stop calling me old,” Joel grits. This is torture for him as much as it is for you.

“I said I’m sorry,” you sob into the pillow, your back arching as you try and take matters into your own hands. Smack, another spank, warning you to stop.

“Will you stop calling me grandpa?”

You have the audacity to fucking hesitate. He’s serious about not letting you cum but he’s confident he’ll get you to cave in.

Joel pulls out his cock when you refuse to answer. He instantly misses the warmth and tightness of your walls. His cock is soaked with your slick, a creamy white substance covering him from root to tip.

Licking his middle and ring fingers he replaces his cock, feeling your walls clench around them. He pumps them angling them downward to reach that spot inside of you, his other hand pressing on your lower back so you arch more.

“Oh fuck,” you gasp when this thumb presses on your bud. An orgasm quickly building. “Please Joel.” You wanted to cum around his cock not his fingers but at this point you’ll take anything you can get. Your mind is completely clouded and years for release.

“Did you reconsider what you wanted to call me?” Joel curves his fingers, quickening the pace.

“Yes,” you whine as your hips grind against his hand.

“And what’s that?” His fingers are sticky, your essence dripping down his hand.

“Please, daddy,” you cry abashedly, hiding your reddening face in the pillows.

“I didn’t hear ya’ darlin’. How about you look at me when you speak?” Joel dares to say while his fingers continue to drive into you.

Fuck, your legs are shaking and the knot continues to tighten in your belly. You have to say it or Joel will stop. You turn your head to meet his eyes, “Please, daddy.”

“That’s more like it,” Joel’s raspy voice says, removing his fingers when you’re at the cusp once more.

You audibly groan in frustration but it’s interrupted when Joel eases his cock back into you Fucking you just as you want it, hard and fast.

The bed sheets are fisted in your hands as you hold on. Your nipples brushing against the bed with each thrust. It doesn’t take long at all for you both to titer over the edge. Your pussy squeezing tightly around him, milking him for all he’s worth.

When Joel pulls out you fall to lie on your stomach, catching your breath. He lies beside you doing the same. Sharing a glance you both start laughing.

“Next time you want it rough just tell me,” Joel shakes his head at you. He knew all along and yet it still pissed him off.

“It’s not the same, honey,” you sigh, kissing his shoulder. The nearest part of him you can reach without moving too much.

The following morning you wake up with a kink in your back and Joel being the ever loving husband brings you painkillers to bed where you’re lying still, “Take these grandma. They’ll make you feel better.”

He won’t ever call you ‘grandma’ again. The daggers you sent him were fucking terrifying.

listen...typically i'm not the biggest fan of the daddy kink...but when it works, it works

#fanfiction #nicksolemnlyswears #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller #tlou #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction

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spencerreidenjoyer · 7 months ago

Text

insatiable | spencer reid x reader

Spencer learns how amazing sex is with you, but gets caught up with work. You show your boyfriend how good it can feel even if you’re not together physically, and he shows you how much he misses you when he gets back.

part 1 - addicted to you | part 2

wc: 4.6k, rating: 18+/explicit

tags/warnings: established relationship, phone sex/video sex, mutual masturbation, public (bathroom) sex, brief mentions of typical BAU stuff (not in detail), meeting the family (literally reader meets the BAU), brief mentions of alcohol, making out, vaginal sex, getting caught (not in the act but afterward lmao)

a/n: this is what an insane person does when they're sick for two days and have nothing better to do over the summer. this is a second part to addicted to you (you don't have to read the first part but it does provide some context for some details within the fic), with inspiration taken from a lovely comment I got on ao3 that made me feel kinda crazy. i included some textfic elements in this fic as well which i hope reads well (bold text is spencer)! also I know early seasons spencer technically sets this around 2005-2007 but they have smartphones and video calling (aka present day) so please suspend your disbelief for the length of this fic lmao (p.s this fic is also on ao3!)

Your boyfriend gets whisked away for work sooner than you expect. Spencer’s supposed to have time off the rest of this week, but you suppose killers aren’t exactly respectful of an FBI agent’s time off of work. It’s downright cruel when he’s called in to work on a Friday evening, when you have dinner and wine set at the table, having gotten ready to spend a quiet, romantic evening in with Spencer.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, rushing to change out of his sweatshirt and joggers into his typical work attire. You stand in the doorway of his room, mildly amused while Spencer panics to put an outfit together. “I know you had a whole evening in planned, but–”

“Don’t be, baby,” you assure him. “You have a killer to catch. Oh, that one– the blue cardigan looks good with those pants. It matches your socks.”

Spencer smiles as he looks up at you, reaching for the navy blue cardigan to his left. He tugs it on rather hurriedly, comes up to you and presses a kiss to your forehead. “You’re the best. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

You shake your head. “Just find the bastard quick and come home to me.”

“I know. I will,” Spencer says.

After the both of you found out just how much Spencer liked fucking you, you were really hoping that your weekend together could be spent in his bed, but duty calls. Technically, JJ had called him in, but you’re not concerned about specifics right now.

You spend the evening alone in Spencer’s apartment, half of the wine finished and his TV playing reruns of some show you haven’t been paying attention to. Your eyelids feel heavy, and Spencer’s bed is so comfortable you can’t bring yourself to leave it. That is, until your phone buzzes on Spencer’s nightstand, and you’re suddenly very alert.

I miss you, darling. > hey, i’m surprised you have the down time to text. i miss you too I’m really sorry I had to leave so suddenly. We’re on the jet right now. > i told you it’s okay! i’m surprised the jet has wifi lol Taxpayer money, I guess? We land in LA in a couple of hours and we’re heading straight to the PD to work on the case. > my poor boyfriend is working so hard instead of cuddling me in bed :( How you tempt me, lovely. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Are you going to sleep soon? It’s late. > yeah i’m staying at yours for the night and maybe until you get back? really miss you already Okay, that’s good. I know. I’ll call when I’m in the hotel and settled for the day? :-( > yes please. also stop sending emojis with noses they aren’t supposed to look like that!!! They aren’t anatomically correct without them. The way you send them > babe they’re emojis it’s ok if they’re not anatomically correct Hahaha I love you. > lol i love you too! Goodnight, love. > goodnight spence <3 <3

You can imagine, especially from the way Spencer recounts it, how his coworker Derek must be teasing him about smiling at his phone, about how pretty boy’s lucky lady must be one hell of a woman to get Spencer so smitten.

You would say you’re rather independent, especially in relationships, but Spencer has you acting like a clingy girlfriend. You can’t help but feel an ache in your chest as you long for him while he’s away, feeling like a military wife whose husband is out instead of being normal. To be fair, being with Spencer has never been “normal” – he always has something interesting up his sleeve, or some quirk that makes you even more enamoured with him.

Your Saturday is relatively uneventful, milling about Spencer’s apartment. You laze around in bed for way too long, enough where Spencer would’ve definitely hauled you out of bed himself an hour ago if he were here. You make yourself breakfast, unsurprised that Spencer only has cereal in his pantry and almond milk in his fridge. You sit down with one of his very sophisticated literature books but you don’t get very far with it, and opt to clean Spencer’s apartment instead.

It’s when you’re sweeping the floor that you realise just how much you like Spencer, feeling so strongly attached to him already. You’ve said your ‘I love you’s, given him his firsts. You were staying in his apartment even while he was away– hell, you’re even cleaning his apartment for him.

Just for a moment, you let yourself fantasise about this being your apartment – yours and Spencer’s; about waking up to him every morning, about making breakfast for the both of you that isn’t cereal and almond milk, about coming home to each other instead of an empty apartment.

You sigh and get back to cleaning.

You’re settled into his bed, surrounded by the comforting scent of him when Spencer finally does call. You almost drop your phone in your excitement to pick up.

“Hey! Hi, Spence,” you say, unable to help the smile that’s forming on your face.

“Hello, love,” Spencer answers. He sounds a little tired. You can imagine the little furrow in his brow, obviously exhausted and dissatisfied from a full day’s work of catching some bastard in LA, and you wish you could be there to kiss his frown away. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Spencer. Long day?”

“Absolutely,” Spencer sighs tiredly. “This UnSub is so slippery. No convictions, no paper trail, nothing, and he’s killing every other–” Spencer starts to ramble but he catches himself. “Sorry. I won’t talk about work right now. It’s pretty grim.”

“It’s okay,” you hum. “Do you want to talk about work right now?”

Spencer makes a little noise. “No, no. I don’t want to bring that to you. Let’s talk about you. How are you, honey?”

Honey. The name makes your insides feel all gooey, soft and warm and lovely. “I’m- I’m okay. I stayed at your place, cleaned up around here. I’m thankful it’s not as much of a man cave as I thought.”

Spencer laughs through the phone, a breathy chuckle. “Thank you for cleaning up for me, love. It’s just a lot of nerdy stuff, huh?”

“Yeah. It’s endearing. I tried to read one of your books earlier and could barely get past the first ten pages.” You tell him, garnering another chuckle from Spencer. “I like your place a lot.”

“I miss you,” Spencer says again. “Waking up to you and having you around is so much nicer than this dingy hotel room I’m in.”

“Aw. Taxpayer money couldn’t upgrade you to a better room?”

Spencer snorts. “No, but I lucked out on getting the room all to myself.”

There’s a pause as you figure out what to say, and Spencer is quick to follow up, “I didn’t mean–”

“Does this have something to do with you missing me, baby?” You can’t help but grin. Spencer makes a distressed little noise over the line.

“Well, I– Maybe, but we don’t have to–” Spencer stammers, unable to find the words. He’s absolutely adorable.

“I want to, Spence,” you coo. “I miss you so much.”

You hear Spencer exhale shakily. “What– What do I do?”

“A genius like you hasn’t forgotten how to touch himself, has he?” you tease, Spencer whining on the other end at your words. “Does that eidetic memory of yours come with an overactive imagination too?”

“Surprisingly, no. Hyperphantasia is more of being able to visualise different types of situations in one’s mind, and that’s what usually is associated with an overactive imagination. Having an eidetic memory is more about high-precision recall after seeing something even just once. I think having an eidetic memory pretty much ensures you don’t have aphantasia, or the inability to see and create mental images, but yeah.”

Ah, even his nerdy ramblings turn you on.

“So does that mean you can recall the way I looked in bed a few nights ago?” you prod, and you wish you could see how red Spencer must be by now.

“Well, yes. Of course I can. How could I ever forget how beautiful you looked then?” Spencer’s words are sweet, earnest, and you melt.

“Then picture that,” you barely get the words out because you’re so smitten. “Imagine I’m right there with you, Spencer.”

You hear the rustling of the sheets, and Spencer’s little telltale whine as he wraps his hand around himself. “O-Oh–”

“I miss you, Spence,” you drawl. “Miss the way your cock fits inside me. You miss my tight cunt, baby?”

“Your mouth is filthy,” Spencer laughs breathily. “But yeah, I do. You always feel so good around me.”

“You’re touching yourself, yeah?” you ask. You get a little whine from him as an affirmative, but your imagination is running wild – you want to see him. “Can you show me?”

“Yeah, I just– Do you wanna switch it over to a video call? I can’t–”

You laugh at your boyfriend’s lack of technical prowess, tapping at your phone screen until the top half of his face comes up. “Hey, I’m just trying to find a good angle–”

“Don’t just flip the camera and show me your dick, please. That would be so unsexy.” You say.

Spencer furrows his brows. “I was not planning on doing that, for the record.”

You watch the phone move until Spencer comes into frame, the phone likely propped up at the foot of the bed and exposing all of Spencer to you. You might be drooling right now.

“This is… a lot,” Spencer laughs nervously. “I feel so naked.”

“You’re mostly clothed,” you quip.

“Ha ha,” Spencer laughs dryly. “I’ve just… I’ve never done this before.”

“Phone sex? Or calling your girlfriend so you can jerk off for her?”

Spencer gives you a deadpan look. “Both, honey.”

You grin. “I’m glad to be your first. Now, show me how you make yourself feel good, baby.”

Spencer’s cheeks are a gorgeous rosy red when he takes his cock into his hand again, his tip leaking as he strokes himself slowly. With his eyes fluttering shut, Spencer’s lips part as he indulges himself in his pleasure. Like this, you indulge yourself in admiring all of Spencer – the flush on his cheeks that runs down to his neck, his breathy panting as he touches himself to the thought of you.

“Spence,” you sigh. “You’re so pretty.”

His eyes shutter open as he looks at you, somehow even redder than he already was. “You’re the pretty one, darling. Are you– Will you touch yourself for me?”

You hold back your moan as you nod. You were already in your underwear when you had slid into Spencer’s bed, but now all it takes is you sliding your fingers past the waistband to feel how wet you already are between your legs. “Oh, Spence.”

“Do you feel good, love?” he hums, voice only a little bit strained from his immense pleasure.

The embarrassingly loud squelch that results when you sink your fingers into yourself is enough of an answer. Spencer grins, and you’re red in the face as you rock your hips down onto your own fingers. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything, honey,” Spencer laughs. “But I wish I could feel you right now.”

“I know, I miss the way you feel inside me,” you pant. “Please, Spencer–”

“Take off your underwear,” Spencer’s voice is breathy as he pleads with you. “I want to see you.”

You prop your phone up so your angle matches Spencer’s, both of you on full display for each other. You watch the way Spencer’s eyes widen when you slide your panties off, the way his eyes are trained on your figure through the screen. He says, “You’re so wet…”

“All for you, baby,” you sigh, leaning back as you slide two fingers back into yourself. You scissor them rather hastily, craving the hurried way Spencer fucks you. “It’s not the same without you here.”

“I know,” Spencer hums. “You look so good like that. I wish I could make you feel good right now.”

You moan, pushing your fingers into yourself deeper, barely hitting where Spencer reaches easily. The squelch from between your legs is obscene. “You do, baby. You’re making me feel so good, just thinking about you.”

In practically a whisper, Spencer admits, “I want to fuck you so bad right now.”

You let out a weak cry, impossibly turned on by your boyfriend’s filthy admission because you didn’t even think he had it in him to say it so bluntly. You slide your fingers in and out hurriedly, your palm giving you the friction on your clit that you crave so desperately. “Spencer–”

Spencer lets out a strangled cry, muffled behind his hand, when he comes. It’s sudden, Spencer’s load painting the soft skin of his stomach, his cock twitching. You moan as you follow suit, wetness drenching your hand as you ride out your own orgasm, imagining his cock inside of you.

“Oh, fuck.” Spencer gasps, head thrown back as you watch his chest rise and fall as he breathes heavily. His forehead and neck are covered in a light sheen of sweat, and his cock out against the rest of his rather soft, innocent looking outfit is making you giggle just a little.

“You look really hot right now,” you say instead, wishing you could be laying next to him while he recovers.

“I think I should be saying that about you,” Spencer laughs. “You’re gorgeous. You’re so stunning.”

“How long are you going to be away?” You pout. “I like it when I can actually kiss you after you compliment me.”

Spencer smiles sympathetically. “I’ll be back soon, my love.”

“I’ll take phone sex with my boyfriend as a consolation, then.” You wink, making Spencer laugh.

“Remind me not to get too loud, though. I think Emily is in the room next to me and I really hope these walls are thick enough.” He says, sounding vaguely concerned.

You laugh, and stay on the line a little longer just to relish in a peaceful moment with Spencer.

The next day, when you’re out getting groceries to stock up Spencer’s fridge, you get a text from Spencer.

I don’t know how much Emily heard last night, but she’s been looking at me funny all morning. > lol oops? If we call again tonight, we might have to keep it down. > if? not when? :) I love you so much. > i know and i love you too :) and you should probably apologise to emily about last night Well, if we’re calling again tonight then maybe I should just give her one big apology when all of this is over. > good idea. now go catch your killer so we can go back to having sex irl Okay!

Unfortunately, Spencer gets too busy to call you again that night, the team working overtime to catch their UnSub, whose kills were escalating exponentially. You don’t find yourself bothered by it, by Spencer disappearing for the night with nothing more than a message sent your way, instead relishing in the fact that it’ll feel even more rewarding when he comes home.

You’ve never felt this way before, craving Spencer so desperately while he’s away at work. While you’ve only been together a couple of months, you respect that Spencer’s work takes up a lot of his time. It doesn’t mean you don’t miss him, though, as much as you enjoy your alone time.

All of the team’s hard work pays off, though, because they’re storming into the UnSub’s lair by Monday afternoon, and Spencer texts you when you’re just clocking out of the office.

Great news! We caught the guy. We’re packing up at the PD and coming home soon. > omg!!! that’s so great The team wants to go out for celebratory drinks. > you should totally go ahead and celebrate with them spence! you guys worked your asses off on this case We did. But I’m telling you because I want you to join us. I want you to meet the team too. > oh? i would love to but are you sure they want me there? Of course, sweet girl. Derek wants to know who has me smiling at my phone half the time, and Emily is asking who I’m calling in the middle of the night. > omg so she did hear you … I think so, love. > … i will apologise to her tonight then I’ll send you the address. Love you > love you too spence <3

There’s just enough time for you to get home and change into a nice outfit – a tight, red dress that hits your mid-thigh, your hair curled and your makeup touched-up before you head to the bar Spencer’s sent you the address to. While you know Spencer’s team is lovely, you do want to make a good first impression.

You see Spencer’s gangly form at the bar when you get there, the rest of his team facing away from you as they get their drinks. You see Spencer’s face brighten as he spots you, raising his hand and waving to you excitedly. The rest of his team notices, and turns to look at you too. You would be shy at all the attention, but Spencer’s unabashed adoration of you, especially in front of all his friends, is giving you more than enough confidence to walk up to the group.

“Hello,” you smile, and the warmth you feel from the team makes you feel welcome already. “It’s nice to meet you all.”

You shake hands with Hotch and Rossi as you introduce yourself. While you had heard of Hotch as a rather cold, serious Unit Chief, the way he warmly smiles at you makes you feel at ease. “So, you’re Spencer’s girlfriend. It’s great to finally meet you.”

“It’s great to meet you too, sir,” you answer rather instinctively, making both Rossi and Hotch laugh heartily.

“Aaron might be Reid’s boss, but he certainly isn’t yours,” Rossi chuckles.

Before you can feel embarrassed by it, you get pulled into a tight, warm hug by Penelope, and when she lets you go, JJ hands you a drink, and Derek and Emily are regarding you with knowing smirks.

“Reid, you are one lucky man,” Derek says, after pulling you into a welcoming hug. “Don’t mess this up, lover boy.”

“I know,” Spencer says, his hand reaching for yours. You lace your fingers with Spencer’s, squeezing his hand comfortingly. “And I won’t mess this up.”

“Lover boy is right, considering what I overheard the other night,” Emily says, looking at you and Spencer pointedly. JJ also has a knowing smile on her face, and you feel your cheeks get hot.

“I’m really sorry about that, Emily,” you smile sheepishly. “I hope Spencer’s apologised for it too.”

“Again, I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Spencer says, purposefully avoiding eye contact with Emily. “I would say ‘We won’t do it again’, but…”

You shriek amidst the laughter of Spencer’s coworkers, Spencer laughing along as he holds onto your waist. You feel adored, so readily welcomed by Spencer’s friends, and you feel like you belong, by Spencer’s side.

After you chat with the rest of the team for a little more, they eventually disperse to do their own things, leaving you and Spencer alone. Spencer looks at you with such adoration in his eyes and you feel like you’re going to melt. “Hi,” he says warmly.

“Hi, Spence,” you say. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Spencer smiles. “But I’m here now.”

“You are,” you breathe, giddy with excitement, and lean in to kiss him. It’s a quick peck, but Spencer pulls you back in like you’re the air he needs to breathe. He kisses you deep, eager, pouring every drop of himself into you. His hands cup your face sweetly, kissing you until you feel breathless.

“Oh my God, Spencer,” you giggle when he finally pulls back, eyes wild as he regards you. “You really missed me, huh?”

“You have no idea,” Spencer laughs.

“Do we need to pretend to keep our hands off each other or do you just want to go and make out in the bathroom?” You say simply. You don’t expect Spencer to be down, considering how quickly he’d rattle off the statistics about the germs in a public bathroom, but Spencer smiles at you and pulls you toward the single stall.

You’re thankful it’s a relatively big, clean-looking single stall bathroom, Spencer locking the door behind you as you lean back against the sink. Spencer’s taller figure crowds you in with ease, and you feel swallowed up by him as he kisses you again. He’s desperate, eager as his tongue slips into your mouth, his little noises so deliciously sinful as you kiss him back.

“Spence–” you gasp, in between kissing Spencer back. “Oh, baby–”

“What we did over the phone wasn’t enough,” he murmurs, eyes unblinking as he gazes at you. “I need you right now.”

Sure enough, Spencer’s hard in his pants. He pushes his hips forward, pressing his erection against your thigh. You whimper, drawing your lower lip between your teeth. “Please, Spence. You can take me right here, right now.”

You feel just as desperate as Spencer seems, his hands eager as they roam up your body. He’s eager to touch and squeeze and grope whatever he can get his hands on, and you relish in the way his large, sturdy hands grab your thighs, your waist, your breasts.

“You look so good tonight, my love,” Spencer grunts as he presses his face to your neck, his lips kissing up the column of your neck hurriedly. “So gorgeous. Letting me show you off to all my friends too– Thank you, you’re so perfect–”

“Spencer,” you gasp, hand sliding down to rub at his hard-on. You’re so turned on by how aroused Spencer is already, from just kissing you, from just touching you. “Fuck me, please?”

Spencer exhales shakily, lifting you up slightly so you can sit back on the countertop, your legs spread to accommodate Spencer between them. You’re soaked through your underwear, and you watch Spencer marvel at the sight. His hands are shaking slightly as he undoes his belt, pushing his pants down just enough to get his cock out. He’s hard and heavy and leaking, and you find yourself drooling as he strokes himself momentarily.

Spencer’s biting his lower lip in utter concentration, pushing your dress up and out of the way. You expect his hands to slide your panties off, but instead his fingers push the fabric aside, revealing your slick, wet entrance that he presses the head of his cock to. “Oh–”

“Like this,” Spencer says, breathless, his sentence not even fully coherent but you understand, especially when Spencer pushes the tip of his cock into you. You muffle a sob into your hand, feeling so on edge as you accommodate Spencer’s length.

The burn is perfect, the slow drag of his cock inside of you teetering between pain and pleasure. It’s a primal urge the both of you desperately need to fulfil, and the way he presses into you satiates you so perfectly. Your arms slung around Spencer’s neck, you cry out weakly as he rocks his hips into you, already brutal and hurried with the pace.

You’ve never felt this undone, so desperate that you’d let yourself get fucked in a bathroom stall. You barely have any alcohol in your system, for you to feel reckless enough to do something like this. Hell, Spencer hadn’t even taken your panties off before he’d started fucking you. The fact that prim and proper Spencer of all people is making you like this makes your head spin.

“Oh, fuck, baby,” you whimper into his shoulder. “So good, Spence, oh–”

“You feel so good,” Spencer groans, hips stuttering as he tells you just that. “You’re so perfect. I love you.”

“I love you so much,” you hiccup, feeling Spencer drill into you, the muffled slap of his thrusts hitting the back of your thighs. You’re so overwhelmed, pleasure zipping through you from the top of your head to the tips of your toes, as Spencer fucks you like you’re the only person in the world that matters right now.

“I’m close,” Spencer gasps, pace growing uneven, hurried, as he chases his pleasure while trying so hard to make you feel good too. “Please, I–”

You cry out as your orgasm hits you, too sudden, too quick. You clench around Spencer as your body shakes, Spencer fucking you through it with desperation. You don’t expect to come so quickly, but you suppose missing Spencer has an effect on you.

You squelch obscenely with your release as Spencer continues to fuck you, needy and hurried, moaning in your ear as he stumbles into his orgasm too, wracking through his body like he has no control over it. You feel his load spill inside of you, hot and messy, his hands trembling as his thrusts slow.

“Oh, fuck,” you say, laughing slightly. “Holy shit, Spencer. We just had sex in a public bathroom, this is crazy.”

“We just had sex in a public bathroom,” Spencer echoes, sounding mildly panicked. “Oh, my God.”

“It was very fucking hot.” You assure him, holding his face in your hands to look him in the eyes, stopping him from overthinking. “But we should probably go home, because I’m a fucking mess between my legs right now.”

“I might need to take a shower,” Spencer says, his voice wavering slightly. “The sink is technically the most germ-ridden surface in a public bathroom, the damp environment makes it a–”

“Spencer, I love you so much, but for your sake and mine, let’s not talk about germs right now.” You shudder at the thought. “I think I need to take a shower after that too.”

“Let me clean you up, and we can go home.” Spencer, despite his germ anxieties, is rather sweet in cleaning you up. Your panties are ruined with fluids, and you’re starting to feel Spencer’s load trickling out of you when you stand back up, but you relish in the fact that you’re going to be back at his apartment soon enough.

(The fact that Spencer hadn’t corrected you when you called his place home, makes your heart sing.)

You clean up your makeup and make your hair look as presentable as it can be, especially after your boyfriend has literally fucked you in a public bathroom, and when you both look presentable enough, you try to slip out of the bathroom casually.

Unfortunately, Derek and Emily are right there, catching you in the act of leaving, obviously noting the way you and Spencer look absolutely dishevelled.

Derek raises his eyebrows, grinning. “Damn, lover boy.”

“Shut up,” Spencer retaliates weakly, his voice slightly shaky.

“We’re heading home first,” you say with all the confidence you can muster, trying very hard not to feel extremely embarrassed in front of Spencer’s very smug friends. You’re still holding Spencer’s hand, and you feel a little less afraid. “It was fun getting to meet you guys.”

Emily shakes her head playfully, smiling. “We’d love to hang out more with you another time. Maybe when Reid isn’t so desperate to get alone with you?”

Spencer makes a displeased noise, but you smile and nod at her. “Definitely.”

Derek and Emily let you slip out of the bar without saying much else, and you hope that the rest of Spencer’s team doesn’t hear about it.

As you and Spencer step out of the bar and into the cool, evening air, you kiss his cheek once more. “I love you. Now, let’s get home so we can shower. And then we can have sex again in the comfort of your bed?”

Spencer grins, any earlier embarrassment seeming to melt away. “That sounds perfect. God, I love you.”

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencerreidenjoyer writes #criminal minds fanfiction

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akutasoda · 9 months ago

Text

in the morning light

[part 2 here]

synopsis - what it's like sharing a bed with them

includes - aventurine, gallagher, sunday, robin, boothill

warnings - gn!reader, fluff, slight angst, i have no clue what im doing, might be ooc, wc - 1.2k

a/n: i have absolutely no clue what this is... im trying to write requests but i feel weirdly rusty and so i needed to do something random and well... this is it i guess?

aventurine ★↷

↪he has settled for a very long time to have bare minimum as his bed, practically nothing in some cases, and so now he over indulges himself. we've all seen the official art and the animation, he has one of the comfiest beds known.

↪anything you need, he's got it for you no questions asked or thought about. he does care quite abit about how he presents himself so he has quite the nightly routine but it's not that extensive, so if you wish to do yours alongside he wouldn't mind one bit.

↪naturally a light sleeper - the slightest sound or movement can wake him. aventurine is also quite prone to frequent nightmares which cause him to wake up in a cold sweat everytime. he doesn't wish to burden you however and so he tries to keep his movements to a minimum when your beside him.

↪he doesn't say anything but he always loves it when you wrap your arms around him and let him rest his head on your chest. it's very comforting to him. he feels safe in your arms and listening to your heartbeat brings him that reassurance that you are real and there for him.

↪unfortunately due to his work he can get very early morning calls which cause him to wake up early and begrudgingly leave you behind - he'd never wake you but places a kiss on your forehead before leaving. however if he has the day off, he becomes extremely clingly and refuses to move and further intertwines his body with yours.

gallagher ★↷

↪as a bloodhound, he doesn't normally stay the whole night as he might be called out to deal with whatever problem penacony has then. this can feed into a reluctance to join you in bed as he knows he wouldn't be able to leave if he did so.

↪he isn't one that cared about comfort or a good night sleep, so his bed was always bare minimum with one or two pillows and a blanket. although if you're one for more than he wouldn't mind buying anything you wanted to add.

↪doesn't really have a bedtime routine. most of the time he gets straight home from work and is very content to just collapse onto the bed beside you without even changing. most of his routine is spent in the morning trying to make himself look a bit more presentable for the day - he is very prone to drastic bed hair.

↪if he knows he wont be called out or has the next day off, he will happily join you in bed and becomes dead to the world. can be a very heavy sleeper if he knows he can allow himself to be.

↪gallagher can also be extremely clingy - on purpose. he enjoys holding you in his arms knowing that he can protect you and keep you close. so good luck if you have places to be because gallagher will have you in a tight bear hug which he won't let up any time soon.

sunday ★↷

↪he is normally very busy as the head of the oak family but he knows how important it is to keep up with things like sleeping to be able to actually function, so he tries his hardest but does has a tendency to put work first.

↪that being said, he does have a very high standard when it comes to his actual bed - he's sort of a mix because he likes having the comfiest things but he wouldn't complain otherwise. therefore he can be very accommodating to your needs.

↪he cares about his public appearance very much and so he has a very quick but efficient nightime and morning routine, he doesn't like spending time on such trivial matters but he needs to look pristine. sometimes if you're lucky enough you can see his wings looking very disheveled in the morning.

↪he probably didn't like the idea of sharing a bed to start with but he'd warm up to the idea much further into the relationship. although he isn't exactly one for cuddles, he much prefers that you have your own seperate sides of the bed - he'd be rather insistent on having his space.

↪sometimes you'd forget he's sleeping beside you. he barely moves at all and stays way too still to the point that you get a little weirded out, the only sign that he's still loving is the occasional flutter of his wings.

↪gets up super early. like way too early but he doesn't press you to get up at the same time unless you have somewhere to be. even if he doesn't have anywhere to be he gets up early because it's a habit for him.

robin ★↷

↪she can be equally as busy as her brother but most of the time she'd love nothing more than to end her day cuddled up beside you - her daily schedule can be much more accommodating to having a healthy sleep schedule.

↪as a very popular singer, she does need to keep up her appearance and so she has a very extensive and detailed nightime routine that she doesn't mind you joing her for if you wished. same goes for her morning routine.

↪robin is quite used to having many things and that translates into her bed as it has very fluffy blankets and lots of pillows. although she doesn't mind changing a few things if that isn't exactly your style.

↪a surprisingly light sleeper but she can move around quite a bit in her sleep. not exactly drastic movements but more small scale actions to readjust herself very often. she can be a massive cuddle bug so sometimes she does accidentally move you around with her.

boothill ★↷

↪chasing one bounty after another doesn't leave much room for somebody to lay low and have a proper rest. being a cyborg doesn't really help that case either as he doesn't exactly need to sleep to function - does he even need to recharge?

↪boothill really only started caring about sleep or 'recharging' when you came along. that being said, he doesn't exactly have a permanent place to stay so you might have to accommodate a cyborg into your room - but he is very adaptable and respectful of your space.

↪it becomes a moment for you two just to relax and unwind, he no longer has to worry about anything and can spend his time holding you. he probably can 'sleep' as a way to recharge but he becomes like a log and doesn't move at all until he's ready to go.

↪he does have a love hate relationship with having care routines, i do believe that he probably values his hair alot as it's the only remaining part of him from his life as a human but other than that he only looks after the rest of himself to make sure he doesn't malfunction.

↪he doesn't dare wake you unless you've specifically asked him too. so sometimes you may wake up to see him staring at you but you would learn to deal with that...

taglist - @little-miss-chaoss, @teddirika, @frankiesteinn

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pha55ed · 2 months ago

Text

Cindy Lou Who? || F1/F2

type :: angst

tw/cw :: cheating (all), death (pepe)

contains :: carlos, charles, lando, oscar, ollie, paul, pepe, luke

CONTEXT :: Singer!reader releases "cindy lou who" which exposes how the drivers cheated on her, making the drivers the most hated person on the internet - PART TWO SOON :D

xmas celly here! || f1 masterlist || f2 masterlist

Carlos Sainz | 55

carlossainz55: blue suit and eyes all on me.

→ user 01: OH THIS IS FUCKING EVIL...

⎯→ user 02: the fact (y/n) faced so much fucking racism in the f1 community only for him to get with a white girl... it's giving robert pattinson...

→ user 03: carlos sainz leaving THE FUCKING (Y/N) for the same ex he claimed was toxic???? ummmm

→ user 04: reminder to stream (y/n)'s song 😜😜😜 it's #3 on billboard 100 rn

→ rebecca.donaldson: guess i make you happy like someone couldn't do!!! 😉

⎯→ user 05: quoting her fucking song is so rude and insane. may the worse come to you...

⎯→ user 06: i can't even imagine the rage and sadness is going through and you're fucking laughing at her? THEY COULD NEVER MAKE ME LIKE YOU

Charles Leclerc | 16

f1.gossip : After (Y/N) released "cindy lou who", Alexandra Saint Mleux was seen in the paddock again with Charles and the wags. Fans were blasting (Y/N)'s song whenever they spotted Alex, resulting in her leaving early.

→ user 01: so he cheated on charlotte AND (y/n) for alex??? how strong is her hold on this man

⎯→ user 02: she gotta have some blackmail or smth

→ user 03: the fact that all the wags are hugging... except alex... yikesss smth def happened

⎯→ user 04: even jade isn't looking at her...

→ user 05: leaving a fucking MULTI-GRAMMY WINNING SINGER for your ex is fucking insane

→ user 06: MAY HE CRASH IN MONACO, MONZA, SILVERSTONE, AND MORE!!!

⎯→ user 07: MAY HIS ENGINE FART!!! FUCK CHARLES OMFG

→ user 08: SHOUT OUT TO THE FANS THAT BLASTED (Y/N)'S SONG IN HER EAR!!!!!

Lando Norris | 04

landonorris : the happiest i've ever been. happy 1 year love

→ user 01: wait wait wait ONE FUCKING YEAR????

⎯→ user 02: didn't he just break up with (y/n) like two months ago...

⎯→ user 03: so he cheated on THE (Y/N) (L/N) FOR OVER 8 MONTHS?????

→ user 04: i thought you were one of the good ones lando :/

→ user 05: even crazier is that oscar, max, AND carlos haven't comment when they used to comment on his posts with (y/n) 24/7

→ user 06: on the bright side... the album will go crazy???

⎯→ yourusername: i guess el oh el

⎯→ user 07: oh bby i'm so sorry :(

Oscar Piastri | 81

f1.gossip : After soft-launching for months on her instagram stories, Versace model Ashlee Collins was seen in the paddock with Oscar Piastri - Confirming that (Y/N) and Oscar are broken up. Goodbye to one of the best WAGs :( We'll miss you.

→ user 01: you know it's bad when even the f1 gossip account is sad

⎯→ user 02: she literally had no drama, was super sweet to fans, AND famous too

→ user 03: oh so THIS is who "cindy lou who" is about???

⎯→ user 04: she's stunning but being a homewrecker instantly makes her ugly in my eyes :/

→ user 05: leaving (y/n), a girl SPONSERED BY VERSACE, for a fucking model under the same brand is fucking insane. oscar lost my respect

⎯→ user 06: that probs means that oscar met this girl while (y/n) was working which is even worse

→ lily.zienmer: sending my prayers for her

⎯→ user 07: OO LILY?!!!??!??

⎯→ user 08: for ashlee or (y/n)?

⎯→ lily.zienmer: both

Oliver Bearman | 87

olliebearman: got rid of some dead weight, faster than every before.

→ user 01: oh so HE'S calling THE (Y/N), PRINCESS OF POP, a fucking DEAD WEIGHT???

⎯→ user 02: The balls on this man is fucking INSANE.

⎯→ user 03: NEUTER HIS ASS!!!!

→ user 04: she's pretty, but is she an award winning, billboard chart topper, AND model??? didn't think so

→ user 05: so half of his fanbase comes from (y/n)... he cheats on her... and then calls her a dead weight?? oh he's fucking dead

⎯→ user 06: might buy tickets just to throw shit at his car

Paul Aron | 17

addison.lillies : i guess i do look like cindy lou LOL anyways, hard launch?

→ user 01: oh... this isn't....

⎯→ user 02: she really thought she ate...

→ user 03: ur hard launch isn't even a whole photo of you two together, sad

⎯→ user 04: getting flashbacks to paul literally posting highlights and posts DEDICATED to just showing off (y/n) but he won't even like this girl's post...

→ user 05: erm... someone didn't understand the meaning of the song

→ paularon: pick better photos next time 😂😅

⎯→ user 06: OH... EMBARRASSING....

⎯→ user 07: was gonna get ur merch but now :/ mannn idk

⎯→ user 08: we expected more from you paul :( we really did

Pepe Marti | 21

f1.gossip : pepe marti was spotted at a bar with his childhood friend, alana. the two were described to be touchy, cuddling, and leaving the bar together in pepe's car while drunk. guess this is who "cindy lou who" is about... sending love to (y/n)

→ user 01: oh FUUUCCKKKKK no.

⎯→ user 02: didn't she just post a story about her aunt dying...

⎯→ user 03: i'm praying for her :( poor (y/n)

→ yourusername: 😀 i mean i always knew but damn.

⎯→ user 04: oh (y/n) :( im so sorry girlie

⎯→ user 05: the most beautiful, funniest, talented, and literal GRAMMY winner getting cheated on by a fucking f2 driver is insane. keep ur chin up girl

→ user 06: i always knew it was weird that he had a girl best friend... feel so bad for (y/n)

#f1 #f2 #formula 1 #formula 2 #f1 x reader #f2 x reader #carlos sainz x reader #charles leclerc x reader #lando norris x reader #oscar piastri x reader #ollie bearman x reader #oliver bearman x reader #paul aron x reader #pepe marti x reader #xmas celly!

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yukioos · 2 months ago

Text

SPARKS

SUMMARY: jayce talis x reader // jayce gets off work early because he wants to spend more time with you at home. once he comes home, you tease him consistently, knowing he is still nervous around you. a power outage then makes the whole city dark, and as it is winter time, jayce becomes nervous. he bundles you up in blankets, scared of the severe weather that reminds him of a traumatic experience when he was a kid.

AUTHORS NOTE: happy new year, everyone! i wish you all the best of luck, love, and happiness. i hope you guys enjoy this oneshot, i have an ask of jayce comforting reader so im working on that too :) also, what do you guys think of me writing a part 3 of bed chem/part 2 to espresso? tysm for 450 followers too

WARNINGS: not proofread, reader is referred to as jayce’s wife, pet names

“i believe that’s enough work for today, viktor. we should continue tomorrow,” jayce persuaded, not telling his science partner his true intentions. he bounced his leg anxiously as if he was on edge. viktor noticed and tilted his head, showing a peak of interest as he raised his eyebrow and narrowed his eyes. “it’s becoming late, it would be better for us to come back with a new perspective for this problem.”

viktor stared at jayce as if he had stated the dumbest thing ever. he glared at the man and objected, “it is five in the afternoon! we have much more work to do, jayce, a whole city depends on us and our work! what could possibly be more important than this?” he referred to the projects and items they had created with years of research and experience. the shorter man appeared frustrated with his partner, wondering how he could say such a thing.

“my wife.” jayce responded, the corners of his lips turned downwards. he knew his best friend wouldn’t take the comment kindly, after all, he was dedicated to his work, and jayce was too. however, he didn’t expect the shorter man to react in a harsh and degrading way. it made his body feel hot, and he balled his fists up. viktor grumbled and averted his eyes. he knew how important you were to jayce, and he, being the clingiest partner ever, never liked being away from you for long periods of time.

but the desperation on jayce’s face made him hesitate, he put his feelings on hold. the taller man was known as the man of progress, everyone knew his name, and he was working himself to death. he confided in viktor once, saying he knew he was working his ass off, and he was tired, but the one thing that kept him going was you. the pale man sighed and rubbed his eyes, then surrendered, “tell her i said hi.”

he was met with a beaming smile and a chirpy voice. jayce grinned, “i will, vik. thank you.” he then grabbed his luggage and waved goodbye to the scientist, and was more than ecstatic to hear your sweet voice again.

so he smiled as he walked down the hallways of the academy and the streets of piltover, having to pause every couple of minutes to greet someone along the way. he huffed once he was close to your shared home, and by the time he was at the front steps of your house, his cheeks were freezing. it’s a good thing you, his precious wife, told him to bundle up before leaving for work this morning. if he didn’t, his whole body would be freezing! he thought, he was so thankful to have you.

he reached his hand into his coat pocket and grabbed a pair of keys, which were decorated with a keychain of a cute ‘i love you’ note from you. he smiled at the sight, then placed the key into the keyhole and twisted. he twisted again, tugged the key out, and placed it back into his soft pocket.

quickly, he was met with warm air and the smell of cupcakes invading his senses. he greeted, “darling, i’m home!” hoping to call you out from wherever you were. he glanced around before shrugging off his coat and scarf and placing it onto a hanger. he then heard little footsteps and guessed you were walking toward him from the kitchen.

“you’re home early,” you commented, by every step you took closer to him, he became more and more nervous. he started avoiding your intimidating gaze, you noticed and grinned, deciding you were going to tease him a bit more. his cheeks began to flush, and you mumbled, “you look good, baby,” he nervously chuckled and averted his gaze away, eyebrows furrowed upwards as he couldn’t fight the smile on his face.

he chuckled, “i didn’t do anything different to my face… or my outfit,” he began to stutter when you gently grabbed his tie and pulled him down to your height, “well, besides— besides the coat and— um… scarf…” he was then face-to-face with you. you tilted your head slightly to the right and tapped his cheek, wanting him to look at you.

he eyed you once he felt the touch on his face and quickly felt your lips on his in a matter of seconds. he smiled into the kiss and wrapped his large arms around you, always wanting to be as close as he could to you. you placed your hands on his shoulders, then gently massaged his scalp with your freshly manicured nails. he groaned into the kiss and his shoulders felt less tense.

suddenly, the lights in your house turn off, causing both of you to pull away from the kiss. his hands still stayed on your hips, but you let go of his body and unlocked the door, checking outside. the streets were dark. you spoke about what you were thinking, “power outage? that’s rare, isn’t it?” then turned to your husband, frowning as you realized you couldn’t see him.

he replied, “there’s never been a power outage in piltover,” he paused, eyes widening, “what about the hexgates? they’re probably out of power too, i need to fix them—“ he reached his hand out for the doorknob, but you grabbed his hand and cradled it in yours.

you interjected, “jayce, it’s not your job to make sure all the electrical stuff is working. let the other citizens handle it, it’s their job, anyway. how about we grab a flashlight from the nightstand and go read some books?” before he could respond, you walked over to the pantry and grabbed some snacks and drinks. he followed you and slowly guided you to the stairs, escorting you to your shared room.

after you grabbed your flashlight, jayce grabbed a book from a shelf and asked you to read it to him as he pointed the light at it. you were both cuddling on your large bed, his head laid comfortably on your side. as hours passed, the house became cold, and goosebumps formed on your skin.

jayce placed his hand on your arm and gently rubbed it before realizing goosebumps were a sign that the weather was severe and cold. his eyes widened and he put the flashlight down, causing you to call out his name. he shuttered and mumbled, “you need more blankets— i’ll— i’ll go get some, please change into something warmer.” but before you could tell him you felt fine, he grabbed another flashlight and headed to the linen closet. there, you stored extra blankets, and he managed to carry around seven, which was all of them.

his mind went straight to when he was a child and in a snowstorm. his mother passed out, and he was scared for his and her life. he was soon diagnosed with ptsd once he went to a therapist and told them that he always became nervous when the weather dropped. you knew about this but never wanted him to overreact, as you most of the time, were feeling fine heat-wise.

as he placed the blankets over you and grabbed a long-sleeved t-shirt from your drawers, you reached out to him. he flinched and his eyes were red, almost watering, and wide. you stated, “jayce, come back to bed, please.” and rubbed his arm comfortingly, hoping to soothe your husband.

he tried to deny your command, “but you’re cold— your goosebumps— you need something warmer—“ he continued to rummage through your drawers.

“jayce.” you harshly said, grabbing his attention quickly. he shrunk under your gaze, almost feeling ashamed of himself. he averted his gaze, but you softened your tone, “let’s head back to bed, okay? i promise you everything is fine, we’re perfectly healthy and warm.” you didn’t know exactly what to say, but he sighed and closed the drawer.

he walked to his side of the bed and laid down, and you did the same. you were both on your sides, and he had a worried expression on his face. his mind wouldn’t rest anytime soon until he knew you were safe. you hoped to comfort him, and your heart ached, never having seen this behavior from him. you scooted closer to him and kissed his forehead, causing him to slowly slip into your arms. he laid on top of you, hoping to keep you warm with his large frame.

you kissed his forehead and rubbed his back, mumbling praises and ‘i love you’s. you whispered, “we’re both safe, honey, i promise.”

as you were about to close your eyes, he mumbled, “thank you,” he was on the verge of falling asleep, then he continued, “i don’t know what i would do if you weren’t in my life. i love you.”

your heart warmed at his words, and you kissed his head once again. his breath evened out and he didn’t say much, but even as his eyes were closed, you knew deep down, he was still a little boy afraid of losing people he loved.

#yukioos #x reader #arcane #arcane x you #jayce arcane x reader #jayce arcane #arcane jayce #arcane x reader #jayce talis x reader #league of legends jayce #jayce talis #jayce x reader #jayce league of legends #jayce lol

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brunchable · 5 months ago

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How I met your Father. | Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Themes: Getting noticed by your crush. Pining from Reader.

Summary: You work at the cafe Bucky always goes to and you've had a crush on him for MONTHS.

A/N: Conntected with How's Retirement, Bucky? and Ouch, my face.

The bell above the door jingles as the early morning rush dwindles down, leaving only the occasional customer trickling in. You’re wiping down the counter, lost in thought, when your coworker, Emma, elbows you hard enough to make you stumble.

“Ow, what—” You shoot her a glare, but her eyes are wide, and she nods her head toward the door with a smirk.

“Guess who just walked in,” she whispers conspiratorially, her grin widening. “Mr. Grumpy Pants himself.”

Your heart does an involuntary flip, and your eyes dart to the entrance. Sure enough, there he is, all dark and brooding with that permanent scowl on his face. Bucky Barnes, the man who you’ve secretly—and very stupidly—had a crush on for the past three months.

“Oh my God, stop calling him that,” you hiss, but your voice is a pitch too high, giving you away instantly. You try to ignore the fact that your cheeks feel like they’re on fire.

Emma just chuckles and nudges you again, her voice teasing. “Come on, Y/N, everyone knows you’ve got it bad for him. You literally beam like a sunflower whenever he’s around.”

Another coworker, Lily, pokes her head out from behind the espresso machine and joins in. “Yeah, it’s like you’re part of some weird ‘grumpy guy fan club’ or something. He never even smiles, and you’re over here trying to win him over with puns and pastries.”

“Y’all are the worst,” you mutter, willing yourself to calm down. “And it’s not a fan club. It’s called being friendly.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Emma drawls, winking. “Being friendly. That’s why you spend extra time drawing hearts in his latte foam.”

“I do not!” You glare at her, scandalized. “He doesn’t even order lattes!”

“Okay, but if he did,” she teases, “you’d find a way.”

“Shut up, he’s coming over,” you say under your breath, hurriedly pushing Emma and Lily away as you straighten up, forcing yourself to look composed and nonchalant.

Bucky walks up to the counter, his usual stoic expression firmly in place. He gives you a nod of acknowledgment, but not much more.

“Morning,” he grumbles.

“Good morning!” you chirp, and damn it, there’s that stupid sunflower smile on your face again. You catch Emma and Lily exchanging knowing looks behind the counter and pointedly ignore them. “Usual today?”

“Yeah, iced americano,” he replies, his voice that familiar low rumble.

You ring him up, trying to suppress the fluttery feeling in your chest. As you grab a cup and scribble his name on it (which you definitely didn’t write just a little fancier than everyone else’s), you decide to take a chance. You shoot him a playful look.

“Hey, did you hear about the coffee that got arrested?”

He blinks at you, his brows furrowing slightly. “No. Why?”

“It got mugged,” you say brightly, giving the punchline your best delivery, complete with a little ta-da gesture.

Silence. Bucky just stares at you, his expression unreadable. It’s like talking to a statue. You can practically feel Emma and Lily holding their breaths, waiting for his reaction.

“...Right,” he mutters finally, nodding slowly. “Mugged.”

You wilt a little but keep your smile plastered on. “Tough crowd, huh?”

“Yeah,” he replies, and for a second—just a split second—you think you see a flicker of something in his eyes, like amusement. Or maybe you’re imagining things.

You finish making his coffee, and as you hand it to him, Emma stage-whispers from behind the counter. “Come on, Mr. Barnes! Give her a break. She’s been working on those jokes all week.”

“Emma!” you hiss, mortified. Your eyes dart to Bucky’s, your heart hammering.

But instead of looking annoyed, he tilts his head, regarding you with a sort of curious intensity. “All week, huh?”

“Uh, yeah,” you admit sheepishly, clutching the edge of the counter. “I mean, not just for you or anything—”

“Yes, just for you,” Emma interjects, grinning wickedly. Lily nods enthusiastically, her eyes wide and teasing.

You shoot them both a murderous glare, and Bucky’s gaze flickers between the three of you. Then, to your complete and utter shock, he makes a sound. It’s barely audible—more of a huff than a laugh—but you catch it. Your eyes widen.

“Did you—” You lean forward, grinning uncontrollably. “Did you just laugh?”

“No.” He denies it immediately, shaking his head, but his lips twitch like he’s fighting off a smile.

“You did!” You point at him accusingly. “I heard it!”

“Keep dreaming, Y/N,” he mutters, but there’s something softer in his tone now. He glances down at his coffee cup, where your careful handwriting spells out ‘Bucky :)’ with a little smiley face beside it, it’s almost mocking his stubborn scowl.

He sighs—one of those heavy, put-upon sighs that he’s so good at—and looks back at you. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”

“You have no idea,” you say with a grin. “And one of these days, I’m gonna make you smile for real. Just you wait.”

“Uh-huh.” He nods, raising an eyebrow as if to say I’d like to see you try. “Good luck.”

With that, he turns to leave, but just as he’s about to reach the door, he pauses. You’re still watching him, breathless and grinning like an idiot. He glances around the café, his eyes flicking to the stereo speakers mounted on the walls.

You follow his gaze, and that’s when you hear it: the soft, melodic intro to Sunflower by Post Malone. The lyrics drift through the air, the singer crooning about being left in the dust, a sunflower, and you feel a pang of embarrassment. Of course this song would start playing now.

Bucky’s gaze shifts back to you, and something changes in his expression. He looks at you—really looks at you—as if he’s putting together a puzzle that’s been right in front of him this whole time.

“See you tomorrow, sunflower,” he says, his voice lower, gentler.

You freeze, sure you’ve misheard him. “Wait—what?”

But he just smirks—smirks, like he knows something you don’t—and nods at the speakers. “You beam like one of those. Didn’t even need the song to tell me.”

He turns away, and you’re left standing there, staring at his retreating back as the door swings shut behind him. The café falls silent except for the soft chorus of the song. Emma and Lily stare at you, jaws practically on the floor.

“Did he just—”

“Yeah,” you breathe, still staring at the door. “He called me sunflower.”

Emma lets out a whoop, and Lily clutches her heart dramatically.

“Oh my God, Y/N, he’s so into you,” Emma squeals. “You broke Mr. Grumpy Pants! You did it!”

———

The door swings shut behind him, he makes it a few steps down the sidewalk before he slows to a stop, his coffee cup in his hand. He glances back over his shoulder, through the glass windows, where you’re still standing behind the counter, wide-eyed and speechless.

For a moment, he just stands there, watching you laugh as your coworkers swarm around, teasing you. You’re always like that—smiling, bright, never wavering in your ridiculous attempts to make him laugh. Even when he gives you nothing but deadpan responses and stony glares.

“Sunflower,” he murmurs under his breath, shaking his head. The word tastes strange on his tongue—soft, unfamiliar—but not unpleasant. He lets out a slow breath, and before he can stop himself, a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Damn,” he mutters to himself, turning away before anyone can catch him grinning like an idiot. “Persistent little thing.”

He takes another step, his smile growing. Maybe tomorrow, he’ll linger a little longer. See what other terrible jokes you’ve got up your sleeve.

After all, it’s not like he’s in a rush to go anywhere else.

#bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes x f!reader #winter solider x reader #winter soldier x you #winter soldier x y/n #james bucky barnes #james barnes x y/n #james barnes x reader #james barnes #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan fanfiction #sebastian stan characters #sebastian stan x reader

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kisses4reid · 1 year ago

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convenient | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,,

summary - studying while working at a convenience store is easier that thought when a regular happens to be a genius.

genre - fluff, fem!college!reader x earlyseasons!spencer

warnings - school work, that always scares me. they’re the same age!!! early 20s. mention of condoms.

edit - bc this is getting so much love, i’m opening a taglist for part 2!!! just comment or put in a req to join the ‘convenient’ taglist 🫶

the chime of the door didn’t phase you, the creaks and squeaks of the store slowly becoming one with you. flipping onto the next page of your biology textbook, something that was unnecessarily expensive, you shake your hand to get rid of the cramp you slowly became aware of.

it was only when a wave of man’s cologne and a plastic bag stood in front of you that you ripped your eyes off of your books.

he was tall, skinny, had long(ish) hair and looked amazing. there wasn’t really anything else to say, other than that the thin smile he displayed toward you made you smile back.

“just these for today?” you ask, fixing your posture and pushing some loose strands back to their place behind your ears.

“yes, thank you.” he says, voice as timid as his appearance. it was a bag of apples, a 2 minute bolognese container, and a bag of coffee. you scan them, weigh the apples, and watch him as his long fingers slip through his wallet to find a debit card. “have a good night.”

your eyes return to your textbook as you go to erase an answer you had previous written, obviously wrong.

“the heads of the phospholipid bilayer are hydrophilic, not phobic.” he says. it surprised you, making you return to his gaze slowly before realising you should probably reply instead of staring at the man.

“oh- yeah, thanks. i caught that it’s just, i guess i’ve been staring at the same words for so long i can’t differentiate them.” you give a small fake laugh as he nods, giving you a long look before coughing and leaving promptly. he leaves with his bag, and his hands fiddling with each other.

you can barely focus after that. customers come and go, and although you’ve only been doing the late shift for a week, this encounter with the unknown man couldn’t leave your mind. the way he dressed, his smell, his voice and how he corrected you (which would totally annoy you usually). you hoped he would return.

and he did. three days later, this time even later than the last.

you were stuck in a dark purple sweater, the aircon in the store blasting cold air that you were too lazy to fix. and although the air flipped pages of notes and questions, you were still stuck in a trance.

the blasting aircon blew a wind of mens cologne this time, it smelt like wood. your eyes glanced up from your books and trailed the familiar man, noticing how he was reusing the plastic bag from days before.

he returned to the checkout with apples, a 3 minute cannelloni, and a bag of coffee. he was now the one trailing you, “where did Latrice go?” you look up, chuckling a bit,

“Latrice is getting paid by her daughter-in-law to babysit the twins,” you reply, surprised you were willing to tell him so much information. he could be a stalker for all you know. or just a regular, obviously that’s way more likely. “trust me, i miss her as much as you do. $14.98.”

he nodded with a small smile and sliced his card down the side of the card reader.

you searched for him now, only after two encounters you were already craving some sort of human interaction at work. usually you avoided it since the only other ‘regulars’ were old men and mean teenagers. you had switched to writing a biology report on your computer, the sound of the keyboard almost covering the sound of the door bell.

a bag of apples, a 2 minute lasagne, a bag of coffee, and a banana muffin.

“big night?”

“uh- what?”

“you got a banana muffin. i thought you were starting to become predictable.” you bagged his things as he chuckled, looking over you and your laptop. you noticed only because you were also looking at him, “biology report. wanna read it?” you joked, but he didn’t catch that part.

now he was behind the register, sat on your wheelie stool reading and editing your report while walking you through everything he was changing. you didn’t understand most, but you were just happy to stay around him. you weren’t even scared of Old Alan, the guy who only buys cucumbers and condoms. nobodies ever asked him, don’t think anyone wants to know.

“what’s your word limit?”

“3500.”

“only 3500?” he gave you a raised eyebrow, voice getting slightly higher. he coughed, “sorry, that’s nearly impossible.”

you sigh, “i know… i’m y/n by the way. thought you should know who your helping cheat.”

“i’m not helping you cheat, i’m just… editing,” he hit backspace a few times with a lowered bottom lip, “my names spencer.”

you smiled and crossed your arms as you leaned against the counter. spencer. yeah, that sounded nerdy enough.

pt. 2

#spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x yn #criminal minds #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds imagine #cm #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid x fem!reader

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cevansbrat0007 · 5 months ago

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Forget-Me-Not

Summary: Ari forgets to do something important before leaving out the door...

Warnings: Mature Themes, Ari Being A Menace, Fluff, Implied Smut, Kisses, Chocolate Covered Strawberries, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: Part of my Sweet Renegade Series. Semi-proofread, not beta'd. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!

You’re currently standing at the stove, slowly stirring a pot of freshly melted chocolate. For some reason, you’d awoken this morning with a craving for chocolate dipped strawberries. So, instead of paying an arm and a leg to buy them from some fancy shop, you’d simply decided to make your own.

Humming under your breath, you’re surprised when you hear your front door open and shut. A quick glance at the clock suggests that it’s much too early for Ari to home for good just yet. More likely he’d probably forgotten something.

Turning off the heat, you move to pour it into a bowl. Next up was your favorite part – turning your favorite fruit into a delicious confection. You run your finger along the spoon, wincing as the still-too-hot treat burns your skin.

But you don’t care. Not when it tastes so good. So good, that you can’t help the satisfied moan that escapes your throat.

“Is it really that good, sweetheart?”

“Mm.” You purr before helping yourself to another taste, this time using your tongue now that things have cooled a little more. “It really is.”

Grinning, you take a moment to get a good look at your man. He’d been a man on a mission this morning, rushing out the door before you were barely awake and alert. And while you weren’t quite sure what business it was that had him moving so quickly, you were pretty certain that he’d tell you at dinner.

“You in the mood to share?” Ari rasps as he leans against the wall, looking exceptionally sexy in his dark blue Levi’s and black henley. You find yourself slightly disappointed that he’s not rocking one of his signature flannels.

Mostly because you liked to steal them. But to be fair, your sweet Beast also never seemed to complain when he caught you wearing one. He mostly just sighed and grumbled about his diminishing wardrobe.

Which was fine by you, considering the fact that he was the sole reason your entire panty drawer had been reduced to next to nothing. Those flannels were owed to you by right!

“Just what are you doin’ back so early?” You ask, holding the spoon out to him. “I didn’t expect to see you until dinner.”

“Forgot to do somethin’.” He rasps as he moves towards you, his long, powerful legs bridging the distance between your bodies in mere seconds. “Somethin’ important.”

“Oh?” Guess you were right. The man had been moving so fast this morning that he’d likely left behind an important file or notepad. “I don’t recall seeing anything on the table, but–”

“That ain’t what I forgot, little Bird.”

Now he’s standing in front of you, his work boots almost brushing your bare toes. You’re caught off guard when Ari moves to tenderly cup his cheek, his roughened palm warming your delicate skin.

“What…what did you forget?” Confused, you move to offer him the spoon in your hand, only to be surprised when he declines. You watch as his normally brilliant blue eyes darken as they stray to your waiting mouth. Your heart speeds up when his head descends, making his intentions all the more clear.

“Something much, much sweeter.”

Squealing in surprise, you can’t help when your eyes flutter closed as his sinful lips capture your own. The kiss starts off soft and sweet, that is, until you feel Ari’s free hand make its way down your lower back so that he can grab a handful of your ass, pulling you closer to his big body.

You feel his tongue sweep against your bottom lip, encouraging you to open. To respond in the way you so desperately know he wants. Rising on your toes, you eagerly grant him access, wanting him to know that you were feeling just as hungry and wanting as he felt for you.

Feeling emboldened, Ari lifts you off your feet, prompting you to wrap your legs around his trim waist. Your fingers find their way into his hair, lightly tugging at his already tousled locks. Meanwhile both of his impatient hands busy themselves with kneading and squeezing your curves as he rocks his hips against yours, letting you feel the weight of his already impressive erection.

It makes you want him here. Now. So you can't help but feel disappointed when he slowly eases away, leaving you wet and needy.

“Fuck." He promises now that he's finally allows you up for air. "Promise I won’t forget to do that again.”

“Uh huh.” You breathe, your legs wobbling slightly the moment he releases his hold, lightly setting you down. It doesn’t help when he leans in once again to gently brush his lips against your temple. And his satisfied grin has you giggling as your head falls to rest against his broad chest.

“Tell me what I interrupted here, baby.”

“I was making chocolate covered strawberries.” Nuzzling your nose against the fabric of his shirt, you continue. “I woke up with a taste for them, so…” You offer up a small shrug. “I decided to make some.”

“Well, that’s funny. On account of I woke up with a taste for you.” You feel his big palm come to rest on your head, stroking a path along your silky curls. “And these are about to make the proceedings even better.”

You can’t help but feel a little dizzy when he pulls away. His teasing words were filling you with all kinds of spicy ideas.

“I’ve gotta run.” Ari tells you. “I only came back to rectify my mistake. But I want you to save some of these for tonight…” He glances down at your now cold bowl of chocolate. “Because I have plans to enjoy my little Bird for dessert before I even think about dinner.”

Reaching around you, he snags a ripe berry and lifts it to your mouth. His eyes never leave yours as he watches you bite down on the plump fruit, its juice lightly dripping down your chin. Groaning low in his throat, Ari leans in once more, lapping up the sweet trail with his tongue.

“And Bird?” He calls as he turns to walk away, confidently striding towards the front door.

“Y-yeah?” Dear God, this man was going to be the death of you.

“No panties, alright? I don’t want anything between me and my strawberry delight.”

Fucking Beast.

END

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so-i-did-this-thing · 18 days ago

Note

You're the only person I know on Tumblr who I feel like I can send this ask so I hope this is ok.

I'm absolutely sick to my stomach terrified. People keep talking about not acquiescing early and to keep fighting and that's good but... I'm a trans person married to a trans person and we have a kid. We are so, so scared that we are going to lose our parental rights and have him taken away, even if he's biologically my partners. We are pretty fucking sure that the only way we could even possibly stay in the US and even possibly keep our family together is to detransition. But then we would still be queer, and I remember the 90s and how it was pretty recent that gay couples were considered unfit parents.

And this isn't us blowing things out of proportion, we have an education in politics so we've got a pretty good freaking idea about how bad things can and will get, but also we don't feel like we can afford to NOT take things extremely seriously. The worst case scenario is pretty horrific for us, so we've talked at lengthe about leaving the country. Which is it's own basket of heartbreaks because then there's a real chance we will never be able to come back. And I don't really feel like I can talk about it because a) the Internet doesn't feel safe to be trans on and b) there's been SO much chatter about how we need to stay and fight and people who can leave are privileged etc etc

I just... I'm scared and heartbroken and angry and I feel extremely hopeless. I guess I don't really have a question after all. I just needed to talk about it because it feels like not enough people are seeing this kind of true tragedy that could come from all this.

I wish there was actual help we could get. But there doesn't seem like there's anyone who can.

You're right, Anon - you're not blowing things out of proportion.

I want to say that I'm relieved in a sense that you are talking about where your lines in the sand are are and what you plan to do if they are crossed. There is hope and comfort to be found in a plan, even if it is a plan for the next generation's survival, instead of our own.

Every trans person needs to start thinking about real answers to the following questions:

What will I do if I'm fired tomorrow?

What will I do if I'm denied a loan? Housing?

What will I do if I lose my HRT?

What will I do if information about trans people is considered illegal to circulate?

What will I do if I I'm declared an unfit parent?

What will I do if my marriage is annulled?

What will I do if I'm declared unfit to own my own property or make my own legal decisions?

What will I do if I'm about to be arrested?

There are answers to all of these questions that aren't just "give up and die." But there's no one-size-fits all solution. People will have varying priorities based on how they see their role in fighting fascism and what resources they have access to.

Community is going to become incredibly important. Trans people have always existed. Sympathetic cis people have always existed. Trans people have always found ways to survive and even flourish, even though it often meant not being able to pursue their original dreams.

If you don't know where to begin with strengthening our community, the Trans Literature Preservation Project is a good place to get ideas. The virtual book burnings have already begun on .gov websites, so maybe doing a little preservation work will give you more hope that you're working to make a difference.

Because the work is important, even if the progress won't happen until after our time.

#trans stuff #us politics

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covenofagatha · 7 days ago

Text

Do I wanna know? (Part 4)

The final two weeks before Agatha moves to Albany

Word count: 5k

Warnings: mentions of sex, fluff

The following Sunday, Agatha drives you to Albany so you can look at apartments with her. She found three online that she really likes and is hoping that she can sign a lease today.

Since her new job starts next week.

You’ve never exactly known what she does for a living — you never really cared to ask when she was married to your dad and once you got together, she just kind of assumed that you already knew — so you have to ask about three times for what this new position entails so you can try to work it out.

So far you’ve gotten that she advises the company on how to raise capital, financial modeling, legal and compliance issues, and general advice. She did try to explain what she does when you found her looking over a contract one night, but it went so far over your head you didn’t realize she had stopped talking until she kissed you to bring you back to earth. Agatha did say investment banker once, but even with all the job descriptions, you’re still not sure you actually understand.

“All right, here’s the first one,” she says, squeezing your hand that’s interlocked with hers over the center console, and parallel parking on the street in front of a high-rise building with floor-to-ceiling glass windows. You peer into the lobby to take in the crystal chandelier, dark floors, and mahogany wood panels on the wall by the elevator. “See, it’s not that bad of a drive. As long as you leave pretty early Saturday morning, you should be able to get here in under two hours.”

You look at her and shoot her a smile. Agatha’s been overly nice to you the past week, telling you how pretty you are and how lucky she is and buying you flowers and cooking you all your favorite foods, so you’re trying to just sit back and appreciate it.

She took the job. You told her it was okay. All that’s left to do is accept it.

“It’s really nice,” you tell her, turning back to the building. “It’s in a good area, too.”

Agatha turns the car off and unbuckles her seatbelt. “Only about ten minutes from the office, so even better. And it’s not too far from the interstate for traveling to and from here.”

Another thing she’s been doing is talking about how much you’ll be able to come visit and vice versa. It should be reassuring, but it just feels like she’s overcompensating slightly to make the move sound better than it is.

It’s not fair to still be upset because Agatha is trying. And you are feeling good about this, you feel secure that what you two have is real and strong, and you’re going to start working on your application to the University at Albany this week. If you get in, you’ll start in January, which really only means four months of long distance, and you know you’ll both make an effort to see each other on the weekends and during breaks.

When you put it like that, the pit in your stomach lessens. Your tendency to overthink and blow up problems in your head is definitely something you need to work on.

The moment you step out of the car, the first thing you notice is the smell, almost like rotting plants and sewage. You wrinkle your nose and Agatha walks around to you, the same expression on her face.

“Think you’ll ever get used to that?” you joke and she solemnly shakes her head.

“Guess I’ll just need to bury my nose into something else until I forget it,” she says with a wink and you laugh before following her up to the glass door of the apartment complex.

There’s a man sitting at a desk, maybe about ten years older than you and wearing a flannel shirt, typing something at his computer, and he doesn’t look up at you until Agatha clears her throat and taps her fingers on the counter.

He raises a bushy eyebrow, unimpressed and annoyed that someone dared interrupt him. “Can I help you?”

Agatha tosses her hair back over her shoulder and straightens up. “My name is Agatha Harkness and I made an appointment to see a two-bedroom.”

The man sighs and taps his mouse. “Yo, Dottie,” he calls, swiveling in his chair to face an open door to the right of him, “I’ve got a ‘Harkness’ here to see the two.” Whoever Dottie is, you hope she’s friendlier than this man. Even his mustache seems to be frowning at you.

A tall, blonde woman steps out of the room, beaming brightly at you two, wearing a brightly colored floral dress. She walks around the desk, shakes both your hands, and introduces herself.

“Wonderful, wonderful,” she claps her hands together and you wince at the loud sound in the otherwise-silent lobby, “let me get the keys and then I’ll show you and your daughter the model apartment on the seventh floor and then the one that’s open, which could be yours! We also have some specials on leases if you sign one within twenty-four hours of your tour, which I’ll go over after this.”

Dottie waves you along and you catch Agatha’s eye behind her back, mouthing your daughter? at her with an amused smirk. Agatha playfully rolls her eyes and swats your arm.

You still remember the first time she took you out in the spring, when the waitress had assumed you were a couple. You had choked and almost died from coughing so hard, flabbergasted at the thought that anyone would look at you two and see anything other than a mother and her daughter, even if she was your step-mom.

But now, it kind of bugs you that someone does see you that way. You’re almost tempted to see what Dottie would say if you kissed Agatha or if Agatha squeezed your ass.

Dottie’s rambling about the safety features of the elevator as she presses the button and you stare at the reflection of yourselves in the bronze doors, blurring the sound of her voice out. You watch Agatha nodding attentively and you probably should be paying attention, but you just can’t.

Something about looking for apartments with Agatha seems so surreal. You had helped her pick out the one in Westview and it felt like you were picking out a place for the two of you, even knowing you were going to live at the dorms.

But now, you’re picking it out for her and she’s breaking her lease on the apartment you shared.

It’ll be back to being both of yours in January, you remind yourself.

The elevator doors slide open and the three of you step into it, the tile a fancy black marble with gold cracks and the walls a dark wood with the top half covered in mirrors. Dottie touches the fob to a pad and then presses the button for seven.

“It only lets you get to the floor that you live on, and the roof for the pool and the game room. We take our security very seriously,” she explains and Agatha hums before looking at you for your approval and you nod like you’ve been paying attention this whole time.

She takes you down the hall and pauses in front of a door, fumbling with the key ring and then finally inserting one into the lock. She pushes it open and lets you and Agatha step in first.

The floor is a cool gray color, all white walls except for the blue accent in the living room, and it’s pretty spacious. The kitchen has an island with quartz countertops that match the other counters against the wall, all stainless steel appliances, a double oven, and a hood over the stove. The backsplash is green and blue and gray tiles. There’s a deep sink and three pendant lights over the island. You have to admit it looks really good.

“Wow,” Agatha says, tracing her fingers over the countertop and crossing the threshold into the living room, where the floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city of Albany. It’s the model, so there’s comfortable-looking couches around a coffee table and a rug, facing a television on an entertainment center. Even with all the furniture, it’s easy to imagine exactly where Agatha’s stuff would go.

You follow her into the first bedroom, the bigger one. It has the same windows as the living room and your only thought is that Agatha will certainly need to invest in some curtains if she picks this place. It’s a huge room; Dottie tells you that the bed in there is king-sized and there is still plenty of space for the nightstands and lamps and dressers. The walk-in closet is probably half the size of your dorm room right now, and there’s a standalone shower next to a tub across from the double vanity in the bathroom.

“This is nice,” Agatha whistles and you nod your head in agreement.

“Let me show you the other bedroom,” Dottie says and leads you to the other half of the apartment. “This door closes off the hallway to the second bed and bath, so plenty of privacy. Will your daughter be living with you?”

It’s hard not to laugh when you and Agatha glance at each other out of the corner of your eyes. “Um, no, I go to college in New Jersey. But I’ll be visiting a lot,” you answer, and then, just for the fun of it, add: “How thick are the walls, though? Like, apartment to apartment.”

Agatha stifles a laugh that turns into a cough and Dottie looks back over her shoulder. “We don’t get a lot of noise complaints. If you’re worried about the TV being too loud, it shouldn’t be a problem because the living room is in the middle of the two bedrooms. But if you’re watching something in either bedroom, there’s a chance a neighbor might be able to hear a bit of it.”

“That’s exactly what I was worried about,” you mumble and Agatha nudges you, even though she’s smirking too.

The second bedroom is a bit smaller than the other, but still a good size. This one has a window-sill and only one long window and the closet is only about half as big. The bathroom has an alcove tub and matching countertops to the other bathroom and a lot of cabinet space.

Dottie also shows you the three extra closets for extra storage and then takes you to the empty apartment on the ninth floor.

Agatha walks around, gesturing wildly with her hands and pointing out where things could go, while you trail after her like a lost puppy, occasionally adding a yeah and I like that and I think that’ll look really good.

Seeing her plan the space feels like a hammer in your gut going it’s happening it’s happening it’s happening over and over again until it almost overwhelms you, but Agatha is so engaged in it that she doesn’t even notice. You’re being completely irrational. Everything is fine.

“So, what do you guys think?” Dottie asks when Agatha finally stops and comes to stand next to you as you’re leaning on the island and picking at your fingernails. She puts a hand on your lower back and you stiffen, eyes darting up to look at Agatha, who’s looking back at you inquisitively.

“Could you give us a second, Dottie?” It’s clear from Agatha’s tone that it’s not a question and Dottie gives you both a tight smile before leaving the apartment.

You rub your forehead, trying to stave off a headache you can feel slowly budding, and walk over to the windows. Her footsteps are soft and then she’s wrapping an arm around you to pull you into her and kiss your head.

“You know what I’m thinking about?” she asks and you hum inquisitively. “Fucking you against these windows so anyone down below could look up and see how well you take me. See how good of a girl you are for me.”

A burst of heat flashes through you but you smirk, not being able to pass up the opportunity to make a joke. “That’s quite an inappropriate thing to say to your daughter.”

Agatha snorts. “Good thing Dottie isn’t here.” And then she softens against you. “Do you like this place?”

You shrug. “It’s pretty nice. Aren’t we going to go look at the other places though?” It’s a stupid thing, but you feel like it’s not real until she signs a lease. And maybe you just want to keep it not real for a little bit longer.

She makes an equivocal sound. “This one did look the nicest online. And honestly, I really like it. I can definitely see myself living here. I can see us living here.”

“Okay,” you say softly, melting on the inside. As long as she’s picturing you here with her, you’d be good with anywhere. “I think this is the place, then. Let’s go tell Dottie, mommy.” You go to move but instead, she turns you by the shoulders and grabs your cheeks, pulling you in for a long kiss and then gives you another one for good measure.

“You are so perfect,” she says against your lips. “I l—”

The door opens and you jump back from Agatha and whirl to find Dottie standing there. Your cheeks heat up, but she doesn't look scandalized so you’re guessing she didn’t see anything. “How’s it going in here, ladies?”

Agatha gives you one last look-over, giving you all the time in the world to object, but you just swallow hard and nod. “Dottie, we’ll take it,” she says and you plaster a smile onto your face when Dottie gasps and exclaims excitedly.

She ushers you back to the lobby and leaves you sitting at a desk while she runs off to go print out papers. You’re tapping your foot impatiently when your phone buzzes.

Thinking it’s just one of your parents — you didn’t actually tell either of them that you were going to New York — you pull it out of your pocket.

Hey, it’s Carol. Want to get dinner tonight? You vaguely remember giving her your number the night of the party last week. You’ve only seen her once or twice since then and the first time, she asked how you were feeling, and the second time, she shot a finger gun at you.

“Who’s Carol?” Agatha murmurs, having leaned over your shoulder. You fight the instinct to turn your screen and type back, Sorry, out of town tonight. Rain check? before slipping it back into your pocket.

“Just this girl that lives in the dorms. She was the one who drove me to your place when I was hammered last Sunday.”

“Ah.” She’s opening her mouth to say something else when Dottie comes back over and plops down a thick packet and starts rattling off the rules of the complex, the extra fees, and where to sign. Dottie says because you’re not living here full-time, you don’t have to fill anything out and you inwardly sigh in relief.

Agatha barely looks at the papers before signing her name in big cursive letters and you can’t help but long for that kind of financial security and stability, where you don’t even have to worry about the cost of rent. When you do transfer and if you do end up living with her at any point, you know she won’t let you pay for anything, but you make a mental note to start looking at jobs, maybe even just part-time, so you can buy her things with your own money.

“Perfect, let me just run a quick background check on you, make sure your credit is good, and then I’ll get back with you. And you want to move in…?”

“Next Saturday would be great,” Agatha says and your foot starts bouncing even more erratically. Dottie leaves to go back into the office and Agatha’s head drops back to look up at the ceiling. “That means I need to set up electricity, water, internet, I need to schedule movers, I need to talk to my complex.” She groans and sits back normally, rubbing her face with her hands.

You’ve done the whole moving thing a few times and it absolutely sucks so you reach over to pat her leg. It’s the first time you’ve seen her even the slightest bit overwhelmed with all this and it’s honestly refreshing. “I’m here. Anything you need, I want to help.”

She gratefully smiles and leans across her chair to give you a kiss on the head. “How did I get so lucky?”

“Um, you married my dad.” Agatha wrinkles her nose but laughs anyway, resting a hand on top of yours that’s still on her thigh. It’s an anchor for both of you and neither of you move until Dottie comes back about five minutes later.

“All right, you guys are all good! We will see you next week. Any more questions?”

Agatha stands up and shakes Dottie’s hand. “I think we’re okay. Thank you so much for all your help.”

The drive back to Westview is filled with mindless chatter and no mention of the move. You make plans for the week — you’ll stay with Agatha every night, she’ll cook dinner, movie night on Tuesday, picnic in the park on Thursday. She knows that school is starting to pick up for you, so it goes unspoken that you’ll be doing homework with her.

“And of course, plenty of sex,” you add when she asks you if there’s anything else to plan for.

“Oh, sorry, was that not implied?” Agatha simpers and her hand sneaks its way into your lap, dipping under the seat belt to play with the elastic of your leggings.

You let her slide inside and let out a small moan when she brushes a finger against your clit through your underwear. “Better keep your eyes on the road, mommy,” you say tightly.

“I can multitask.”

She rubs your clit and you shift in your seat to give her easier access to you. It’s an odd angle — her wrist is bent in a way that is surely uncomfortable — but Agatha is determined to make it work. She teases you slowly and before long, you can feel how wet you’ve become. Your breathing has deepened, cheeks hot, and you start to roll your hips to get more stimulation.

“Mommy, please,” you beg, and she looks over at you to say something when the car in front of her stops suddenly. Your stomach lurches. “Watch out!”

Agatha slams on the brakes, sending you both flying forward, the seat belt putting an immense amount of pressure on you, and she yanks her hand out of your pants to put her arm in front of you.

The car screeches to a halt about two feet from the one in front of you. You’re both panting and Agatha tosses her hair back before assessing you.

“Are you okay?” she asks quietly. You nod, still gripped by a cold sweat. She takes a deep breath and puts both hands on the steering wheel when the cars begin to move again. “I think we’ll save car sex for another time.”

You huff out a laugh in agreement. “It went pretty well that one time. But we were in a parking lot on the way to get pizza in rural New Jersey, not on an interstate in New York.”

“Who would’ve thought there’s a big difference,” Agatha quips and the tension from almost getting into a wreck lifts the more she drives. You’re back to giggling and talking in no time, although you both keep your hands to yourself.

The rest of the day passes quickly, with Agatha busy setting up everything she needs for her new apartment while you finish up some homework for the upcoming week.

On Tuesday, you’re leaving your dorm after your third class of the day to go to Agatha’s for the night when you run into Carol. She brightens when you see her and you give her a quick smile, determined to keep moving.

“Hey, where are you off to? You still owe me that dinner,” she says, catching you by the arm.

“Yeah, sorry, this week is going to be a little tough,” you tell her apologetically. “My…girlfriend is moving on Saturday so I'm just trying to spend as much time with her as I can.” You’ve never really had to define your relationship with Agatha, but it seems natural to call her that.

A stormy look flits across her face before she’s back to normal. “The same girlfriend who broke up with you?”

You hadn’t exactly found the time to fill her in on the whole story. “Turns out she wasn’t cheating, it was me jumping to conclusions. She had a job interview in Albany and she got it! So she starts next Monday.”

“Be careful with long distance,” Carol warns, instead of being happy for you like you thought she would be. You raise an eyebrow. “It always starts out so nice and happy and everything is okay…but then the distance sets in. Texting and calling aren’t the same as just being able to see them and talk to them in person. Traveling becomes exhausting. The traffic makes you mad and then you’re in a bad mood and you can only think about the drive back and—”

“Stop,” you snap, stepping away from her. This is possibly the worst thing you could hear right now and you can’t take it any longer. “That’s not how this is going to go, okay? Agatha and I are different. We’re solid. And besides, it’s probably only going to be like this for a few months. She trusts me and I trust her. We’re going to be fine.”

Carol scoffs, a cold look in her eyes. “You trust her? Is that why you were so quick to believe she was cheating on you?”

The blow knocks the wind out of you and you just stare at her blankly. Who the fuck does she think she is?

She softens, realizing that she cut deeper than she intended to. “Shit, I’m sorry. This is your relationship and I should’ve stayed out of it — I’m sure you’re right, okay? You guys will be fine.”

But you don’t want to hear anymore from her, so you turn on your heel and walk to your car. The rest of the night, you’re a bit out of it and you can’t stop cursing Carol for putting those thoughts in your head.

The next few days fly by in a blur with classes and homework and avoiding Carol around campus, but your evenings are absolutely perfect with Agatha.

She keeps the light low in the kitchen while she cooks for you each night while you sit at the table and ramble on about whatever you’re learning. She hums at all the right times, but when you take a break to look up at her, she’s staring at you with a fondness in her eyes that you’ve never seen before.

Each time it happens, you think it must be what love looks like.

Growing up with parents that should’ve been divorced, you never had a good model for what love was. You used to think that everyone’s parents were like yours — cold, didn’t actually like each other, and just stayed together for their children. You thought that love meant complacency, or even that maybe there was no such thing as it.

You weren’t sure if you’d actually be able to fall in love and be loved back. But with Agatha, there’s an intimacy your parents never had. You didn’t know what that was like until her.

And you know that you love her more than anything in the entire world, and when she gives you that look, you think she might feel the same.

The three words are constantly on the tip of your tongue, but for some reason, you just can’t say them again. You don’t even say it when she makes you cum, which is a lot of times over the week.

She bends you over the countertop and fingers you. She shoves you against the wall after you get back from your picnic on Thursday, gets on her knees, and eats you out. She makes you sit on her strap while you finish your essay and then pushes you onto all-fours and pounds into your pussy until you’re crying. She fucks you in the kitchen, in the bedroom, in the hallway, in the living room — even in her car and your car. Both while you’re safely parked in an abandoned lot, of course.

It’s like she’s determined to give you as many orgasms as she can before she moves, and she’s doing an excellent job of it.

Saturday, after everything gets moved into the new apartment and you’re finally done unpacking most of the stuff, Agatha takes you to a fancy Italian steakhouse in Albany. The atmosphere is romantic, with classical music playing softly and candles lit at every table. Agatha looks absolutely stunning in a tight black dress and curly hair, and you’re wearing your best outfit as well.

“Have I told you how beautiful you are?” she asks and your cheeks heat up as your head ducks down shyly.

“Once or twice,” you answer coyly, finally meeting her gaze again.

She holds out her hand across the table and you take it, feeling the normal electricity that her skin on yours always gives you. “We’re going to be okay, you know that, right? I know you’re more worried than you’re letting on. I know how you’re feeling — I know how easy it is to get swept away with doubts. But I really appreciate you telling me to take this job and I promise we’ll be okay. I care about you far too much to let anything happen to this.”

You nod and squeeze her hand. “I do know. I feel the same.”

“Oh — that reminds me. I got you something,” she says and digs around in her purse before pulling out a small black box with a red bow neatly wrapped around it and handing it to you. “You might want to open it beneath the table. Might be embarrassing if someone sees it.”

Brows furrowing in confusion, you dip the box under the white tablecloth and undo the bow quickly before lifting off the lid. Your mouth falls open and your eyes shoot up to meet hers.

“Agatha,” you hiss, flushing.

Resting on stretched out cotton in the box is a small, purple vibrator, curved to be able to rest on your clit while also vibrating against your g-spot, with a gold engraving along the side that goes inside you: Mommy’s cunt. Your clit throbs.

She holds up what looks like a small key fob and presses a button and the toy starts vibrating. You drop the box into your lap while gaping at her and she smirks triumphantly. “Works from anywhere in the world,” she says casually and your stomach sears with heat.

“Oh, fuck,” you rasp. You’re suddenly feeling very excited about this move. Something about the distance, about the anticipation and the teasing and the pining that it will bring, doesn’t seem so bad anymore.

Suddenly, the food can’t come fast enough and then you’re both in the car, Agatha speeding while you sit on your hands so you don’t distract her, and then she throws the car into park and you both race into her apartment.

Her mouth finds yours the moment you step through the door, pushing you against the wall as a muffled oomph slips out of you, and she sucks on your tongue and then bites your bottom lip and then kisses her way down your neck. Your brain is going foggy and your underwear is soaked and you quickly tug her into the bedroom.

Agatha tears off her dress and then pounces on you, knocking you onto your back on the bed, hands coming up to cup your breasts and you keen.

“God, Agatha,” you groan and she scrapes her teeth against your neck. It’s so good, but it’s also your last night before everything changes. “Wait, fuck, stop.”

She jumps back like she’s been burned. “What — is everything okay?”

You nod, panting, and run your hands up and down her hips. “Yeah, everything’s great. I just…can we just cuddle tonight? I just want to be close to you.”

Agatha runs her tongue along the inside of her bottom lip, her eyes going glassy for a moment before she blinks, and she chokes out, “Of course, honey. Whatever you want.”

Smiling gratefully, you take off your clothes and slide under the covers next to her so you can feel all of her warm skin against yours before she tucks an arm around you. You nuzzle into her body and your face twitches with restrained emotion.

“I’m going to miss you,” you say softly and she presses a kiss to your head. “I know it’ll be okay though. I’m almost done with my application to the University at Albany.”

She hums and kisses you again before breathing in your scent deeply like she’s making sure she doesn’t forget it. “I have no doubt you’ll get in. And then it’ll be us in our own little world.”

“That’s right.”

The two of you lay like that for what feels like hours, and eventually, Agatha’s breathing starts to even out. A quick glance up at her face confirms that she fell asleep.

You know you should too, but you’re reluctant to let this moment go. Right now, it feels like you’re frozen in time, just the two of you.

So you stay up as late as you can, just soaking in the feeling of her.

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