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nereidprinc3ss · 29 days

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hourglass

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want to kiss me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

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

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

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

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

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

Realized it was not at all a joke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t want to see you.

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

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

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

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

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

Surely you’re hallucinating.

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

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

But it's him.

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

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

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

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

You scoff.

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

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

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

It chills you.

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

He is so different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A silent moment passes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this what you want?”

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

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We don’t have to do—”

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

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

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

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

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

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t,” you admit.

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

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

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

Right. No shirt.

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

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

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

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

“I don’t believe you.”

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

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

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

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

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

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

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

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

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

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

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

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

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

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

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

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

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

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

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

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

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

“Is this okay?”

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

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re still pretty.”

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

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

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

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

“Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

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

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

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

“I...”

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

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

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

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

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

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

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

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

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

And you’re not even fucking yet.

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

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

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

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

Spencer. Your Spencer.

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

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

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

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

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

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

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

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

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

Spencer continues unprompted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re here.”

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

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

“I’m here,” he breathes.

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

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

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

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

Honey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

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

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

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

“Am I going to hate you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?”

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

But it doesn’t work.

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

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

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

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

The bruises covering his abdomen.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

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

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

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough.

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

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes.

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

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

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

Maybe it will never be like it was.

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

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

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table.

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

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

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

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

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cutielando · 5 months

Text

mr. and mrs. | o.p.

synopsis: in which you finally get married

my masterlist

Oscar and Y/N.

Y/N and Oscar.

Everyone knew them, everyone loved them.

Ever since the young Australian lad had entered the Formula 1 world, Y/N had entered it with him. Always by his side, always attending his races while also attending university.

They had been together for many years, practically having invented the term “highschool sweethearts”. Despite Oscar’s busy schedule and Y/N being at university, they always made it work, never letting the distance affect their relationship.

Moving together to the UK had represented the first sign that they were both in it for the long ride. Packing up their entire lives and moving across the globe to follow their dreams proved that their relationship and the love they had was real.

Real and pure.

When Oscar got the opportunity to drive in Formula 1 and Y/N started her studies, the time they spent together shortened by a significant amount, but they managed to make it work.

They talked on the phone every day, texting when neither of them could speak on the phone, they took every opportunity to visit each other when they had free time, with Y/N visiting Oscar at his races or Oscar coming home when he would have 2 weeks off between races.

They made it work.

But Oscar wasn’t satisfied. He needed something more. He needed something that would put his mind at ease when he would be away.

He needed to officially make you his.

Towards the end of the season, you had a few weeks off uni and decided to join your boyfriend in Qatar for the Grand Prix.

You hadn’t really chosen the best race to attend, the heat and the humidity making it really strenuous on your already tired body. But seeing the smile that Oscar had while doing the grid walk with you by his side made it worth it.

Being there for Oscar’s sprint win had been the highlight of your entire year. Seeing him cross the checkered flag first, seeing his name on that first position on every monitor around the paddock, the feeling was unlike anything you had ever felt before.

Up until the moment Oscar got out of the car.

He made his way over to where you were waiting for him after he celebrated a little with the team, taking off his helmet and balaclava and giving them to one of his assistants.

“How about that?” he asked, chuckling as he pulled you into his arms, careful not to squeeze you too tightly because he was sweaty.

“I’m so fucking proud of you, Os. I can’t believe I was here for your first win” you said, your voice muffled because you had your face buried in the crook of his neck.

“It’s technically not considered a win bec-”

“Shut up and enjoy the moment” you interrupted, making him chuckle and continue hugging you.

As he let go of you, you didn’t notice him reaching for something behind his back, not even his assistant subtly handing him something as he appeared again from the garage. All you could focus on was him, and nothing else around you.

It only really hit you when Oscar lowered himself down on one knee in front of you, a red velvet box in his hand.

“Oh my God” you said, your eyes widening and your hands flying up to your mouth.

All around you, the McLaren team gathered in a circle, phones ready and cameras rolling to catch the sweet moment on camera.

“Y/N, I don’t even know whether words will suffice to say what I want to say right now. You’ve been by my side since we were kids, you moved to the UK with me and left your entire family in Australia just for me, and I can’t even begin to explain how much that meant to me. I can’t imagine my life without you in it, I frankly don’t think I could survive on my own if you weren’t here. I want to grow old with you, I want to have kids with you and build the life we’ve always talked about having. Y/N, will you marry me?” the words got stuck in your throat, so you settled for nodding feverishly.

The entire team around you cheered, but you could only see Oscar. As he got up and slid the ring on your left hand, you threw yourself into his arms and softly cried, the moment far too emotional to be able to hold back.

Your engagement had become national news in a matter of a couple of hours. Every media channel from the world had written about Oscar’s proposal in Qatar, speculating about when the wedding would be and whatnot.

It didn’t even feel like it had really happened when you stared at the ring on your finger, the feeling foreign but so welcome and like it was meant to be.

You and Oscar had multiple talks about when you would get married, where you would have the wedding and many other problems that came with being away from home and everyone’s families.

Which is why you decided to have the wedding back home in Australia.

After the season was finished and the winter break came, you and Oscar had started planning the wedding, which you settled to have after the last race before the summer break. He had already sent invitations out to the rest of the drivers, all of them very eager to attend the young lad’s wedding.

Lando was especially thrilled, but couldn’t help making jokes about how he had never thought Oscar would be the one getting married so young.

“What did you do to him, Y/N? You charmed him pretty damn well” he’d always joke whenever you guys would hang out in the garage before a race.

Yours and Oscar’s mothers took care of most of the things regarding the venue, the flower arrangements and catering, wanting to take the load off of you while you were halfway across the world.

The only thing that you had to worry about was picking your wedding dress and flying over to Australia to get married.

And when the day had finally come, excitement flowed through your veins.

Nicole and Oscar’s sisters had helped do your hair and make-up, your mother only watching as she sobbed quietly in the background.

“Mom, you’re gonna make me cry too if you don’t stop” you told her as you watched her through your mirror, making the other girls laugh.

“I just can’t believe my baby is getting married” she laughed, wiping her tears and walking up to stand behind you.

You smiled and took her hand, mostly to calm your nerves as well.

You were really getting married. And to the love of your life, which was a plus.

After you were prepped and ready to go, your father came to fetch you to walk you down the aisle. Your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest as you held his arm tightly and clutched the flower bouquet tightly in your other hand.

But your nerves disappeared like they had never even been there when the doors opened and you locked eyes with Oscar waiting for you at the end of the aisle, Logan beaming behind him as his best man.

The ceremony went by in a blur, the only focus on your part being on Oscar. You only vaguely remembered saying your vows and saying “I do”, your memory only having imprinted the first kiss you two shared as husband and wife.

You were positive that nothing could ever top this moment, getting married with all of your friends and families present, stepping into your new life with Oscar by your side.

Nothing could ever be better.

Nothing could top you becoming Mrs. Piastri.

Being Mr. and Mrs. Piastri.

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rogueddie · 1 year

Text

There are a lot of rumors about Eddie Munson. From his sexuality, to his religion, to him being some sort of supernatural creature.

Steve doesn’t put a lot of merit in most of them. They’re usually just bullshit people make up to entertain themselves with whilst beating down on the weird kid. Steve thinks it’s boring… usually.

He’s seen enough weird things happen around Munson to know that something isn’t right. Something about him is unnatural. And Steve is staying clear out of the way of whatever the hell he is, or whatever the hell he’s messing with.

Unfortunately, his friends haven’t gotten the message.

“Do it at your own house!” Steve complains, though he makes no move to stop them. He’s sure it’s nothing, that it’ll only lead to an annoying clean-up job, but there’s a nagging sense of dread writhing in his gut. “This shit is bull anyway.”

“If it’s bull then what’s the problem?” Tommy counters.

“Because none of you dickheads are going to help clean this shit up!”

“I promise to help you clean up,” Carol says. “There. Problem solved. Right?”

"It's still stupid," Steve mutters, glaring at the janky make-shift pentagram they've made. "And a bad idea."

It's drawn on nine pieces of paper- they wanted to draw it big on the floor, but Steve had but his foot down. He lets them use some of his moms candles as a compromise.

With the lights off, sitting with the two of them in a circle, it suddenly feels too real. Even Carol looks suddenly nervous.

Tommy is the only one still smirking, though Steve is sure that it's forced. His voice shakes a little as he begins reading off the paper he'd torn out a library book. His Latin is clunky.

At first, nothing happens.

Long enough that Carol says, "did you even say it right?"

"Yes, it even has-" Tommy starts.

The candles all blow out, suddenly. The light Steve had left on in the kitchen flicks off too, plunging them into complete darkness.

After a horrible moment, where they're still and silent, Carol yelps.

"Don't grab me, Tommy, that's not funny!"

"I didn't grab you."

"Wh- Steve?"

"No," is all Steve can get out.

"I'm turning the lights on," Tommy says. "This is ridiculous."

Steve listens to his footsteps and, when he sounds like he's almost at the light switch, he yelps.

"Fuck this," he says.

"What the fuck, Tommy!" Carol yells when they both hear him running past them. She's up on her feet immediately, chasing after him.

He wants to scream after them, plead with them to come back, that they shouldn't be abandoning the circle.

But, the same gut instinct that insists he stay where he is, keeps his mouth shut. Everything in his being is telling him that if he leaves, if he speaks first, horrible things will happen to him.

Something tuts, like a parent admonishing a child.

The living room light flicks on, so bright that Steve has to blink a few times to clear away the white spots.

Eddie Munson sits in the space they left empty.

"Someone didn't read the terms and conditions," he snickers.

"What..." Steve pauses, clearing his throat. "What are the, uh... terms and conditions?"

"Oh, they're simple, really. Look," he holds up the page Tommy had read the incantations from, pointing to the little paragraph at the end. "They even translated it to English! But all you need to know, big boy, is that you are A-OK."

"And... Tommy and Carol?"

"Eh, they're fine. Lucky, really. I'm trying to relax up here. I'm only gonna pay them back with a minor curse or two. Nothing lethal."

"Fuck."

"We haven't even got to you yet!" He spins around so hes laying on his belly, resting his chin on his palm. "You didn't technically summon me so you can just tell me to leave... or."

"Or?"

"Deal with no consequence, baby. One wish, whatever you want, free of charge. Well... I'd want your silence about the whole... summoning thing. Let's consider that payment."

He doesn't need his gut or book to warn him that it's a bad idea. Munson could be lying, easily. There could be fine print. It's a bad, very bad idea.

"There's... definitely no consequences? I won't, like, go to hell for this?" Steve finally asks.

"Do some charity work for a week, you'll be fine," he says, waving his hand around. "What do you want, King Steve?"

"Could- could you make someone love me?"

"Oh, ho ho ho! Who's the unlucky lady who said no to you?"

"No, it... it's not like that. I mean, um... my mom."

Munsons smile drops. The temperature drops with it, making a chill run up Steves spine.

"Your mom," he repeats.

"They're busy like, all the time," Steve automatically defends. "And they're barely here so, uh... of course they wouldn't- I mean, it's normal, right? You can't love a stranger or... whatever. It's fine. It's just... I don't know."

"Steve..." Munson pauses.

He groans, throwing his head into his hands, dramatically. He almost immediately flings his head back up, hair flying everywhere, giving Steve wide and pleading eyes.

"I can't make people fall in love or any shit like that. I can make illusions, that's it. Love is, like... way out of my jurisdiction."

"I- I'm ok with an illusion. Like, just one day or something."

"Steve, baby, you're breaking my heart."

"Please?"

"Jesus- ok!" Grumbling, Munson shifts so he's kneeling. "And in return, you won't say shit about any of this. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Great. Ugh. This next part is... weird."

"What do you mean, weird?"

"It's weird, I don't know. Deals about, like, love are sealed with a kiss."

"You're joking."

"Nope, and that's not even the weird part. Now, come on and pucker up, let's get this over with." He gestures for Steve to shuffle closer, waiting until they're sat close enough that their knees almost bump together. "You can still change your mind. Anything at all, Steve. Anything."

"I thought you wanted to get this over with?"

"On your head..."

Munson leans forward, kissing him. It's just a peck, simple and easy. No big deal, right?

Steve feels possessed. It's like someone lit a match in his stomach, leaving him lightheaded and confused. He's not sure how he ends up in Eddie's lap, clutching onto his shoulders, desperately trying to lick into his mouth. He feels so-

He wakes up in his bed, the morning light blinding him.

"What the fuck..." he mutters to himself, grabbing at his throbbing head.

At first, he thinks he's hungover. That he'd just had a weird dream... but he's wearing the same clothes. And, sat on his stomach, is a guitar pic. It's got 'corroded coffin' written on it too- Eddie's band.

"Steve!" He hears his mom call. "Time to get up!"

He scrambles out of bed, dashing down the stairs.

She smiles when she spots him, so bright and warm. She even raises an arm, laughing when he practically throws himself into her side and hugging her tight.

"Morning, sweetheart. Good dreams?"

"Yeah. Yeah, great. But, uh... I feel sick."

"Oh no," she frowns. She puts her hand to his forehead, cooing when she brushes his hair out his face. "Is it your stomach?"

"Yeah. Just... might be better to stay home today. If that's ok?"

"Of course it is. I'm sure we can find something fun to do together, yeah? How about we get a vhs movie, hm?"

"I'd love that."

"Great. Well, if you're feeling up to it, I've made breakfast." She steps away, plating the food she's cooked up. "Oh, did I ever tell you about Paris? It was beautiful, you would have loved it. We should bring you, next time we go."

Steve can't stop smiling. He's sure that his cheeks will be aching by the end of the day.

He'll have to thank Eddie- as soon as he can even think about him without blushing. He'll need to ask if it's normal to still feel... affected, even after the deal is done.

Part of him knows it isn't the deal. Part of him is too curious about how Eddie will react.

#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steddie fic #ficlet #creaturefeature

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iamred-iamyellow · 6 days

Text

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Bad Blood

♥ masterlist | request rules | based on this request

♥ pairing: franco colapinto x fem!driver!reader

♥ synopsis: tensions started rising in the williams garage when bad strategies pitted you and your teammate, franco against each other. after spotting him in a bar the night of a race the two of you bonded over your shared bad result.

♥ one-shot - wc: 1.6k

♥ as always none of the pictures are mine <3

♥ warnings: swearing, drinking, and vaguely suggestive !!!

♥ a/n: rivals to lovers + forced proximity, go nuts babe. btw there’s some salty team vibes so i just wanna say i love williams (except james) this is purely for the plot lol

“Plan B, Y/n. Plan B,” you engineer said on the radio of your car.

”Is Franco undercutting me?” you asked, shifting down into a corner.

“We think this is the best decision point-wise.”

“You’re joking.”

“Y/n stick to the strategy, you’ll get your time eventually.” they responded.

“No this is bullshit. What advantage are you giving him? He can’t chase down Kmag any better than I can—at least he doesn’t have the pace right now. I don’t see why you’re making him the priority.”

You reached the end of the main straight watching as your teammate exited the pit lane in front of you.

He was on hard tires, an extremely odd choice for the end of this race. You were trying to complete the last 20 laps on softs while your teammate tried to make up positions on the opposite compound. Wait why the fuck would they put him on those tires? If they were aiming for an undercut, they were certainly going to fail with this strategy.

You dove down into the apex and collided with Franco, who was turning in front of you. You both spun out into the gravel, ending your race.

It was always like this. Somehow you always found yourself competing against Franco no matter where you went.

“Fuck,” you yelled on the radio as you threw your HANS device outside of the car.

“Are you okay?” your engineer questioned.

“Yup, yeah I’m fine.” you responded.

The Williams team could hear faint breathing from Franco.

“Is she ok?” he asked.

“Yes, are you?”

“Yeah, I am.”

You scrolled through your phone in your driver's room, coming across a couple of posts about the situation.

@fcswife “is she okay?” FRANCO THE MAN THAT YOU ARE 😭❤️

@charlesgf16 she really has zero respect for franco huh?

@francodefender1 how could anyone hate him? 😩

You rolled your eyes and clicked off the device, throwing it onto a different cushion on the couch. You were going to need a drink.

Later that night you retreated to a bar you were unfamiliar with. A couple of F2 drivers in your circle mentioned it in passing and considering you couldn't fluently speak the language of the country you were visiting, you hoped to run into a few people you knew.

The room was dark, loud, and packed. You could hear music playing over the sound of dozens of drunk voices. You pushed your way through the crowd of people towards the front of the bar in order to get a drink.

You spotted a familiar face when you arrived. To your dismay it was the only person you wished not to talk to at that moment. His brown curls were immediately identifiable and if that wasn't enough, the fluorescent lighting illuminated his face, drawing your eyes towards the small mole on his cheek.

You looked around for a place to avoid him, but all the booths were taken and the only open bar stool was the one next to Franco.

Because of course it was.

You sighed and took the seat next to him, trying your hardest to avoid eye contact.

"A bottle of Dom Perignon please," you asked, causing Franco to snort.

“What?” you shifted your gaze towards him.

“Champagne is for winners,” he said, looking you straight in the eye.

It wasn’t like he was incorrect. Champagne was for the podium—but you had a long day and it was time to treat yourself. Regardless, you rolled your eyes at the man’s comment.

Franco waved over the bartender to get a glass and help himself to the bottle of alcohol.

“You can venmo me,” you said only half joking as he poured himself some champagne.

A small tv in the corner of the bar had a replay of the race and press.

”There were a lot of emotions definitely, uhm I think the decisions tire wise for the strategy weren’t great. It’s frustrating to see the prioritization of your teammate but I guess I have no input on whether that goes to me or Franco each race. We had a rough week overall as a team but I hope we can bounce back.”

“As much as I hate to agree with you… you were right. Both our strategies were fucked.” he said referencing your post race interview, “They screwed us both.”

The two of you never really got along, but at least neither blamed each other for the crash. It was just a racing incident and it didn’t have to prevent you from finally having a civil conversation with Franco.

“To screwing us both,” you smiled while raising your glass of champagne, eliciting a chuckle out of him.

He clinked his cup to yours with a smirk and took a small sip.

From that point on your distaste for him slowly started to die down and you began to have a mutual understanding.

The next race went over far smoother than the last. Franco ended up in P5 with you right behind him in P6; an incredible result for the two of you and the team.

You jumped out of your car and strolled your way over to his. The camera picked up on you patting his helmet and mumbling something.

Of course this was going to be all your media feed would show for the next few days.

That night you found yourself at a far more tame pub than the last.

“From the gentleman across the bar,” a server said, causing you to look up from your phone and towards the direction he was pointing.

Franco was leaning against the counter with a grin. He raised his eyebrows quickly and waved.

You took a sip of the cold blue drink in front of you and waved back. His eyes stayed locked on you as you pulled out your phone and unblocked a number.

You

is there red bull in this?

+1800******

yea

You got a text back immediately, prompting you to change the contact name.

You

i think that’s a sin

Franco

oh?

You

yea if i can’t drive it i shouldn’t be drinking it

Franco

i guess it’s too bad williams doesn’t make energy drinks

You

come sit with me

Tensions were still high on track between the two of you but the minute race weekend was over it was like someone flipped a switch.

A few weeks flew by and people started to notice your behavior towards Franco. By now there were probably dozens of pictures of you looking very cozy together at parties, but not getting along at the circuits or simply ignoring each other in the paddock.

Of course people were getting suspicious. Maybe this was a ruse to keep your relationship a secret? Maybe it was all staged for Netflix. Or maybe—you two didn’t really know what you were.

“Che,” a voice called out to you in spanish, instantly grabbing your attention.

You spotted Franco in a booth at the back of the club. It was far darker in that corner, but with the flashing lights and loud music you were glad he picked a more secluded area.

The building was full with the familiar faces of drivers and team members.

”Look at you,” he said, impressed.

You laughed and did a small spin, showing off your dress. You knew he’d liked it and by the memory you had earlier this evening, it seemed as though a lot of people would.

”Another date with Franco, huh?” Kika smirked while putting on some dangly earrings. “It’s not a date,” you protested. She spun her body around to face you. “This,” she gestured to your outfit. “Is for a date.”

You slid into the booth next to him, setting your black clutch purse beside you.

Franco’s hand firmly grabbed your thigh to steady himself as he shifted closer towards you. Your eyes darted down to the action but he didn’t seem to notice. His grip loosened as he settled and he started rubbing small circles with the pad of his thumb.

A small hum escaped your lips, barely audible over the music and voices, but there was no way in hell your soft noises wouldn’t catch his attention.

”¿Esto está bien?” (is this ok?) he asked in a whisper, causing you to only nod.

His face moved closer to yours, and you wasted no time cupping his cheeks in your hands, and connecting your lips.

You melted into the kiss knowing damn well you daydreamed about this an embarrassing amount.

His tongue swiped over your bottom lip, tasting the gloss you applied earlier. You opened your mouth to allow him entrance and he dragged his fingertips further up the inside of your thigh.

Franco moved down to your neck leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses. His index and middle fingers brushed the lace of your lingerie, causing him to smirk against you.

“Stand up,” he demanded. He slipped out of the booth and pulled you onto your feet. You grabbed your clutch as he guided you through the crowd, hand-in-hand.

He opened the chiming door and the two of you stepped onto the wet cobblestone. Your heels clicked on the ground as he guided you to his car in the rain.

He pulled open the passenger seat door for you.

“Wow, we weren’t even in there a couple of minutes,” you stated.

“I think we’ve had enough time to talk… quiero llevarte a casa…” (i want to take you home) he leaned down and mumbled to you.

“O en este caso mi hotel,” (or in this case my hotel) “unless you’d rather go back inside..” he trailed off.

You shook your head in protest to his last works and a light chuckle slipped through his lips.

”Alright then,” he smirked, getting into the drivers seat.

#𝒍𝒊𝒗'𝒔 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 ౨ৎ #franco colapinto #franco colapinto x reader #franco colapinto x you #franco colapinto x y/n #franco colapinto fanfic #franco colapinto imagine #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fic #fornula one fic #formula one fanfic #f1 one shot

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aireia · 7 months

Text

pretty. — shopping for your wedding gown went a little wrong.

tw/cw: tooth rotting fluff, not proofread, fluff/crack, reader wears a dress + satoru calls them his future wife —masterlist

you smile and place your palms under your chin, wondering how you got to this point. your snowy haired fiancé is currently twirling around with a custom tailored wedding gown… which he wasn’t going to be wearing on your wedding day anyway, because he would never hear the end of it from his first year trio. okay, yuji probably wouldn’t have said anything, but nobara and megumi would bully him out of his own wedding. without a doubt, 100 percent.

your mind tried running through the events that had unfolded over the past two weeks, finally stopping at where everything started.

“pretty.”

those were the only words that satoru gojo had to say the moment the both of you had found the perfect wedding dress for you. detailed right down to the final bits of the dress, it matched you perfectly with your favourite flowers weaved into the design, just the perfect length… it was everything you were looking for.

the sound of your soft laughter brought him out of his awestruck expression. “thank you, but as much as i love it, it feels just a little uncomfortable.” you sounded a little disappointed, and satoru couldn’t help but notice every little shift and movement you made… especially that mischievous look in your eyes and grin plastered on your face the moment you thought of a ‘solution.’

“maybe you should be the one in a dress at our wedding. i’m sure the strongest can handle a little bit of discomfort.”

now, you and gojo had known each other for probably more than a decade. he knew better than anyone else that you were joking. but you were basically challenging him with that last sentence, right?

he abruptly stood up from the couch he was sitting on once you had gotten to changing out of the wedding gown before marching off to one of the nearby employees and asking about any dresses his size, only to be met with the response of, “this is an unusual request, but there are quite a few dresses that would compliment you-” the employee coughed a few times before continuing, “-but we are closing soon, so there might not be enough time to try them on-”

“i'll take all of them.”

“pardon?”

“including the one my future wife chose. okay thanks!”

the total came up to about 1.2 million yen. for a dress for you and those 3 gowns the employee picked out, it horrified everyone present at the counter. everyone but him, of course.

back to present time, that’s how you found yourself being the one and only audience member for your beloved’s fashion show. for a good reason, you wanted to chew him out for spending that recklessly. then again, this is the same guy who decides to buy two of the same items no matter how expensive it is “just in case the other one goes missing.”

you sigh softly before turning your attention back onto him. he’s currently trying on the final dress, and has finally got rid of the sunglasses. you can’t help but admit that he actually looks good in the dress, sparkling with all the right types of gems and jewels, paired with his now visible long eyelashes, he looks pretty.

“so? how do i look!!?” satoru asks with enthusiasm, spinning around you in circles.

“hmm, maybe i should be the one wearing your suit that day instead,” you jokingly say to him. he understood, laughing before ruffling your hair.

“as if i’d let you.” a comfortable silence filled the air afterwards, being broken afterwards by satoru confessing, “i dream of seeing you wearing that in front of me at the altar, you know?”

your eyes at this. you weren’t expecting him to say something like that so sudden.

“i can wear it at night when-” satoru’s sentence was cut off by a light punch to his gut.

“hell no.”

by user @ aireia, do not plagiarize and/or translate.

@rninies still can't write fluff unfortunately, writing this fried my brain

#signed by aireia!#gojo satoru x reader #jjk gojo #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojo x reader

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thelostconsultant · 2 months

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Team building

pairing: Max Verstappen x reader

summary: You're Max's new teammate, but things don't go well, so Christian and Helmut send you on a private team building event before the next race of the season. At the end of the first day, things between you change drastically.

You and Max acted like two feral cats that kept hissing at each other every time they met.

It was childish, you knew that, but he started it with an interview last year, in which he made a comment that could be translated to you not deserving your Red Bull seat. Not like you made it any easier for him, because after that you hinted at believing he had a fragile ego. Sure, you didn’t really mean it, you were just so mad at him that it slipped out.

After the first race of the season it became obvious that the two of you didn’t want to be near the other. You smiled for the cameras and acted like everything was all right, but behind the scenes you didn’t talk to each other. It didn’t help on the track either, because you both refused to share information about settings or tires, which would have been crucial.

Your bosses soon had enough of this nonsense, and after the third race of the season they announced you would go on a little team building trip together after the next race. You both protested, but you were both told to shut up. And so the two of you were taken to the middle of nowhere in China, accompanied by a filming crew and a very serious looking Christian who began to scold you both like you were stupid children when you went a little farther away from the others.

“You get a car, two tents, a compass, food and water for two days, a phone, and a paper map. We circled your current location and your destination. The filming crew will be there with you, but they can’t help you and can’t even talk to you unless it’s absolutely necessary. Good luck finding your way back to civilization,�� he said as he handed Max the car keys.

Both of you stood there rendered speechless, watching him walk away with a mocking smile on his face. Out of the corner of your eye, you glanced over at your teammate who let out a groan and looked down at the keys. He muttered something under his breath before turning on his heels to go back to where the others were waiting for you. With a sigh, you followed him and eventually stopped next to him, watching the old school Jeep and feeling several pairs of eyes being fixed on you. The car that brought you here already left with Christian, so it was now your little group in the wild.

“Are you good with maps and a compass?” Max asked you, briefly glancing down at you.

You shrugged. “How hard can it be?”

A desperate laugh left his lips as he opened the Jeep. “We’re gonna die here,” he said quietly, more to himself than you or the cameras. “I’ll drive.”

Rolling your eyes, you went to the passenger seat where some of the stuff you got was stored until now. You put the map out of the way and that’s when you noticed the phone which was an old school type with no apps on it. Great, so you couldn’t even use its GPS to find your way out if reading the map didn’t work. You sorted out the items and only kept the most important ones there with you so you could open the big map and figure out where you were supposed to go.

You checked the compass, then pointed in a direction. “That’s the way,” you said, but Max gave you an annoyed look in response. “What?”

“We need to go in the opposite direction, you–” He suddenly fell silent and you followed his blue eyes that were glued to one of the cameras put inside the car. “Okay, you need to learn how to use the compass, so for once try to focus,” he said, then went on to explain to you how it worked.

Max talked to you as if you were an idiot, making everything as simple as he could so he could be sure you would understand. If there were no cameras around you, you would have slapped him and told him to shut the fuck up, but you had to behave. In the end he even explained a few things about reading maps, which–and it was painful to admit–came in handy as you didn’t know about them. Maybe if you hadn’t turned down your father’s offers to take you camping when you were a kid, you wouldn’t be in this situation now.

But you were sure your teammate wasn’t a big camper either, he just knew a lot of things that sometimes came in handy. Apart from occasional short sentences, the two of you drove in complete silence, trying to avoid getting into a fight when your whole trip was being recorded. You could see the way he was gripping the steering wheel, trying hard to keep up his calm facade, so you decided to play nice and focus on navigating. The silence was only broken by the phone that beeped in your lap, so you took a quick look at it.

“You guys are too quiet, as if you were on your way to a funeral,” was all the message said.

He glanced over at you with a raised eyebrow, and you showed him the phone so he would know what their problem was. The look in his eyes gave away that he was the exact same thing as you. What the hell would you talk about? You had nothing in common, and if there was no one to tell you what to discuss on a video, you would’ve spent all of them awkwardly standing next to each other in complete silence. Or yelling at each other, that was the other possibility.

Minutes passed in silence, but then Max began to talk about the first races of the season, starting a conversation about the grid and how other teams seemed to perform this year. He chose a safe topic, clever, so you could easily keep up with him. From the outside, it must have seemed like a pleasant chat, but the air in the car was heavy with tension. You said something that you expected to be funny, but he only looked over at you with narrowed eyes, making you question if you crossed a line with that comment. You really didn’t mean to, not this time.

Before the sun went down, you chose a nice place for camping for the night, and used the equipment in the trunk to make dinner. It tasted terrible and that was the only thing you could talk about, although this time it was at least an honest conversation. When you put up the tents, the mood felt lighter once again, mostly because you were suffering and felt like you would sleep out in the open that night. If it wasn’t for Max’s offer to help, that’s exactly what would have happened.

After the crew said goodnight and retreated to their own camping site farther from where you chose to stay, the two of you looked at each other in silence for a while, trying to figure out what to say. Something changed in the last two hours, you could tell. You didn’t feel like strangling him, in fact you realized the way he could get lost in explaining something was quite entertaining.

Neither of you seemed sleepy, but maybe trying to sleep was the best you could do now, so you waved goodbye and went inside your own tents. But just when you were about to fall asleep, you heard the zip of the tent being pulled to open it, which was followed by someone climbing in next to you before zipping up the tent again. When they lied down on your side, it became clear it was Max, and you watched him with a confused look on your face as you tried to figure out what was happening.

“Why can’t we always be like we’ve been once we stopped here?” he asked you quietly, sounding genuinely interested.

You thought about it for a second as you rolled on your side to face him. “We like to make our lives complicated.”

Letting out a short laugh, he shook his head. “I don’t. Well, not intentionally. So maybe we should do something about it,” he told you with a smirk.

Before you could ask him what he meant by that, Max put his hand on the back of your neck and pulled you closer to kiss you, surprising you by how gentle he was. For a moment you assumed he was just testing the waters, waiting to see how you reacted, but then he seemed to get lost in it and made you assume it was his plan to swallow you whole. It was nice, you didn’t want him to stop, and as if he could read your mind, he pushed you on your back so he could cage you between the ground and himself.

“If you tell anyone,” he said as he placed kisses all over your neck, giving you a warning as if there was a need for one.

Because you weren’t about to tell anyone that you got rid of some of the tension between you this way. “Trust me, I don’t want people to know either. You’re not even my type, what would that look like?” you added jokingly.

Well, apparently this stupid joke didn’t land. Max stopped what he was doing and looked at you with a hurt look in his eyes. “Thanks, good to know,” he said with a sigh. “Why I don’t want anyone to know is because I know what people are like, there would be some who say that’s how you want to manipulate me.”

You raised your head to give him a quick kiss as your hands sneaked around his waist. “That’s nice, thank you, but I’m a big girl, I can pick my own battles. If I have to fight some morons who think about me this way, so be it. And just FYI, based on my previous boyfriends, anyone can tell you’re exactly my type,” you explained with a bright smile. Okay, maybe they didn’t like to talk as much as you do, but–”

“Mhmm, which of us is the one who talks a lot again?” Max asked with a smirk, causing you to giggle that he drowned with another kiss.

The next morning you were woken up by a soft kiss being placed on the crown of your head, his large hand rubbing your back to bring you out of your sleep. With a groan, you rested your chin on his chest to look up at him. “Morning,” you muttered groggily.

He swept a stray lock of hair out of your face as he watched you with a smile. “Morning. The crew is already here based on the noises coming from outside.” You gave him a confused look, not understanding what the problem seemed to be with it. He sneaks out and goes back to his own tent before they notice. Not a big deal. “They are right here and I’m not invisible,” he informed you with a laugh.

“Oh,” you said, finally understanding the issue.

Shaking his head, he gave you a soft kiss, then moved aside to put his clothes back on. You did the same, but only after admiring the view long enough to earn a cocky smile from him. “Wish me luck,” he said, then he kissed your forehead and pulled the zipper away to climb out of the tent. You saw him stop halfway and heard a nervous laugh leaving him. “Hey, guys, good morning.”

After he walked away, a cameraman leaned down to look into your tent, so you waved with and awkward smile at him. “Hi.”

“We will edit that out,” you heard someone say in the background.

#max verstappen #max verstappen x you #ma #max verstappen x reader #f1 #f1 x you #f1 x reader #formula 1 #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine

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miniseokminnies · 4 months

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rivers and roads —- c.hs

˚｡ pairing: chwe hansol x afab!reader ˚｡ genre: friends to lovers, idiots to lovers ˚｡ wc: 5.6k ˚｡ warnings: 18+ MDNI, drug mention (weed), alcohol mention, one uncomfortable situation with a stranger who is a man, lying to hotel staff, spit kink, oral [m. receiving], multiple orgasms, praise kink, slight dacryphilia, insecurity, anxiety, slight angst with a happy ending ˚｡ synopsis: having just graduated college and having some time before the real world starts two best friends decide to take a road trip that might change their friendship forever. ˚｡ playlist: rivers and roads

mood board by: @myhimbomingi

You smooth your hands over the rough polyester of your ugly blue graduation gown. Staring ahead and starting to fidget in line to walk across the stage you felt a hand slip into yours and give a supportive squeeze. Looking up your eyes met the deep brown of your best friend, Hansol’s.

“Nervous?” he asked softly, beginning to rub circles on the back of your hand with his thumb. Your eyes drifted back to the stage and you nodded,

“What if I trip?” you muttered as the two of you moved forward in the line, the monotonous announcer continuing to read through the names of your graduating classmates. Hansol chuckled, knowing that your concern is valid, but not anything you needed to worry about. Hansol and yourself have been friends since college orientation the summer before your freshman year. The two of you were in the same group and immediately clicked. Slowly the two of you expanded your group, mostly consisting of the two of you and some guys that lived on Hansol’s dorm floor freshman year.

“Chwe Hansol” the announcer boomed over the microphone. He smiled down at you and you felt his hand slip out of yours.

***

“So does anyone have any big plans before we join the workforce?” your friend Seokmin smiled at your group’s last weekly Saturday lunch before you all went your separate ways.

“Y/N and I are going on a road trip” Hansol said nonchalantly without looking up from his menu. Joshua and Jeonghan exchanged a quick glance,

“Oh? Where to?” the latter asked.

“Dunno” you shrugged, “just taking two weeks to see where we end up” Jeonghan nodded, glancing at Joshua again.

“Sounds boring” Junhui muttered, engrossed in his phone, “ow!” he yelped as Minghao shoved his elbow into his ribs.

***

Clutching onto the straps of your duffle bag you began to bounce on the balls of your feet. You saw Hansol’s red pick up truck pull into the parking lot of your apartment complex and you slung your backpack over your left shoulder and your duffle over your right and bounded out the door. Hansol laughed as he spotted you, so clearly excited. He wordlessly took your duffle and placed it in the back of the cab behind the passenger’s seat. You set your backpack on the floor of the passenger's seat and climbed into the truck.

“Ready?” Hansol asked as he got behind the wheel. You smiled widely at him and nodded. He gave you a single nod and started the truck.

Driving with Hansol was always something you enjoyed, the two of you spent a lot of time during college just driving around. He always had new music to play for you. He was always a comfort for you, and comfortable silence, apart from the music from the speakers, took over the drive quickly.

After a few hours of driving and intermittent conversation, you felt your eyelids getting heavy. You shifted in your seat, trying to get more comfortable.

“Close your eyes, nap” Hansol said softly without looking away from the road.

“Mmm, keeping you company” you mumbled, closing your eyes and leaning your cheek on your hand.

“I’m fine, Y/N” he chuckled. You nodded, slipping into sleep quickly. Hansol looked over at your sleeping form, and feeling an odd sensation in his chest, looked back to the road.

You felt a hand on your shoulder, shaking you awake, “Y/N” you heard Hansol, your eyes fluttered open, seeing him close to you.

“Hm?” you hummed, rubbing your eye and looking up at him.

“I found a motel, they have a room for us” he told you. You nodded and picked up your backpack from the floor. Hansol already had your duffle over his shoulder and his backpack on. Once you were settled he began leading you toward the room he rented.

“Where are we?” You called to Hansol from the bathroom and squeezed some of your cleanser into your hand.

“About six hours south of your apartment,” your friend appeared in the doorway to the bathroom, now in his pajamas, and leaned against the doorframe, “I don’t know the name of the town, or what’s here”

Once the two of you were ready for bed you settled in one of the two beds in the room.

“Good night, ‘Sol” you yawned. Hansol hummed in response and shut off the light.

***

You were up before Hansol the next morning. Letting him sleep you slipped into the shower, what felt comfortable in the car the previous day was now responsible for some stiffness. You let the warm water run over your body, getting lost in the feeling. You’re not sure how long you stood there enjoying the warmth loosening your tight muscles before you heard the bathroom door swing open.

“Y/N?” you heard the sleepy voice of Hansol call out, “I’m…I just need to piss”

“Go ahead,” you replied, trying to be less awkward than your friend and beginning the process of washing your hair.

“Breakfast?” you asked, sitting on the edge of Hansol’s bed after your shower. Looking up from his phone he nodded eagerly at you,

“Please, I’m starving.”

***

Hansol and yourself didn’t stay in that town long after the meal, it was small and there wasn’t much to see beyond the amazing local breakfast cafe and your motel. The two of you have been on the road for a few hours now.

“I love this song,” Hansol mumbled, a laugh escaped your lips, “What? I do!” he scoffed at your reaction,

“I know, Hansol,” you reach across the center console to take the partially smoked joint from behind his ear, “I was the one who played you this song, remember?” He watched you from the corner of his eye place his joint between your lips and bring his zippo to the end, lighting it up.

Hansol does remember hearing this song for the first time, the crackle of your old record player in your college apartment. You looked similar to how you do now, hair tied up haphazardly, baseball cap from the university bookstore you bought that orientation day on your head. Admittedly, the hat is much more worn now. You took your single puff of his joint before passing it to him to finish off that day too.

This may be his favorite you he ever gets to see. A single blow of smoke escaping your lips. You only ever want the one, and Hansol only ever smokes his half of the joint when you start it for him. Currently, he was trying to calm his racing heart, and trying to distract himself from the fact that the joint was between your lips a few moments ago.

“Of course I do,” he took the joint between his fingers, drumming the steering wheel, “Feels different now…” he trailed off listening to the words, a year from now, we'll all be gone, all our friends will move away. Absentmindedly, he thought about how different things might be after he drops you off at your apartment in two weeks.

You watched as he blew smoke toward the window, he got this far away look in his eyes, you knew he was thinking. You knew better than to ask, Hansol was a man of few words, and if he wanted to talk about it, he would. Eyeing him you turned up the volume on the radio, you saw the corner of his mouth quirk up ever so slightly, you knew he appreciated the gesture, one of not making him talk before he was ready.

The drive droned on like this for the majority of the day, eventually the smoke stopped curling towards the window as Hansol had smoked it all away, he would need to roll more before bed. Eventually, you saw Hansol blinking furiously, trying to stay awake.

“‘Sol” you reached out to touch his arm, “Maybe we should take a break” he jumped slightly at your touch, so focused on the road.

“Where…” he chuckled, once he had regained his calm demeanor, “we’re in the middle of nowhere” you only shrugged in response,

“Pull over, it doesn’t matter” and soon the impenetrable line of trees on the side of the road gave way to an open field. Hansol pulled his truck off the road matting down the grass in its wake, he drove close to the tree line, worried about getting in trouble if someone saw the car from the road. Once the truck was safely in park you watched Hansol reach to the back of the cab and tugged a few blankets toward you two. Wordlessly he opened his door and moved toward the bed of the truck.

Turning around you watched him spread the blankets in the bed through the back window. He poked his tongue through his teeth in concentration, when he was finished he hopped off the bed and moved toward your side of the truck. You scrambled to look nonchalant, and as if you totally were not watching him, a ghost of a smile playing at your lips.

“C’mon then” he opened up your door. Following him out to the back he helped you up. Laying on your back you felt the plush of the blankets and watched Hansol as he settled down next to you. Once he was comfortable you turned your eyes to the sky and covered your eyes with your forearm. The hand nearest to Hansol was left in its place, unbeknownst to you, his pinky inched closer, trying to build the confidence to take the plunge.

You woke up to a cool drop of water plopping directly onto your forehead. When did you fall asleep? Barely having the time to wonder before the skies open up and begin to drench Hansol and yourself.

“Hansol!” you sat up and shook his shoulders, “Hansol!” his eyes fluttered open slowly, somehow for a moment you forgot the rain was beating down on you as you watched his eyes soften from the confusion they held when he first woke. The softness he usually works so hard to shield you from was on full display, you wanted to stay in this fleeting moment forever, but you realized just as quickly as the gaze softened it turned panicked.

“Oh my God!” he sat up, almost bumping his head on your nose, “it’s pouring” he stated almost too simply. The two of you worked to heave the now soaking blankets out of the bed of the truck and into the back of the cab.

Hansol slams his door shut and throws his head back against the rest behind him. He pushes a hand through his now sopping wet hair. Turning to look toward him you catch his eyes taking in his appearance. After a few seconds of holding eye contact the two of you burst into a fit of laughter.

The drooping fan blades cut through the stale hot air on the ceiling of the motel about thirty miles from where you got caught in the storm. You were sprawled out on the bed looking up at the fan, finally feeling warm now that you were able to change out of your wet clothes.

Hansol was still down in the lobby, trying to talk the motel manager into letting him use their large driers for the blankets. Finally, you heard the door open and the squish of socks inside wet shoes approach you.

“One bed?” Hansol asked. You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking him up and down, stifling another bout of laughter at his state of disheveledness.

“That’s kind of what happens when you take a trip without a plan” you pointed out, letting yourself smile so he knew you were joking. Hansol rolled his eyes, a lazy smile tugging at his lips.

“I guess you’re right” the softness in his eyes returns for a moment, before he remembered he was dripping on the floor, “I’m gonna change…” you flopped back on the bed and resumed the exhilarating activity of watching the blades of the fan lazily cutting the air.

The bathroom door clicked closed and you heard Hansol’s muffled sigh. Imagining him hanging his wet clothes next to yours over the bar of the shower you tried to ignore the heat rising in your cheeks.

“I’ll sleep on the floor” Hansol stated, startling you, you were too deep in thought to notice him. You watched as he busied himself with taking out his phone charger.

“No” you sat up again, “there’s no need to do that, it’s not like we didn’t fall asleep next to each other earlier” you watched him turn to you, greedily taking in his form, his baggy sweats and his t-shirt, “plus this floor is more than likely disgusting”

“Good point” he smiled at you, moving toward what he decided is his side of the bed, the side closest to the door. The two of you settle under the covers and Hansol clicks off the lamp on his side, “Goodnight Y/N” he mutters

“Goodnight ‘Sol” your back was turned to him, but your eyes were stuck open, feeling the adrenaline of an invisible line being crossed.

***

“Do you think everyone in this town is this stupid?” Hansol asked incredulously as the car in front of you break checked him.

“Probably,” you kicked your feet up on his dashboard, “I bet they teach them all to do this at driver’s ed, to cut people off when they’re from out of town” Hansol laughed at your made up story,

“We need to find a city I think” he muttered, “I’m a little tired of motels and small towns” Nodding in agreement you reached for the joint behind his ear, freshly rolled before you left this morning, and tried to not think about the way that his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Hansol slowed at the red light and you felt his heavy gaze as you lit the joint. You had to all but hold yourself down so you didn’t squirm under the sudden attention, inhaling and blowing the smoke toward the window. Meeting his eyes you placed the joint between his lips as the light turned green.

***

“We have no rooms that will accommodate you” the snobby hotel clerk sneers at you from behind the desk. The two of you had found a city six hours west of where you started this morning, and the hotel you decided to try evidently had standards, ones that your leggings and Hansol’s basketball shorts didn’t meet. You opened your mouth to argue, but Hansol beat you to it,

“Look,” he started, surprising you, “it’s our honeymoon,” you had to stop yourself from staring at him like he had grown a second head, “the hotel we had reserved, they double booked us, it doesn’t need to be your best, just a room.” The clerk sighed and began typing furiously clicking through his computer, you took the opportunity to glance at Hansol, questions evident on your face. He merely shrugged with a lopsided smirk painting his face.

“We had a last minute cancellation…” the clerk muttered reluctantly, once again taking in the state of your apparel, “Names please?”

“Vernon and, “ he looked at you expectantly, after no less than a solid 15 seconds of panic you mustered up,

“Kate”

“Vernon and Kate Chwe” Hansol affirmed.

“Well congratulations Mr. and Mrs. Chwe” the man behind the desk offered as he held out a pair of room keys and you had to ignore the way your stomach flips at the sound of that.

The elevator dings and opens its doors to you. Quietly, you both get inside and as the doors close, and not a second sooner you are turning to your friend,

“What the Hell, Hansol?” you whisper urgently, “why—how did you lie like that?”

“You don’t spend as much time as I do with Yoon Jeonghan and not learn anything,” he shrugs, “it got us a room, didn’t it Kate?”

As soon as the door opened to your hotel room you dropped your bag on the floor and rushed to the window. The view overlooking the city was surely better in the other more expensive rooms but this was good enough for you. Hansol leaned against the wall behind you and watched as you perched yourself in the window sill.

The sun was just starting to set and you were determined to watch it disappear behind the skyscrapers. Hansol folded his arms over his chest, acutely aware that the two of you had already been on this trip for almost a week. He tries not to let the reality of life after college, after the trip hit him square in the chest, not now, not when you were so intently watching the slow descent of the sun from the window in the hotel room he lied his way into. Any of his friends would tell you that this was out of character, in any other situation Hansol is almost brutally honest, but if they knew it was for you, they wouldn’t bat an eye.

Hansol genuinely lost track of time just watching you get lost in your world, before he knew it the stars were twinkling overhead and the sun was long gone.

“I think we should go out” you announced without turning away from the window, Hansol’s heart jumped into his throat,

“What?!” he sputtered, trying to process what you just said to him.

“There are clubs here I’m sure,” you turned to him, “we should go out tonight” at your clarification Hansol let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

***

Clubbing wasn’t really Hansol’s scene, and you knew that, but you were hoping to help him break out of whatever anxiety fueled funk he had been in for almost the entire trip. You saw the spark in his eyes a bit back at the hotel when he scored a room. However, almost as soon as the two of you arrived at the club, he parked himself in a secluded corner near the bar and has been nursing a whiskey for the better part of an hour. Currently, you could feel his gaze boring into the back of your head as you were talking to someone on the dance floor.

“I’ve never seen you around here,” he puts a hand on your arm and leans into your ear so you could hear him over the music, “I frequent this spot, what brings you in?” you repressed a scoff, there’s no way this guy memorizes everyone coming to this club in this huge city.

“Oh” you back up slightly, “I’m just on a road trip and passing through” he followed you as you tried to step away from him, trying to stay in close proximity with you.

“Let me show you a good time then,” he put his hand back on your arm and the other on your hip. Unbeknownst to you, behind you Hansol had downed the rest of his drink. You felt a pair of arms snake around your waist and move you out of the man’s grasp. Looking up you saw Hansol, his jaw squarely set.

“Can I help you?” He nearly spat. You saw the other man’s eyes take in Hansol and then moved to rake over your body, “Speak up” Hansol glared.

“I was talking with her,” the man crossed his arms.

“And now” Hansol started turning you toward the exit, “you’re not” you melted into Hansol’s side and tried to just leave.

“Who are you anyway?” the man called, catching Hansol’s arm, “You didn’t even ask her if she wanted to leave with you.” Hansol’s eyes drifted down to where the man had ahold of him,

“I’m her husband,” he went to shake himself out of his grip but he was holding on tight, “I suggest you let go” the man’s hand dropped, “Good choice” and Hansol was sweeping you out of the building.

The cool air of the summer night bloomed in your lungs as you breathed more easily out on the street. Hansol has not let go of your waist, and you weren’t entirely sure if you wanted him to, after the alcohol and the interaction you had moments ago. “Are you okay?” Hansol asked, taking a step back from you, planting his hands on your hips, his eyes searching yours in a panic.

“I’m okay” you breathed, “but….thank you for stepping in when you did” He smiled at you, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Let’s go” he slipped his hand in yours and intertwined your fingers, so no one could question him again.

The walk home was…strange, to say the least. Hansol had never kept his hand in yours longer than it took to give it a reassuring squeeze in the several years the two of you have been friends. In addition to this, you never once felt like you wanted him to let go. You never questioned his assertion that he is your husband back at the club, that’s what he told the hotel, so might as well continue that, right?

In the elevator up to your room things only got stranger, Hansol wrapped his arms around your waist again, pressed the button for your floor, and unwrapped himself from you and stood at the opposite side of the small room, staring at you.

Entering your hotel room you watched Hansol close the door behind you. He took a deep breath and moved toward you, you stayed still, wondering what was about to happen. He cupped your cheek in his hand, setting a swarm of butterflies loose in your stomach.

“I think” he whispered, “if it’s okay with you, while we’re here, we should play pretend” his eyes searched yours again as his thumb moved to rest on your chin. You nodded, however added,

“Hansol…we, we’re friends…” your breath hitched as he applied pressure on your chin with his thumb,

“Ah” he watched your mouth open at his request, “but we’re Vernon and Kate here, we just got married, babe” the pet name rolled off his tongue so easily as he got impossibly closer to you and spit into your now open mouth, you almost recoiled as his action, before realizing he was right. What was there to lose at this point? You closed your mouth and swallowed without him having to ask, which earned you a groan, “God, what a good girl, I didn’t even have to ask…” and then his mouth was on yours, falling into rhythm as if this was something that happened all the time.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders and your fingers toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck. His tongue swiped your bottom lip, requesting access that you swiftly granted. His tongue explored your mouth with a fervor that if you were less distracted would make you wonder how long he has waited for this moment. There was no time for thoughts like that, he was backing you toward the bed. He sat you down on the edge with your legs dangling off, and broke the kiss. Settling on the floor between your knees he began to help you remove your shoes, and then your pants, and he began to work towards your shirt before you cut him off with a whine. He looked up at you quizzically.

“Not fair,” you stated, “you’re still fully clothed.”

“Earn it” he chuckled, and reached between your legs to lay the pads of his fingers on your clothed cunt, “shouldn’t be too hard, considering you’re so wet for me already,” which earned him the deepest blush he has ever seen gracing your cheeks. He began slow ruminations on your clit over your underwear, your hips bucking involuntarily at the stimulation, “that’s right” he nearly growled. What you’ve learned about Hansol over the last several years is that he is a patient man, he doesn’t need to rush, but you really wish he would right about now. Another whine escaped your lips trying to egg him on.

Evidently, it worked because he began to peel your ruined panties away from your dripping heat, “God babe, you’re beautiful, all ready for me” he lined himself up and gathered up his saliva and spit into your already wet cunt. He used the mixture of wetness between your legs to ease two fingers inside of you, moaning at the sensation of being filled, your eyes screwed shut. The pad of his thumb found your clit and he began to circle the bundle of nerves meticulously. “Remember what you’re working for” he reminded you, picking up his pace. You felt the coil in your stomach begin to tighten as you heard his fingers working in your pussy.

“I’m…” you cut yourself off with a moan as Hansol curled his fingers inside you to inch you closer to your approaching high.

“Let go” was all you needed for the coil to snap and white hot pleasure overtook your senses. “That’s it, you did so well for me” you heard Hansol’s soothing voice as you were coming down. Your eyes fluttered open as he was standing up from between your legs and pulling his shirt over his head.

“Here,” you sat up and reached for his belt, “I can help” you added, unhooking the belt and pulling his pants and his boxers down. You watched as his cock sprung free, hard and leaking already. Pulling him closer by his hips you watched his face intently, a mix of lust and anticipation. You took him in your hand and he let out a hiss, “You need it that badly?” At your comment he took a handful of your hair and pulled it so you were looking up at him and he gave you a warning look. You nodded in understanding and gave his cock a few pumps before leaning down. You took the tip into your mouth and swirled your tongue around his slit, taking in the precum that had already mixed with your saliva.

“Let me” he thrusted experimentally. You hollowed out your cheeks and sunk your lips further down, in a way letting him know he could use your mouth to get off. He grunted and thrusted into your mouth at a bit of a rushed pace, it was obvious that he was wound up tight. “Good girl, letting me use her, fuck” tears pricked at the corners of your eyes but you were determined. Hansol’s thrusts became sloppy as the tears began to stream down your cheeks, using the hand that was still in your hair he pulled you off his dick, “you have another one in you” he stated as he lay you down on the bed.

He hovered over you and wiped your tears with his thumb, “you okay?” he asked quietly, you nodded, not being able to form words at the moment. “Good” he smiled down at you, you felt him tease his cock head through your folds. You flinched from the sensitivity. Slowly, he eased into you. Simultaneously, you both moaned at the sensation, which made you smile at each other, like this was just another normal night in your friendship, even though that was so far from the truth.

After letting you adjust to his size he began to thrust slowly in and out of you. “I won’t last long, you did too well…” he choked out, your pussy clenching around him at the continued praise. His thrusts again became erratic and you knew he was close. Somehow, you were impossibly close as well, chasing a high that snuck up on you. You felt every delicious drag of his cock on your walls before you felt Hansol pull out and his white ropes shot into your stomach as your high crashed into you.

Hansol pushed his sweat drenched hair off his forehead. The two of you stared at each other for a few fleeting moments, realizing the gravity of what just happened, before silently agreeing that you will figure all of that out later. He climbed out of the bed and hurried to the bathroom and returned moments later with a warm towel and a glass of water.

“Are you okay?” he asked again as he was gently wiping himself off of your stomach.

“Yes,” you assured him, “I am surprisingly calm about what just happened” he smiled up at you before leaning down to kiss your now clean stomach.

***

Hansol and yourself didn’t talk about that night for the next several days, but nothing went back to normal either. He was holding your hand, he was giving you kisses, and right now he had his hand on your thigh as you left that city behind. Hansol insisted you stay there for a few more days than you had originally planned, you had a sneaking suspicion as to why but you decided not to push it. You weren’t one to complain, especially when you were getting pleased nearly every night.

“Take me to see the ocean” you piped up suddenly.

“What?” Hansol laughed looking over at you quickly before returning his eyes to the road.

“Sounds like a good way to end this little adventure” you shrugged. You felt Hansol freeze up for a moment before recovering.

“Right” he muttered, “Let’s get you to the ocean,” he said, squeezing your thigh.

***

You watched out the window as the ocean came into view on your side, you had been to the ocean once in your life, but it seemed important to see it now for some reason. Seeing something so grand felt like a great way to begin your new life in the next few days, you were nervous, but so excited. You watched as Hansol parked the truck in a public beach access parking lot and turned to you.

“Ready?” he smiled

“Ready” you smiled back. You walked hand in hand over the sand and the sea breeze catching your hair. It was early evening by the time you had found your way here so it was cooling down as the sun was setting.

Hansol spread one of the blankets from the truck over the sand, close enough to see the waves but not close enough that it would get soaked from a rogue wave. You sat down and Hansol slotted himself behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist.

You don’t know how long you sat, in quiet contemplation, neither one of you wanting to break whatever spell settled over you two over the last week or so. “Hansol-” you started,

“Vernon” he tried to correct.

“No,” you said firmly, “Hansol, what are we doing?”

“Two more days,” he sighed, “Just…give me two more days, I swear you’ll get back in time” he rested his chin on your shoulder, waiting for your response.

“Two more days, and I get to call you Hansol”

“Deal”

***

You left the beach headed for home two days later, as promised. Hansol drove quietly away from whatever the last few weeks were between you, his hands were firmly on the wheel, he hadn’t touched you at all today. It’s as if with your kiss goodnight the illusion was broken and you were back to reality. You weren’t sure which was better for you, living like Hansol was your boyfriend or having him as your best friend again. Then again, you weren’t sure why you couldn’t have both honestly.

About an hour into your drive Hansol took the joint out from behind his ear and tried to pass it to you wordlessly.

“Oh, I can’t” you told him, “I start my job next week and they told me I need to pass a drug test before my first day” Hansol dropped the joint, pulled over, and flung open his door, “Hansol?! What the fuck are you doing?” You followed him into the woods on the side of the road, “Hansol!” you caught his arm and pulled him so he was facing you, there were tears in his eyes.

“God I am so stupid” he wiped his eyes furiously with the back of his hand.

“Hansol what’s going on” your voice softened at the sight of his tears, you wanted so desperately to wipe them away, but thought better of it due to the nature of the situation.

“Y/N” this is the first time he has used your real name, not a pet name or Kate, in several days, it almost felt foreign to your ears, “this is it! You’re gone after this, you’ll be working and busy, I’ll have lost you and everyone I care about” he threw his head back, looking at the sky, “I have no plans, no job, and no friends,” he looks back down at you, “and you can’t even smoke my weed”

“Hansol…I-” you tried.

“No it’s true, everyone is gone, Hell, some of the guys have moved across the country, I’ll be lucky if I ever see Seungkwan again” Hansol was crying now. “And I know this is a great opportunity for him, and for you, I’m so proud of all of you, but what about me, what am I supposed to do, Y/N?” he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, you could tell he felt stupid about crying and feeling sorry for himself.

“Move in with me” you blurted out, without really thinking, but it felt like a logical thing to say. You watched as he pulled his hands away from his eyes,

“What?”

“You heard me,” you moved closer to him and rubbed his arms with your hands, “move in with me”

“Like…as friends or-” “No” you cut him off, “absolutely not as friends,” it was his turn to cut you off, he closed the short distance between you and pressed his lips firmly to yours.

#chwe hansol x reader #chwe hansol fluff #chwe hansol smut #chwe vernon x reader #chwe vernon smut #vernon x reader #seventeen smut #seventeen vernon #seventeen imagines #svt smut #svt imagines #hansol x reader #hansol vernon chwe #seventeen scenarios #svt x reader #svt fluff #svt angst #bennie’s works

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sha-n-dowbannedlol · 7 months

Text

Miguel O'Hara — Love Sick

a/n: i've been slaving over genetics (and biochemistry) lately, and when i was scrolling on tiktok during my break i saw this one superbat imagine and thought of writing it with my favorite geneticist

cw: uh just fluff ig, miguel o'hara is not good with feelings, miguel o'hara is emotionally constipated

You haven't always had the best of luck in your life.

It wasn't so bad that it made you hit rock bottom, but you've had your fair share of moments where you ended up drawing the shortest end of the stick in the game we all call life.

And as you stare at Peter's hand balled to a fist, and yours with two of your fingers pointed out, his hand forming a rock and yours forming scissors, you quickly conclude that this is one of those moments.

Under normal circumstances, you wouldn't put losing to Peter in rock, paper, and scissors as top 5 of the worst moments of your life; however, this is different. To explain just how different it was, we need to go back to a few minutes ago, the reason why you and Peter had to play in the first place.

Not long ago, you received an alert from the Spider-Man 2099 himself asking for backup. You didn't bother to respond as Jess had already reassured you that she's got him—as it turns out, she, in fact, does not have him when she teleported back with an unconscious Miguel draped over her shoulder.

That, in itself, is already worrying enough. But what worried you more was Lyla's report on your boss' situation, relaying the information to Miguel's inner circle of most trusted Spider-people, including you.

"He's been hit with a love potion, an incredibly potent one at that," Lyla reports, her holographic form adjusting her heart glasses and typing away on her holographic computer. "It hasn't kicked in yet, but it will the moment he wakes up," Lyla adds before looking up from her computer, disappearing and reappearing in the middle of the huddled-up spiders

"And when he does, he'll be head-over-heels in love with the first person he sees," The AI informed them in a serious tone, before grinning like the mischievous rascal she is.

"So... Who will the lucky person be?"

It has been decided amongst your group that whoever loses shall be the unfortunate soul that needs to deal with Miguel's affection until Lyla and the other Spiders have concocted an antidote for everyone's admired boss.

And now, you stare back at your hand, then at Peter's, and back at your own hand again. Silence fills Miguel's spacious office as all eyes land on you, and you can feel your cheeks already starting to warm up.

"Can't we just blindfold him?" You spoke before anyone else could, looking over at the holographic AI, who seemed a bit too pleased with the results. "Or lock him in a room or something?"

"Don't be so barbaric," Peter spoke with amusement in his voice.

"Right. Besides, it can't be that bad!" Lyla spoke, her voice with a hint of something that you can't quite put your finger on. Mischievousness? Teasing? Hinting at something she knows but you don't? You didn't know for sure.

"I think Miguel would prefer being locked in a room than being lovesick for an entire day." You respond with a sigh as Peter practically drags you toward where Miguel is currently lying unconscious, and you have no other choice but to let him.

You were a person of your word. You can't possibly back out now just because you lost.

You tense slightly as your spider sense alerts you that Miguel is starting to wake up, feet glued to the floor when he starts to stir.

"You'll be fine," Jess tried to comfort you with a poorly hidden amused smile on her face, followed by Peter patting your back, and you didn't have to turn around to sense that he'd already whipped his phone out to record the whole scene.

The whole room was tense, or perhaps it was just you. Ice ran through your veins the more Miguel moved, and you could feel everyone's eyes on you as his hand moved to rub one eye before finally, finally.

His eyes flutter open.

Ruby red irises land on your form, and you can see a hint of your reflection from his intense gaze. The first person he saw as he awoke.

He stares at you in silence, gaze glued to yours, raking over your visibly tense form as you stare back at him. His face remains neutral, and you're already bracing yourself for his affection—may it be in the form of verbal affection or physical affection.

Miguel then leans forward to sit, before slowly standing up.

You watch as he takes steps toward you, his hand already rising and about to reach out. Your heart skips a few beats, trying to beat right out of your chest to meet his own halfway.

When he was closer to you, you tense up even more, ready to be pulled into his arms...

Except... he just slipped past you.

The hand he raised earlier ran through his hair, his eyes now on Jess.

"Mission report," Miguel demanded in his usual neutral, gruff tone as everyone looked at him with jaws dropped, all dumbfounded by his casualness.

The drowsiness seems to have left Miguel by then as he looks at everyone. He raises a brow in confusion as he notices everyone's stupified expressions and Peter's phone still pointed at him as if they were expecting something from him.

"What?" He asks, brow still raised.

"That's... This isn't how it's supposed to go!" Peter was the first to speak, begrudgingly putting his phone in his robe's pocket.

"Peter, I'm already not feeling well." Miguel responds, brow scrunched as he turns to face Peter, "I have no time for your antics, and that goes for you, too." He adds, pointing towards you on the last part.

Lyla's hologram hen shows up on Miguel's shoulder, bent over and examining Miguel's face, a hand on her chin as she hums. Her boss raises his brow again at this, trying to shoo her away, only for her to keep insisting.

"You were hit with a love potion, Miguel. Quite a potent one, too." Lyla informs the man who's looking at her with a skeptical look in his eyes as she continues, "I calculated its effects would include being down bad in love with the first person you see when you regain consciousness."

Miguel blinks at that, his eyes landing on you, and you recognize the flicker of understanding in his gaze as he does before looking back to Lyla and to the disappointed Peter and the less-visibly disappointed but still very much disappointed Jess.

"Well, it didn't work." Was his simple response, which caused a groan to resound from Peter and a shake of a head from Jess.

"Come on, not even a bit?" Peter asks, looking at Miguel with narrowed eyes. "Look at them, don't you feel like pulling them into your arms and kissing them until the sun sets?"

"First off, that's highly inappropriate," Miguel responds, his hand coming up to pinch his nose bridge in between his fingers to nurse a headache already starting to come up. He says your name exasperatedly, "Please don't mind him. You know how he is."

Before Peter can voice out the offense he took to Miguel's words, Jess speaks up with curiosity and a hint of suspicion in her voice.

"But how come it didn't work?" Jess asks, her brows furrowing in confusion, looking at Miguel, whose face remained neutral despite her questioning. "Lyla was so sure it affected you, and it affected you enough that you lost consciousness, and suddenly it just... didn't have an effect?"

Miguel clears his throat at that, subtly looking to Lyla to give Jess an explanation that would sate her curiosity and make her suspicions die down, but you suddenly spoke to his rescue.

"Perhaps it has something to do with his DNA?" You infer, humming softly to yourself, "His DNA is different from ours, and most of the time, he's immune to potions and poisons because he isn't human enough to be affected by them. Right?"

Your eyes meet Miguel's as you ask for confirmation, and your breath hitches at the sheer intensity of his gaze as he looks back at you. Still, this wasn't anything new. Miguel can be kind of intense and intimidating, even if he doesn't mean to.

"Pretty much." It was Lyla who confirmed your theory on behalf of Miguel, and before anyone could speak, Miguel swiftly interjected.

"Alright, the show's over." He spoke, looking over at everyone and individually giving instructions in order to get all of you off of his back.

"Jess, I need that report before the end of the day. Peter, weren't you supposed to go home early today? Look after your pregnant wife." Miguel spoke before turning to look at you, "And you, I have a mission for you."

One by one, the three of you leave his office, with you being the last one after he briefs you on the mission with Lyla's assistance. Miguel's eyes were glued to your back as you left, much to your obliviousness.

"It worked, didn't it?" Lyla coos suddenly, snapping Miguel out of his thoughts, making him jump slightly and snap his eyes from your figure and towards his holographic AI.

"What worked?" Miguel tried to feign innocence, looking away from Lyla as he turned toward his many screens.

"The Love Potion. It worked." Lyla continues to tease him, grinning at him knowingly as she lays on her stomach in the air, kicking her feet. "You're just so in love with them already that it didn't make a difference."

Miguel remained silent for a while at her teasing words, but the reddish tint blooming on his tan cheeks was enough of an answer to the AI already. Besides, she's the one subjected to Miguel's eyes, always following you around like a lost puppy whenever you're in the room.

"If you tell anyone, I'm shutting you down."

"No, you're not."

".....No, I'm not."

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x you #miguel ohara imagine #miguel ohara #miguel o'hara #spiderman 2099 #spider man: across the spider verse #spider man across the spider verse x reader #atsv miguel #atsv x reader

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unclewaynemunson · 11 months

Text

Pt2 to this post

'Is something wrong?' Nancy asks, not long after the two of them have taken their familiar spots on the hood of Steve's car. They're basking in what might be the last warm sunlight of the year, looking out over the quarry, at a safe distance from the edge.

It's become a tradition the two of them share, ever since they reconnected back in March. It calms them both, to just sit here and take in the view, no one around but each other. Nancy is one of the few people Steve can share a comfortable silence with: sometimes they sit here quietly for what feels like hours, side by side, listening to music or to nothing but the birds singing around them. But they also have their best conversations here: it's the place where Nancy entrusted him she wanted to break up with Jonathan; it's the place where they talked about their shared past and decided they would always love each other as friends; it's the place where they finally talked about Barbara in a way they couldn't when they were younger. It's where Nancy talked about the ghosts still haunting her and Steve talked about how lonely he sometimes felt.

Steve huffs. 'How did you guess?'

'When you frown, you always do it with your whole face,' Nancy notes. 'So it's hard to miss, really.'

Steve glances at her side profile. There's a serenity to her features that's still relatively new. It means she's healing, slowly learning how to be happy again. It means she stopped waiting for the end of the world and started believing in a real future again. It makes Steve proud of how far they both have come.

'I had a fight with Eddie,' he confesses. 'And with Dustin, I guess.'

'What happened?'

He sighs. 'It's complicated.'

'Wanna tell me about it?'

The look in her eyes is kind and inviting. Steve hesitates. He wants to, but he doesn't know if he can. It's a risk. It's scary.

But he can't imagine Nancy Wheeler ever being careless with his secrets. He can't imagine her judging him, can't imagine her being as small-minded as most people in this town.

He was planning on telling her anyway, because things had been going so well with Eddie lately and – no, he shouldn't think about that right now. But maybe it would actually be nice to talk about it with Nancy.

'So, um...' His throat feels tight and his hands are sweaty. 'I recently discovered some things about myself. I-' The words get stuck somewhere on the way to his mouth, and he clears his throat.

Nancy doesn't push, but only gives him an encouraging nod, waiting for him to find his voice again.

'I found out I like boys,' he finally manages to confess. 'And I need you to know that – that that doesn't mean that what I felt for you wasn't real. It was. I loved you, and now I fell in love with a boy. And-'

'Steve.' Nancy's hand suddenly covers his, causing him to finally jerk his head away from the view over the quarry, to focus on her face again instead.

Her eyes are wide, and she squeezes his hand.

'You don't have to explain yourself to me,' she tells him. 'We're good. But thank you for telling me. For trusting me with this.'

Steve heaves out a relieved sigh, and Nancy smiles; it's that genuine kind of smile which reveals all kinds of dimples and soft lines across her face.

'We might be more similar than you thought,' she tells him, a faint blush spreading over her cheeks.

'Really?' Her words make his breath catch in his throat. He squints at her, trying to see her in this new light. 'Are you saying what I think you're saying?'

She shrugs. 'I don't know. I'm not sure yet,' she admits. 'Still figuring things out.'

'Take your time, there's no rush,' he tells her. 'But...' He bumps his shoulder against hers. 'When you're done figuring it out, talk to me, okay?'

She nods. 'Okay.'

For a while, it's quiet between the two of them. Some kind of raptor circles high above them in the sky. They both follow it with their eyes until it disappears among the tree tops west of the quarry.

'Is it Eddie?'

Steve blinks dumbly a couple of times.

'Wha- what?'

'The guy you were talking about. The one you fell in love with. It's Eddie, isn't it?'

'Jesus, Wheeler, what kind of sorceress are you?' Steve exclaims.

Nancy laughs again. 'You're not being as subtle as you think,' she tells him. 'The two of you have been hooking up for a while now, haven't you?'

Steve huffs dramatically. 'This is unfair. You know everything; I can't even tell you my own secrets anymore!'

'So what happened?' Nancy asks. 'You said you had a fight with him?'

'It's fucking stupid,' he sighs. 'Dustin was getting way too excited about the fact that I was gonna be hanging out with you, so I told him I was seeing someone. Next thing I knew, he was telling Eddie all about how I was seeing a girl.' He waves his hands around to make annoyed air quotations. 'I wanted to tell Eddie it was a misunderstanding, but Dustin was there, so I couldn't out us just like that, and he looked so betrayed and heartbroken... He didn't wanna listen to me.'

Steve sighs; he still can't manage to forget that look in Eddie's eyes when Dustin delivered the big news. 'I wish I would've talked about what I felt for him earlier. I should've been honest when I had the chance, y'know. But I was afraid he wouldn't wanna label what we had, that he wouldn't feel the same way – and now we're in this whole mess. God, he must hate me right now, Nance.'

To his surprise, Nancy gives him an unexpected slap against his arm.

'Ouch, what the hell was that for?!'

'What are you even doing here with me, Steve? You should've gone after him, tell him how you feel!'

'I tried, obviously, but he didn't wanna listen to me!'

'So make him listen! You're in love with him, he obviously feels the same way about you, and you let him leave to wallow in a broken heart he doesn't even need to have!' She rolls her eyes and slides off the car, adding something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like an exasperated 'Boys!' before she pulls Steve off the car as well. 'C'mon, time to get your ass over to the trailer park. Right. Now,' she says through gritted teeth. And, well, Steve knows better than to argue with a determined - and truthfully quite terrifying - Nancy Wheeler.

Read the last part here Taglist: @withacapitalp @ultimatedreamer104 @irregular-child @jcmadgirl @estrellami-1 @myguiltyartpleasure @hallucinatedjosten @jaybren @thew1ldblueyonder @melodymeddler @alycatavatar @zoeweee @lolawonsstuff @fairy-princette @saramelaniemoon @phirex22 @krazyperson @xxsky-shockxx (I only put people on this list who explicitly asked to be tagged. That's really no problem, I love to do that so dw about asking, but I got a lot of relatively vague reactions to the previous post that i'm not gonna dissect and interpret, bc I don't wanna clog anyone's notes unwanted. So just to be clear: i consider it a huge compliment if anyone asks for a tag but please do it clearly if you do!)

#look i can and i will exploit the miscommunication trope until yall are sick and tired of it #bc steddie is actually the perfect couple for keeping that trope believable #they're idiots with terrible communication skills it's canon #they WOULD #“can't you just talk to him?” “wait what i can????” IT'S SO THEM OKAY #nancy is the only sane person here i don't make the rules #don't mind me rambling about stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #nancy wheeler #platonic stancy #(i love platonic stancy they mean the world to me)#(i truly didn't mean to trick anyone into reading about them this just kinda. happened. idk)#this is making me wanna write more about their friendship actually they deserve their own fic #stranger things #fruity ficlet

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ariestrxsh · 3 months

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♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

⚠️ content warning: ⚠️ smut, utter filth, masturbation, oral, fingering, public, getting caught, unprotected sex, threesome, voyeurism, exhibitionism, dirty talk, praise, edging

📝 author's note: 📝 this is the second part of another piece of my writing, and it's not necessary to read the first part, but I promise it's worth it, and you can access it here 💖

✍️ Summary: ✍️ Matt and Chris come home with you after things get steamy in a public place, they beg you to play with yourself on the ride home, and once you all get back to your place and smoke a joint, Matt goes down on you on your balcony. Then Matt and Chris take turns watching the other have their way with you. They are gentlemen to you the whole time, and the night ends with you all showering together.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

both part two

Matt and Chris followed me out to my car which was parked in an alley behind the bar. The whole time, I couldn't stop thinking about how I didn't have any panties on, because they were likely tucked away in Chris' pocket, and I had to keep tugging my dress down every few steps to keep it from riding up. On the way there, I found Chris and Matt lagging behind a little, and all of a sudden, I felt a hard slap on my ass that caused me to jump and turn around. They were both on either side of me, pointing at the other, and saying, "nuh uh, wasn't me," but they both looked guilty. I rolled my eyes at them and continued walking, but as soon as they couldn't see my face, I bit my lip and smiled. I was fucking loving the attention.

"So where do you boys wanna smoke this joint?" I asked, rifling through my bag that was in the passenger seat of the car. "Let's go back to your place," Matt suggested, "I'll drive since I'm sober, and you guys were too drunk to keep it in your pants in a public place," Matt giggled at us. Chris and I smiled at at each other and shrugged. Matt did have a point. I tossed Matt my keys. Matt drove, Chris sat in the passenger seat, and I got comfy in the back. I decided to start rolling while Matt drove us to my apartment. We sat in the car for a few minutes while Chris put on some hiphop, and I concentrated on the joint, and once I'd licked it and sealed it, I tucked it into an empty altoid container in my purse.

Then Matt broke the silence between the three of us, "You know what I think you should do," he said, looking at me through the rearview mirror. "What?" "You should play with yourself while we drive to your place." I blushed. "I dont know if that's a good ide-" "Please do it. Please. I wanna watch too," Chris cut me off, smiling at me and holding his hands in a prayer position. I felt myself growing weak at Chris' begging. How could I say no to him? "Yeah, spread those legs for us, please," Matt said, tilting down the rearview mirror, so he could get a better view from where he was. Slowly but surely, I found myself obeying their demands. "Spread it open with your fingers, princess," Chris said, looking back at me from the passenger seat, and I did. I could tell I had Matt and Chris in a trance. "It's so pretty. I can't wait to taste it," Matt whispered.

"Show us how you'd touch yourself if we weren't here right now," Chris bit his lip while he looked between my legs. I applied some pressure to my clit with my middle finger and started moving it around in slow, steady circles. While I was embarrassed for Matt and Chris to be seeing me like this, it also turned me on a lot, and I felt myself instantly becoming wetter. I started making faster circles, and I started to moan a little bit. It felt so good to be seen by them while I pleasured myself. They both watched intently as a finger disappeared into my pussy, and I started slowly moving it back and forth, covering my hand in my juices. Chris was turned all the way around in his seat with a lustful look in his eye. "Pretty girl. You're getting your fingers so nice and wet," Matt said, glancing back through the rearview. I whimpered at their words, at their eyes on me. A familiar feeling grew in the pit of my stomach, and I knew I was starting to get close, but then I noticed Matt had pulled into my parking spot where I lived. "Don't cum yet, princess. Wait til we get inside and smoke," Matt told me, turning off the car.

Once we all stumbled into my apartment, I reached around in the dark for the light switch to turn on my lamp. We made our way through the kitchen, through the living room, and went out onto the balcony. I had some cute outdoor lights strung out above my patio furniture. Matt and Chris sunk into my couch, and I sat across from them in a love seat. I handed Chris the joint I'd rolled in the car and he lit it up. Once he passed it to me, I took a puff and glanced between the two of them.

"So have you guys done this before? Because y'all seem way too comfortable," I smirked at them. "Done what before?" Chris replied. "Have you guys ever shared a girl before?" I asked, passing the joint off to Matt. He took a few hits off the joint and smiled mischievously, "something like that." "Don't you guys get jealous?" I wondered. "It's complicated. But we actually both really like it," Matt said exchanging a devious look with Chris. "I bet you've never done anything like this before. You're a good girl, and you don't usually take risks," Chris teased me. Assuming he was referring to taking two men at the same time, he was right. I bit my lip and shook my head, "never."

Matt looked me up and down with this look in his eye that made me feel like he was devouring me whole. He gave the joint to Chris, and practically whimpered, "I can't take it anymore, Chris, I wanna taste her so bad." Matt fell to his knees in front of me and started planting kisses on the tops of my thighs, and I felt my legs fall open, almost as if I had no control over them. "What if someone sees?" I whispered, looking over the edge of the balcony at a couple that was walking by down below. Matt had his mouth inches away from my wet core. He looked up at me with this darkness in his eyes and a seductive smile crept across his face. "Let them."

He lowered his mouth onto my throbbing clit and started working his tongue and sucking gently. I looked behind Matt at Chris who was sitting in his chair, smoking the joint and admiring how uninhibited his brother was being. I watched as Chris got up out of his chair and walked over to me. He held the joint between his two fingers and looked into my eyes while he held it up to my mouth to take a puff of it. "You're so pretty when you're getting eaten out, princess," Chris told me. He took the nearly finished joint and put it out in the ashtray and then came around behind me. Chris stroked my hair while Matt was exploring me with his tongue. Neither Matt nor Chris was better at eating pussy, but they were both incredible at it, and they both went about it so differently. I loved how sensual and soft Matt was being compared to Chris earlier. His licks were long as slow, and it felt like he was spelling his name with his tongue, as if marking his territory.

Chris grabbed my neck and tilted my head back and started kissing me. The way Chris was being so rough and the way Matt was being so sweet and gentle was driving me crazy. I moaned against Chris' lips while he kept his grip around my throat. Hearing me moan caused Matt to moan against my clit. I was in heaven. "Keep going Matt. She loves it," Chris said, watching him. My breathing got heavier and the heartbeat grew faster as Chris slipped the straps of my dress off my shoulders and unhooked my bra. He let it fall to the floor of my balcony, and his hands found their way to my already hard nipples. Chris took the right one into his mouth, which elicited more sounds from me. Matt slowly entered two of his fingers, shocking me with the coldness of his rings against my warm center, and he moved them in and out of me at a slow but steady pace.

I was practically panting by now, and Chris was whispering into my ear. "Good girl. Let Matt know what a good job he's doing. He loves it." "Matt, y-you're doing so so g-good," I could hardly get out. Matt smiled up at me. I could tell he liked being praised too. Matt started flicking his tongue faster, and I felt myself clench Matt's fingers more tightly, and I think he felt it too, because he slowly backed off and said, "Not yet, princess, I'm not done with you." Over and over again, Matt did this, bringing me so close to the finish line with his mouth and fingers and then completely stopping. Chris watched in awe as Matt had me squirming and begging him to let me cum, not caring who heard me or saw me.

And I knew for sure that some of the small crowds of people walking by down below did notice us and could tell what we were doing. "Are they doing what I think they're doing?" I heard one girl say as she walked by and giggled with her friend. One guy whistled as he walked by with a group of his friends. "They love watching you and hearing you, princess. You're the star of the show," Chris whispered while he continued playing with my nipples. I was embarrassed we had been caught, but I was too desperate to cum to be quiet. "Please, Matt, I can't take it anymore!" I yelped, a writhing mess beneath them as Matt brought me to the edge a fourth time. "You've been such a good girl for me, I'll let you cum this time," Matt promised. My body convulsed as my orgasm tore through me. "Good girl, cum on Matty's tongue," Chris said, stroking my hair again and looking into my eyes.

Matt lapped up all my wetness, and before I could fully recover, both boys were standing and guiding me towards the glass screen door. "Come on, pretty girl, let's take this inside," Matt whispered with his arm around my waist. We all stumbled into my room and they both laid me down on my bed. They both stood at the foot of my bed and stripped away the top layers of their clothes, unbuckling their belts, shedding off their pants and their sweaters, until they were each in white tank tops and boxers. I could tell how hard they both were, and a wet spot on the front of Matt's blue underwear indicated to me he might have already cum from making me cum earlier. "Which one of us do you want first?" They practically asked in unison. I had started the night off wanting Chris originally, and I still definitely did, but my gaze rested on Matt, and I bit my lip. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't still disoriented and thinking about what that man had just done to me with his tongue. Who knows what he could do to me with other parts of his body?

"I think you should go first," Chris said, smiling at his brother, picking up on the way I was hungrily staring at Matt. Matt took off his tank top and his boxers, and I admired the way his rod sprung out of them. "Lay back, baby. I'm gonna make you feel amazing," Matt muttered, leaning in and kissing me. Chris pulled my desk chair around to the side of the bed, so he could watch. He sat down in it and pulled his dick out of his underwear. As Matt entered me with his throbbing cock, I watched as Chris spit into his hand and started massaging his own. Chris was spending a lot of attention running his thumb over the slit of his swollen tip. I watched him throw his head back and moan. Matt started off slow, whispering to me every few minutes, "That's my good girl. Take that cock." It took me a few minutes to get used to the thickness, but it started feeling so good so fast. "Oh Matt, you're doing so good," I whimpered as he hit my g spot over and over again, and he moaned at the praise I gave him.

Chris kept his eyes on us while he pumped his length with his hand. Chris leaned over, and I watched as he let a strand of his saliva fall from his mouth and land on the head of his aching cock. I turned my attention back to Matt, whose expression was overwhelmed by pleasure. He looked deep into my eyes while he fucked me. "You like watching Chris touch himself while I pound you, don't you princess?" Matt said, running his thumb along my cheek. I bit my lip to supress a moan, and I nodded. Matt felt so good inside me, the way his strokes were slow but incredibly powerful. Every time he slammed into me, I felt myself get closer and closer. He had me a helpless, moaning mess beneath him. Matt slipped a finger into my mouth. I accepted his finger and gently sucked on it. Both Matt and Chris moaned at this. "I can't take it anymore, Matt," I said in a breathy voice, tears starting to form from how much pleasure I was experiencing. Matt smiled at how much I was loving it and pounded me harder. "Show me how good I make you feel, princess. Come on, I know you can. Make a mess on my dick, please," Matt whispered, looking into my eyes, one hand resting on my face.

That familiar feeling in my stomach arose again. I felt myself tighten around Matt, and as I came all over his cock with a yelp, I watched a stream of cum erupt from Chris' swollen member. He shot his load onto his stomach while he squirmed beneath his own touch, and it was accompanied with him groaning "fuck..." He pumped the last few drops of cum onto his hand while he slowed down his stroke, wincing at how sensitive he now was. Just then, Matt rolled his eyes back into his head and an expression of pleasure overcame his face. He pulled out and with a final whimper and shot his load all over my stomach. They both looked so relieved, and I could only imagine how much they were, because they'd been playing the long game, focusing on my satisfaction over and over again throughout the night before tending to their own. What gentlemen. Matt leaned down and kissed me passionately. "You did so good, princess," he whispered into my ear, and he reached down to retrieve his tank top, which he cleaned me off with.

"Do you need a break for a second before I bend you over?" Chris asked me, getting up from the chair, removing his boxers all the way. "Mhmmm," I nodded, breathlessly. "Well isn't that a shame," Chris smiled at me. "Get on your hands and knees now," he demanded, and even though I was exhausted, I listened to him. Matt sat at the edge of the bed as Chris came around behind me. He smacked my ass hard, definitely the same hand that had slapped my ass earlier in the night, which made me jump again, and he muttered, "Do exactly as I say, baby." With no warning, Chris rammed into me, and Matt watched intently as he started playing with himself as well. Chris fucked me hard and relentlessly even thought I was tight and swollen, and I was surprised at how well I handled it. Hell, I loved it. "Arch your back for me, darling," Chris ordered, grabbing a handful of my hair, and I did as he said. Chris' grunts were louder and more aggressive than Matt's, and he was definitely rougher than Matt, but I loved taking them both equally.

After Chris released my hair, Matt caressed my cheek again with his free hand, which was becoming one of my favorite things, and whispered, "You look so beautiful right now." I couldn't help but to stare at Matt's dick up close. It looked a lot like Chris', but it was veinier, and I loved watching his fingers curl around his shaft while he stroked himself to the sight of me and Chris. I felt Chris thrust into me harder and faster than before, and my legs started to shake. "That's it, be a good girl and cum on my cock," Chris grunted, and his words sent me over the edge. Again. I felt myself clamp down around him as he talked me through my orgasm. The whole time Matt didn't take his eyes off mine. Although Matt's strokes were long and slow, I watched as his seed flowed out of him. He threw his head back, opened his mouth and let out a soft whimper.

Once he'd finished, he reached out his finger that was covered in his cum and held it up to my mouth. I accepted it once again, and he smiled devilishly at me as I sucked his finger clean. He tasted so sweet. Watching me lick the juices off his brother's finger had an effect on Chris he couldn't control, and I heard as he groaned "fuck" once again under his breath, and I felt him pull himself out of me. I looked back as Chris came into his hand again, a few drops leaking onto my sheets and onto the back of my leg.

"Holy shit," Chris said wiping his forehead and trying to catch his breath. Being the gentlemen they were, Matt tossed Chris a piece of clothing and he cleaned up my leg for me. We were all exhausted, but Matt offered to run the shower for us all, and Chris offered to help me strip the bed and change my sheets once we were all cleaned up.

The shower was big enough for all three of us to stand under the flow of hot water, and Chris and Matt took turns running their soapy hands all over my body, cleaning up the messes they had made on me. They both told me how pretty I was and how much fun they had and said they'd love to do it again some time. We all got out of the shower, dried off, and I let Chris and Matt wear some of my oversized sweatshirts and pajama pants.

As soon as Chris and I started removing my soiled bedsheets, I heard a loud knock at the door. "Who's that?" I whispered to myself, glancing at the clock that was just a few minutes shy of midnight. I walked out into the living room, the boys followed me over to the door, and I opened it. Nick was standing in the doorway. "Oh my god, Nick! What are you doing here?" I exclaimed. "Do any of you answer your phones?" He asked. "I've been calling all three of you for the past hour. I had an uber drop me off, because I figured this is where you guys went since you didn't come home from the club. What were you guys doing that was more important than taking MY calls?" The three of us looked around at each other, and then all at the same time, Matt said, "watching TV," Chris said, "smoking weed," and I said, "showering."

Nick looked around at us all skeptically, all in my clothes with our wet hair. "What were you guys really doing?!" As Nick stepped into the living room, the bra I was wearing earlier that Chris had carelessly thrown on the floor of the balcony caught his eye. "Oh my god you guys are disgusting!" He shouted, putting all the pieces together. "All three of you?!" Nick's jaw dropped, he pointed at the three of us, and Matt, Chris, and I all turned a bright shade of red. We looked at each other smugly before erupting into laughter. "Fine, you caught us," Matt said, biting his lip, replaying the night we had just had in his head. "Just don't go in my room. I have a lot of evidence to clean up still," I giggled, embarrassed that there was no way to lie myself out of this one.

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