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nereidprinc3ss · 1 month

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do you believe me now? | 5

in which spencer reid and fem!reader are reunited, but the worst kind of sparks are flying. you meet a man named randall. derek morgan buys you a drink (sort of). it seems that some things can't be unsaid.

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this series is 18+ warnings/tags: r goes to a bar but doesn't drink alcohol, gets hit on by weird men, dramatic, angst, sorry in advance a/n: surprise! i'll see myself out. love you! lmk your thoughts on this bad boy! i KNOW you'll have some! i'm locking all my doors and the cops are on speed dial after posting this. stay tuned for part six tho

You don’t call Spencer for four days.

Spencer doesn’t call you for four days.

It’s scary.

There’s some texting—mostly him giving you updates on how things are going and when he expects to be back. Mostly you giving the messages a thumbs up and saying nothing else.

Finally, on Thursday afternoon, his ringtone (the Bill Nye theme) makes you jump as you’re sitting on your bed staring into space.

His caller ID photo—which is simply his passport photo, because you’d thought it was adorable—stares at you. You stare back. Contemplate not picking up.

But you’re not quite there yet.

And you cannot keep listening to Bill Nye the Science Guy.

The answer button is cold under your thumb, but not as cold as your greeting.

“Hi.”

You barely recognize your own voice.

It seems to send Spencer for a loop as well, because his reply is halting.

“Hey! Hi, um—how are you? I feel like we’ve barely talked this week.”

That would be because you told me my feelings for you are stronger than your feelings for me and I don’t know how to stop making every single word I say secretly mean I love you. We can’t have a conversation without me loving you. It will always be in the room or on the phone with us. To ignore the presence of it is impossible, and I don’t know if I can ignore the absence of yours, either.

“Uh… yeah. I’m fine. What’s up?”

There’s a pause.

“We wrapped up this morning. We’re getting on the jet here in a few minutes, and, um—I know it’s not ideal, but we missed Derek’s birthday and Penelope is insisting we all go to his favorite bar tonight. And he told me that for his birthday he wants to meet you. So… would you be up for that?”

“You want… to take me to a bar?”

“No. I mean—I know it’s not really your thing, but we missed Derek’s birthday three years in a row, and—and I understand if you don’t want to meet him tonight, but we wouldn’t have to stay very long and I really, really shouldn’t skip it. Derek has saved my life on more than one occasion.”

“You could go without me.”

More silence. Every second hurts, but you don’t understand why he wants you to come meet his best friend if he thinks the two of you are in different places emotionally.

But maybe he’s not going to break up with you just yet. Maybe he’s going to keep inviting you to bars and foreign film festivals and bookshops. Maybe he’s going to treat you exactly the same as he always has but with this new added layer of knowledge that the way he treats you isn’t actually love, and it never was, and you’re not sure if it has the potential to ever become love. Because if it did—wouldn’t it have already? What more do you have to offer than what you’ve already given him?

Breakup or no breakup, you feel sick.

When he speaks his tone is similarly chilly. It’s welcome. You want him mad. If he can’t reciprocate your adoration, then the very least he can do is have the decency to reciprocate your reproach.

“I could. Is that what you want?”

No. I don’t want any of this. I need you to know me well enough to know that. And if you can’t love me then at least get angry. At least show me you feel something other than passive contentment.

“Yeah. Sure. I don’t know.”

A pause stretches so long your heart pounds. You watch the elapsed time of the call tick by, second by second, and you wait for the anticipation to crack under the weight of silence, to give way to some terrible jump scare or to give way at all.

But the words that end the conversation (if you can even call it that) aren’t any great relief. They’re just sad, and chalk full of defeat.

“Alright. I’ll… I’ll call you later.”

You feel like you’ve swallowed an ice cube. All the words you’d like to say are frozen in your stinging throat.

“Okay. Um… I’ll let you board now.”

“The jet’s not…” but he trails off. When he speaks again he sounds just as hurt as you’d wanted—and it doesn’t make you feel better at all. “Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.”

The line goes dead, and your face is burning as tears fill your eyes for the hundredth time this week. That call was terrible and poisonous and you don’t feel like yourself.

Things have gone so wrong so quickly, and all you know how to do is ice him out so he can’t do it to you first. But it’s not going to make this better. No matter how mean you are to him, at the root of it all you feel unloved and scared and alone and Spencer knows things about love and relationships that you don’t. He’s confusing you with all this talk of feeling differently about each other and I’ll be home tomorrow I miss you and things get complicated when one person likes the other more and let’s talk in person and will you come meet my best friend tonight. All of it leaves you motion sick and ugly crying in the fetal position.

All you have to get through this is who you’ve always been, a little of the person you’ve become, and the love you harbor for Spencer which rattles around in your chest like a nail in an empty toolbox. At the moment it hardly seems helpful. It mocks you, pointing out the pathetic hilarity of your paradox. The only person who can comfort you, the person you want more than anything, is the reason you’re so upset in the first place. But you can’t help being drawn to him.

Maybe the love you have for Spencer is more like a magnet in a compass.

Even if he doesn’t feel it for you, you do love Spencer. And that goes beyond just loving the parts of him that like you. To hide from that love would be a gross disservice to yourself and all the work you’ve done to get here. It’s not as if you suddenly know exactly what the answer is—but you’re sure that hiding is the most childish, cowardly thing you could do and the furthest you could get from a resolution. Even if you can’t make him love you back, you refuse to allow yourself to fizzle quietly out of his life. This relationship deserves something more than that.

So maybe you don’t have a plan when you wipe your eyes and pick up your phone. Maybe there’s no strategy behind your actions as you text Garcia for the bar location. But if you keep running from everything you’ll never get anywhere. All you can do is show up. It seems like the next best step.

------

The pub isn’t too crowded—but for a Thursday night, you suppose it’s a bit busy.

Boot heels hooked onto the metal foot-beam of the stool you’re sitting on, elbows resting on the polished mahogany surface of the bar, you’re staring into an untouched mixed drink. Then you glance down the bar to your right, at the man who’d bought it for you.

Maybe your ensemble gave him the wrong idea.

Coming to this gathering had required bravery, and you came armored. Your ensemble projects significantly more confidence than you’re currently feeling. It was intentional, a form of self-protection—but now you’re wondering if it’s projecting a little too much confidence.

All done up, clearly still a little rough around the edges, and sitting alone at a bar was bound to draw the wrong pairs of eyes.

“Hey, darlin’,” the gruff man says, approaching when you inadvertently catch his gaze. “Are you gonna drink that, or should I? Otherwise I’m lookin’ at eleven dollars right down the drain.”

You avert your eyes, scanning the groups dotted here and there.

“I’m waiting for friends.”

“Does that make a free drink less appealing?”

He takes the stool next to you, off-gassing the scent of cigarettes and leather.

“I’m not drinking.”

“Really? I’ve never seen a girl who looks as sad as you do come sit at the bar to stay sober.”

You frown, looking back up at the man next to you. He seems like the Hell’s Angels type—tattooed knuckles, leather jacket, grey beard, and a weathered face that’s clearly spent decades with the sun. Fifties, maybe younger and just looks more rugged. What does it say about how I look tonight that this is the kind of man I’m attracting, you wonder. Maybe you look desperate and just as lonely as you feel. As he claims you do.

“I’m not sad.”

“Alright. I’ll take your word for it. But a happier girl wouldn’t be all alone.”

“I’m waiting for friends,” you repeat, letting the words drip like venom from your tongue.

“I’m Randall. See? Now we're friends.”

“I don’t need more friends. I like the ones I have.”

Something catches Randall’s attention long enough to catch yours. He raises his bottle vaguely, gesturing beyond your shoulder.

“Are those angry lookin’ guys in the suits marching right over here the friends you’re talking about?”

You turn your head, brows furrowed, and immediately see the gentlemen to whom your new pal is pointing out.

Spencer is storming across the bar looking close to furious (which for him, means an expression so placid it gives you chills) followed by Derek Morgan—a man who you’ve only seen pictures of and is even more impressive in person.

You hate how your breath catches, how your heart is already beating a little faster than usual at the sight of him even though you’re not exactly pleased with each other right now.

Suddenly the bubbles in your cocktail are once again fascinating.

“Those are the ones.”

“And why are they dressed for church?”

Church?

“They’re FBI.”

“Ah. My lucky fuckin’ day.”

You almost snort.

“Hey,” Spencer says sternly, hand settling on your back as he partially fills the small space between you and the strange man. “Who’s this?”

You shrug, sit up a little straighter, and take a shallow breath—not because you’re scared of this man but because Spencer is suddenly so close to you and you can feel his warmth and the air bending around him and the scent of him is genuinely dizzying to you.

“Randall,” you exhale unenthusiastically. But the odd thing is that you’re rather grateful for Randall’s presence. Because now Spencer is here and you have no idea what you’re going to say to him.

“Oh,” Randall says, sipping his beer unhurriedly before using it to gesture to Spencer. “You’re the boyfriend. You know, that’s funny, because she didn’t mention a boyfriend.”

“I didn’t mention anything. We weren’t having a real conversation.”

Randy holds his hands up defensively, fingers still wrapped around the neck of a sweating bottle.

“I’m just saying it’s in-ter-esting. Not trying to start anything.” He stands, pauses for another sip—Spencer obviously isn’t sure what to make of this man because he says nothing. “But listen, man to man—you better buy her some flowers or a real pretty fuckin’ necklace or somethin’ because a happy girl in a happy relationship does not come pout at the bar all by herself.”

“Get out of here, man,” Derek finally speaks up.

“Yeah, yeah.” He sets his empty bottle down and fishes in his pocket for a cigarette, sticking it between his lips. “But—just for the record—I have a wife. I wasn’t gonna do anything weird. Sometimes when you’re my age you just gotta live a little. Buy a pretty girl a drink. Piss off some Mormons, or whatever the fuck you are.”

This guy sounds like a bad Bruce Springsteen song. But part of you would almost rather hang out with Randall than be forced into a conversation you’re not prepared for with Spencer.

And whose fault is that, you remind yourself. You decided to come be mature. Suck it up.

“Goodnight,” Derek emphasizes.

Spencer doesn’t say a word. You can feel his eyes boring smoking holes into the side of your face, and you look anywhere else.

“I’ll be here next week after physical therapy like clockwork,” the stranger waves as he ambles away—but not before pointing at you. “You enjoy that drink, friend. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

What a weird man.

There’s silence for a moment—in which Spencer refuses to stop watching you and you refuse to acknowledge that.

“And here I was thinking Spencer made you up.” Derek has a beautiful smile and a warm, charming cadence as he holds out his hand for you to shake. “I’m Derek.”

You take the proffered hand and shake, offering him a shy smile and introducing yourself in kind.

“Happy birthday, by the way. Sorry for crashing your party.”

Really, he’s stunning.

“Thank you, sweetheart. And you’re not crashing anything. I told pretty boy here I wanted to meet you the second he started talking about a friend. But nah, he just wanted to talk and talk and talk about you—”

“Alright,” Spencer mumbles, blushing, eyes finally torn from your profile. You smile slightly, brows knitting as Derek magically melts some of the terrible tension.

“Pretty boy?”

Before either of them can explain, someone shrieks in your general direction. You startle backward in your seat, and Spencer steps closer, hand sliding up your back as Penelope, JJ, and Emily join your little huddle. For only a second you allow yourself to shrink into him—before you’re straightening your posture like your spine is a metal rod and his touch burns. It’s a knee-jerk defensive reaction for which you have no explanation. You can’t see him, but you don’t feel his hand on you again.

“Oh my god! Look at this beautiful person who I love!” Penelope exclaims, pushing past Derek to grab your face and kiss both of your cheeks. “Oh my god,” she says again, wiping sticky lipgloss away with her thumbs, “I totally meant to ask before I did that. But your face is just so kissable. I’m so glad you decided to come!”

“Hi, Penelope,” you smile half-heartedly, incapable of reciprocating her cheery mood. Fortunately, she’s cheery enough for a standard commercial flight’s worth of people, and probably thinks of Derek’s birthday as a national holiday—so she doesn’t pick up on this.

Emily and JJ offer you tamer although perfectly kind greetings.

“Ooh, what are you drinking?” Emily asks, leaning closer to examine the forgotten beverage in front of you.

“Not that,” Spencer mutters, grabbing the glass and sliding it away from you. You give him an affronted look—and immediately wish you hadn’t, since you’re meeting his eyes for the first time since he left. His words stall for just a moment as his eyes dart between yours before he’s saying, “you shouldn’t accept a drink if you didn’t watch someone make it.”

The audacity of him to be acting protective makes you scoff.

“That guy didn’t spike my drink. He was harmless.”

“People thought Ted Bundy was harmless, too.”

It’s such a ridiculous thing to say that you don’t even have a response—your eyes simply narrow and you shake your head. A claustrophobic silence falls over the small group.

“Okay…” JJ murmurs. “Um, do you guys want to go check out the jukebox with me? We have to play all of the birthday boy’s favorites.”

Several enthusiastic yeses go around, but you’re too busy having a stand off with your boyfriend to take much notice.

Soon, it’s just the two of you.

“Controlling isn’t a good look for you,” you finally say, spinning to rest your elbows on the bar once more and studying the bottles of liquor on the shelves beyond.

“Evasive and avoidant isn’t particularly flattering, either. I was under the impression that you had no intention of coming after that phone call earlier.”

You scoff again as your blood heats. Already the conversation is going worse than you’d expected—and your expectations were not high.

“Do you think the cab driver was a serial killer, too? Or maybe the bartender?”

He’s still behind you and slightly to the side—but he leans down, resting his own fists on the bar right next to you and speaking lowly, directly over your shoulder.

“Why don’t you try speaking to me like we’re adults instead of starting meaningless arguments in order to get under my skin?”

From him, that hurts.

It’s a branch on the tree of your greatest insecurity—the fear that you’re too inexperienced with relationships and that makes you too immature and he’s been lying every time he says it’s not an issue. Because of course it’s an issue. It’s why you fell in love with him, it’s why you don’t know how to fix it, and it’s why you’re incapable of actually expressing any of your feelings to him.

“Why do you think I’m here right now?” you whisper—as sharp and stinging as a poison dart. “I’m trying to be a fucking adult. I don’t want to be here.”

Silence.

“Then why did you come?”

His voice is so calm it burns like dry ice.

“Because! Because you asked me to, because—”

You can’t bring yourself to say it aloud.

Because I’m obviously still in love with you and I can’t just turn that off. I tried to do the right thing.

Instead you bury your face in your hands and let it hang in the air, unspoken. You know he knows. You just don’t know why he’s acting like you’re so unreasonable for being upset.

“Let me make this very clear to you,” Spencer murmurs, brushing your hair away from your ear so tenderly, speaking so softly you could convince yourself that he’ll say something kind. It’s the closest he’s been in days and now that he’s here you feel how much you missed him in your bones. And even though you sense a trap, you can’t help but sit up straighter. You’ll be complicit in your own undoing if it means you can have him close. His breath shakes slightly as he inhales and you brace as best you can. “Nobody is forcing you to be here. You told me you weren’t coming and then you decided to show up. I was ready to give you the space that you were too scared to ask me for. But I can only take responsibility for so much of what is ultimately your bad behavior and your adolescent volatility. You can only blame so much of your bad behavior on inexperience before I run out of patience because I don’t find thoughtlessness and emotional immaturity compelling. I told you that if there is a disparity in the way we feel for each other, that was fine, and I meant it. But if you can’t cope with how I feel about you then don’t let me hold you back. I am not holding you hostage. You can leave whenever you want. So don’t waste your time punishing me because you don’t want to be here. And if you do want to be here, good. I want that too. But act like an adult and make a decision. My leniency has limits, even for you. I am asking that you do not push it any further than you already have.”

You don’t know how long it’s been since your last breath by the time he finishes his address.

Long enough that you’re dizzy when you push away from the bar and shoulder through the throng of patrons as quickly as you reasonably can without outright running.

Long enough that when you burst out the door into the biting-cold night air, and finally take a deep, gasping breath, it burns and stings and aches and so does your head and your eyes as they well with hot, furious, heartbroken tears.

You speed-walk to the end of the block, hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your cries and all the curse words you’d love to scream.

Part of you knows you walked away from the bar in case he decided to try and follow you—but when you look over your shoulder the sidewalk is empty. You should’ve known better than to think he’d follow you after that. But at least it means you can have your breakdown by the relative safety of the bar, leaning your back against the dirty brick facade next to the entrance alcove and sliding down until your butt hits the cold concrete and you don’t even care.

Who the fuck was that man in the bar who looked like Spencer and sounded like Spencer but spoke to you like this is all your fault, like it’s your fault you love him and he doesn’t love you back, like it’s ridiculous that you’d be upset, like you’re cruel and petty for having feelings about it, about him—for having any fucking feelings at all? And to think that was the man who you let know you more intimately than anyone ever has. Every insecurity you’d ever admitted to him was hurled back in your face like it was nothing. Hell—he even handed you the ones you’d never mentioned. He proved every terrible thought you’ve been having about yourself right.

How could he be so unabashedly mean to you?

Spencer doesn’t have to love you. It seems clearer now than ever that he doesn’t. But part of you wonders if he suffered some sort of traumatic brain injury because that’s the only explanation for why he could go from treating you how he did before to treating you like he doesn’t even like you.

You feel like you might throw up.

“Called it,” a rasping, grumbling voice says from a few feet away.

You look up, and spot fucking Randall standing under a street light ten feet away, still smoking.

You go back to studying the tar spots on the sidewalk through bleary eyes. Pebbles sting as they press into your palms. Another one of the universe’s terrible jokes, you suppose. Just earlier you’d thought that you’d rather talk to Randall than Spencer and now here you are and here he is.

“That kid as much of a dipshit punk as I thought he was?”

Hearing Spencer described as a kid and a dipshit punk is so jarring you almost stop crying.

“He’s not a dipshit,” you sniff, voice thick with tears as you find yourself explaining Spencer Reid to this stranger for no reason at all. “He has an IQ of 187. He’s a genius.”

“Ah,” he scoffs dismissively, flicking ash from his cigarette. “Dipshit-ism don’t discriminate. Anyone can be one. Even your genius punk boyfriend. As a recovering dipshit myself I know what the work of a fellow dipshit looks like. And this has dipshit written all over it.”

You sob harder.

Randall speaks calmly around his cigarette.

“You know, I’m sorry for whatever you got goin’ on. But I’ve never not been the asshole when I got a hysterical woman in front of me. It’s nice that I can confidently say this time it is not my fault.”

The bar door opens, letting a warm burst of jovial music and chatter into the otherwise still night. Steps that are too heavy to be Spencer’s hit the concrete next to you—you look to your left and see Derek Morgan before he looks down and sees you.

“Hey—you okay out here?”

“Why don’t you go ask your Jehovah’s Witness buddy? He did this.”

Derek makes a face, locating the source of this interjection.

“Sir, I asked you to leave her alone once and I don’t appreciate being made to repeat myself. Are we clear?”

“Yeah, whatever. Fuck me for making friendly conversation, I guess. Gonna have to call my wife and tell her to pick me up down the street. I don’t want her on the damn phone while she’s driving.”

Randall wanders away again, still muttering to himself and smoking. Derek watches him go, staring daggers into his back until he turns his gaze to you.

Goodbye, Randall, you think. Great. Now I have neither of them.

“Hey,” he softens, crouching down to your level. “You okay?”

You sniff, wiping your cheeks and attempting not to smudge your makeup. It’s impossible not to feel awkward—you just met this guy and now he’s here trying to do emotional labor for you on his birthday.

“Yeah, I’m fine. This is embarrassing.”

“You don’t look fine. Can I do anything for you? Do you want some food? A drink?”

“You really don’t have to—”

“I know, I know. But look—Reid is always talking about you. You’re important to him, and he’s important to me. I’ve never seen him this happy and I’ve known that kid a long time. It is in my best interest that someone maintain you, and if it’s not him, it’ll be me. Call it a favor to him, if that makes you feel better.” Derek is sporting a slightly more modest Cheshire grin again by the end of his sentence. Listening to him speak that way about Spencer speaking about you, it’s impossible not to feel a teeny bit lighter. Even if you’re not entirely sure where you stand on all things Spencer related at the moment. “So I’ll ask you again. Is there anything I can do for you?”

You sniff again.

“Sure. A ginger ale or something might be good.”

“Got it. I’ll be back. And come inside if Randall tries to run up on you again, okay?”

Despite yourself you manage a laugh at the way he says the name. His warm smile flickers warmer at this.

“Will do.”

When Derek returns a few minutes later, the plastic cup he’s holding looks decidedly not like ginger ale.

“Penelope insisted that this is what you would want. I don’t even know.”

You smile slightly as you take the cup, full to the brim with bubbles and thick red syrup. A cherry bobs underneath the layer of cubed ice.

“Shirley temple,” you chuckle. “I’ll take it. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” he says, flashing that brilliant smile again, and you look into your cup as you drink. Maybe your face warms just a bit. You’re still shy around men, you realize. Especially attractive ones. And Derek Morgan definitely qualifies as attractive.

“So,” he begins, and to your surprise, crouches down in front of you. “I have to be honest—I came out here in the first place because Reid sent me to check on you. But now I’m wondering what the hell he did.”

Spencer sent him. A considerate action that would theoretically signal his care for your feelings. You take another sip, staring into space and trying to digest this information, but it only jumbles with the rest to confuse you more.

Of course, you don’t know how to convey this to Derek in a way that’s not overly-familiar for just having met the man, so you go with an old standby.

“I’m probably just overreacting.”

“Uh-huh. I have sisters. I know what an overreaction looks like and if you were overreacting you wouldn’t be out here hiding. What’d he do?”

You can only keep up the facade of emotional stability for so long. Your chin wobbles in a horribly embarrassing way and you look down again.

“I’m not sure—I’m not sure if he really did anything or if I’m just being dramatic and I don’t want to make him seem—”

“Why don’t you stop defending him and just tell me what he did?” Derek urges. “Trust me—I love that kid to death. But I also know he can be a dick sometimes. You don’t need to worry about making him look bad in front of me.”

Part of you is glad Spencer has such a good friend on his side. And Derek is right—Spencer is an adult. You don’t need to worry about besmirching his reputation. So you take a shuddering sigh, staring into the red of your drink.

“He just doesn’t like me as much as I like him. Which isn’t his fault, like I said, but—he’s being such an asshole about it.”

Derek pulls a face, strong eyebrows making an impression as they knit.

“Did he tell you that?”

“Over the phone,” you nod emphatically. “And just now he gave me this whole fucking speech about how immature and horrible I am for not being 100% happy about it. And maybe he’s partially right, I mean—I know people feel things differently and maybe he just was asking for more time. I worry I fucked it up so bad because I couldn’t handle that—but at the same time he didn’t say he wanted more time. He was really fucking unclear and vague about what he wanted, and he asked me to come to this bar like it was nothing when I’ve been worried he was going to break up with me all week. So yeah, I guess he’s right and I have been a bitch about it because I was upset that he didn’t… like me as much. And I wanted him to feel bad because I was so embarrassed, and I also didn’t want to act like everything was normal if he was just going to dump me, I…” you realize you’ve been hardcore rambling and your face heats. “I don’t know.”

There’s a pause, and you worry you’ve done exactly the thing you didn’t want to, which was overshare to this man who seems like he’s significantly more normal and well-adjusted than you. You drink deeply, swallowing sugar and the rest of your words.

“That’s… bizarre. I don’t mean to invalidate your feelings, but… that just doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yeah,” you scoff, projecting annoyance so you won’t start crying again. “I was confused too. I thought he really liked me.”

“No, sweetheart, I’m saying—that doesn’t make sense because he does really like you. Really, really likes you, more than I’ve ever seen him like someone before. I mean, last week I finally finished that Tesla biography he’s been on my ass about for months and when I told him, all he wanted to do was talk about your thoughts on it. And then it wasn’t even about the book anymore. I have never, ever seen Reid pass up an opportunity to talk about Nikola Tesla. I’m talking never in my life. He finds a way to make every conversation about you. I can’t even follow the connections sometimes but he always finds a way.”

Your nose wrinkles.

“Sorry you’ve had to hear so much about me,” you mumble. Though you’re not really sorry. It feels good. A twinge of joy in all the murk.

“I’m not. Like I said, I’ve known Spencer for a long time and I’ve never seen him this happy. I’m not about to let him fuck it up.”

“If I make him so happy then why did he tell me we don’t feel the same?” you whisper, reaching into the puddle of syrup and ice at the bottom of your now empty cup.

“Is that exactly what he said?” Derek asks, after a long pause. You bite the maraschino cherry off the stem and nod morosely, grinding a long-gone stranger’s cigarette butt with your boot just to crush something. There’s another beat of silence. “Alright. You know what I think?”

You raise your head to meet his gaze, your own wide-eyed and expectant.

“I think you two need to have an honest conversation. You’re both confused and hurting—I promise Spencer is feeling it too. If you talk to him he won’t be unkind to you.”

“He already was,” you admit.

“I apologize if I’m out of line here, but you just told me you’ve been icing him out all week because you want him to feel bad. I’m willing to bet you don’t realize how sharp these claws are.” Derek grabs your hand as he says it and you marvel at how much he is the opposite of you. Everything he does and says seems so natural and reasonable and charming even if it would piss you off from anyone else—and you just met the guy. You can see why Spencer and Penelope speak so highly of him. “I think you’ve probably both had your moments these past few days. But that doesn’t mean neither of you deserve any more chances.”

He puts your hand back on your knee and pats it.

“Besides, Spencer‘s not good at mean. I bet he’s inside worrying himself sick over whatever dumb shit he said to you. He’s probably hyperventilating as we speak.”

“It was really out of character for him,” you concede.

“Yeah. He’ll be apologizing for a long while. It will get annoying. But he sure as hell won’t be doing it again, I can tell you that much. If he does, let me know. Emily and I will whoop his ass and call it a fitness evaluation.”

“I think that’ll be unnecessary,” you laugh thickly, pulling your sleeve over your hand and wiping away the few tears that haven’t quite dried. “But thank you.”

“Anytime. Now, it’s my birthday, and as a grown man I should not be getting involved in someone else’s relationship drama. I was supposed to be on the dance floor a while ago.” His tone is so warm and sugary by the time he finishes it could rot his perfect grin. It’s futile to hide the way your mouth twists into a reluctant smile as you look down and fix your hair—praying he can’t tell how fazed you are by his kindness. “You’re going to talk to him, right?”

“I’ll—yeah. Right,” you say quietly. But the sinking feeling in your stomach knows it’s a thing easier said than done.

“Good,” Derek grunts, taking your empty cup before pushing himself back up to his feet and offering you a hand. “Do you want me to send him out here or do you want to come find him inside?”

You balk.

“Like—right now? I have to talk to him now?”

Before he can give you an answer you think you’d rather not have, the bar door is opening. From your spot you can’t see who it is right away, but Derek turns over his shoulder and does a double take before looking back at you.

Spencer steps out onto the sidewalk, eyes scanning for until he realizes you’re a few feet shorter than usual. Sitting on a filthy public walkway is probably his worst nightmare, you realize, as you scramble to your feet and dust the crumbs of concrete from your palms against the back of your cold jeans. He begins to say your name, and it sounds like relief and regret, but you stop him.

“I have to go wash my hands.”

It’s monotonous and mumbled and comes out too quickly but you don’t have time to worry about that as you brush past both of the men on your way back into the bar, making an immediate beeline for the bathroom.

Your face burns with anxiety as you shut the door behind you, immediately drowning in the yellowish lighting which is so harsh but seems to illuminate almost nothing. Who paints a bathroom red? It’s suffocating. You feel like you’re inside an aorta.

Water runs cool over your hands as you sniffle, rinsing the bits of dirt from red indents made by pebbles and things, and the soap is too floral and powdery but you wash twice anyway. Maybe you’ll just stay in here and wash your hands forever.

There’s a light knock on the shiny wooden door and it makes you jump. Your name is muffled from the other side.

“You in there?”

Quickly you wipe under your reddened eyes in the mirror, trying to fix the slightly smudged makeup.

The door opens when you don’t respond, and there’s Spencer, looking weary and tense all at once. Is that your fault?

“Hey,” you sniff, trying to effect casualness, but it comes out too quickly and your posture is too stiff. Under his all-seeing gaze you cross and uncross your arms, look at him and look away. Your hands end up in your pockets. He’d say crossed arms are a sign of self-soothing.

“Hey.” His is more measured, and of course makes you feel embarrassed in comparison. The door swings shut behind him as he enters the small room and makes it feel that much smaller. “Are you… hiding from me in here?”

Yes.

The graffitied toilet stalls to your left suddenly look fascinating.

“Nope. Just washing my hands.”

This is not what Derek told you to do, you scold yourself internally. Stop being so scared. Be honest with him.

Silence rings. All the brutally honest things you’d like to say choke you until your throat hurts and your eyes get hot. Yet again you feel like a stupid little girl who’s too emotional to communicate.

You cross your arms. It’s an indulgence you feel you’re owed.

Spencer says your name again and it’s too much. He never says it this often. When he does it feels good but now it’s too formal, makes you too aware of your own inadequacy, and how he must be seeing you—a wraith of a girl in a dingy bar bathroom with clammy hands and smudged eyeliner, practically shaking with fear under an unforgiving light. Someone who is too scared and much too sensitive.

Spencer attempts to speak again.

“What I said before, it was—”

“Can you just take me home?”

It comes out on one exhalation and seems to stall him with all the effectiveness of a slap to the face.

You don’t know where it comes from, either.

Easier said than done, you’d thought a few moments ago. All the bravery Derek had tried to instill in you is gone, swallowed down the drain like soap scum. And now you’re choosing to let your fear win—because at least that’s a known quantity. The fear will never reject you. It will always be waiting with open arms.

Too scared.

The end feels imminent. You try to press yourself back together, fingernails biting into palms, trying to make something feel more tangible than the terrible knowingness that you’re careening toward an end which was supposed to be a beginning. It’s stifling and you wonder if Spencer is breathing it too.

You can’t look at his face, but you watch him pocket his hands in his pants and there is so much impossible space between you in such a tiny room.

“Yeah. I can.”

Something breaks. It’s small, and without fanfare. But it feels final.

It’s just a ride home. Just a ride home.

That’s all you have left, and you don’t know how you know it but you do.

Something so important is being left in this stupid, dingy bathroom. Something that was at one point beautiful and shiny and so arrogant in its newness that it seemed it would never become ugly. And now you’re abandoning it without dignity on the chipped tile floor and in the cobwebs on the walls. It was bigger than you, it was you—and now it’s going to be nothing.

A vehicle honks on the street. A boisterous group laugh explodes somewhere beyond the door. Water drips from a faucet.

“I’ll… I’ll bring my car around.”

“Okay.”

But he just stands there for another moment. Like he can’t get himself to move.

If only time would freeze before he could walk away.

But it doesn’t.

He sucks in a decisive breath.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

It’s that fucking phone call all over again.

Then he spins on his heels and leaves you there.

Your time is up.

part 5.5

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fandom #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine

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scoonsalicious · 3 months

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Like A Fairy Tale

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: Dating Bucky Barnes had been like living a fairy tale, but as he distances himself from you and your relationship, you come to the realization that maybe fairy tales aren't meant to come true.

Warnings: Language to make Steve blush, mentions of alcohol use, implied sex, angst with a happy ending.

Word Count: 3.4k This is my very first posted fic, and I am very nervous but I hope you like it! If I've missed any warnings, please tell me so I can add them. Much love and thanks to my bestie @jmeelee for indulging my obsession and dropping everything to read this when I sent it to her <3 Please pardon any spelling/grammar errors.

If you ever feel so inclined to support my work, hop on over to buy me a coffee; it's much appreciated! <3 I write for 18+, so minors DNI. _____________________________________________________________

Once upon a time, being Bucky Barnes’ girl had felt like living in a fairy tale. He was everything your younger self had ever dared to dream of in a Prince Charming– attentive, affectionate, kind, and oh, how he made you laugh! You were the envy of all of your friends, the very definition of #couplegoals, and you thanked your lucky stars every night that the two of you had found one another, despite all the odds.

But fairy tales aren’t real.

You weren’t sure exactly when it started, but somewhere in the third year of your relationship, after you’d moved into a handsome brownstone in Brooklyn together, after you’d adopted a fluffy white kitten, Bucky started pulling away from you. The steps that took him from you were small at first– he was taking on more and more missions, opting to stay gone for longer periods of time. Days would go by, and they’d turn into weeks, then a month or two at a time would go by where you wouldn’t see him.

At first, it hadn’t been terrible– Bucky had always made sure to contact you each and every day. A video call whenever he could, a phone call or text when he couldn’t, but slowly, so slowly you barely noticed, the calls stopped coming all together. Sure, he’d answer when you called him… when he could, which wasn’t always possible on a mission, and you hated acting needy and taking him away from his work, so eventually, you stopped reaching out, too.

When he was home, you were like ships passing in the night. You always offered to take time off of work so you could spend some time with him before he was set to head out again, but he never wanted you to jeopardize your career on his account. Your reunions would always be passionate, but short-lived, a few hot and heavy nights before he took off once more to save the world.

You tried not to let it bother you. You really, really did. His job was so important. People’s lives relied on him. Where did you get off getting upset over that? So, you kept it to yourself. Until you couldn’t. Not any more.

“Y/N,” your best friend, Lainy, cornered you at her annual New Year’s Eve party, “where’s Barnes? He’s been leaving you to go solo for months now. I don’t think I’ve seen you with him since Mark’s St. Patrick’s Day Party.”

Ouch. “He’s working, Lainy,” you told her, not wanting to admit that March had been the last time the two of you had gone out together, let alone spent more than three days in a row in each other’s company.

“Yeah, he was ‘working’ over the Memorial Day trip, and the 4th of July BBQ, and Jack and Alice’s wedding, and your aunt’s funeral.” You cringed internally as she applied air quotes to ‘working.’ “And he was ‘working’ on your birthday, and Christmas. Babe, he’s been leaving you alone for almost an entire year. What’s going on? Are you sure there isn’t someone else?”

The worst part was, you knew there wasn’t, or at least, no one individual. When he’d first started distancing himself, of course another woman was the first thing that came to your mind, and you weren’t proud of yourself, but you’d gone through his phone to search for evidence of an affair… multiple times, and repeatedly came up with nothing. And bless Bucky’s heart, but he didn’t have the technological know-how to hide an infidelity from you. Granted, that didn’t negate the possibility that he was randomly hooking up with people while he was away. You’d have to be stupid to not consider the possibility.

You could have asked Steve. You didn’t think Captain America had it in him to lie to you about something like that, but you didn’t want him reporting on your suspicions back to Bucky, nor did you think you could stand to see the look of pity in his eye if he had to tell you that yes, Bucky was cheating on you while you anxiously awaited his return every night. So, you kept the suspicions to yourself.

Your conversation with Lainy had left you deflated. Here it was New Year’s Eve, and you were alone, the man you loved god knew where– just not with you. How many more holidays and milestones and everyday nights were you going to spend by yourself, waiting for a man who never seemed to want to be home with you anymore? This wasn’t the kind of life you wanted, the kind of life you deserved.

You made your way to the kitchen to refill your glass of wine. You’d probably already had too many, but you needed to drown the despair that was slowly filling you up. As you poured an exceptionally generous glass, a man entered the kitchen. You recognized him– Harris, a cousin of Lainy’s who had flirted with you relentlessly for years before you had started seeing Bucky.

“Y/N!” he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up upon seeing you, “it’s been awhile.” He enveloped you in a friendly hug. “How’ve you been?”

You smiled and exchanged pleasantries, catching up on the overall brushstrokes of your life.

“I’m sorry about your breakup,” he offered gently, after you’d exhausted the usual small talk.

“My breakup?” you asked, brow piqued.

“Last few events I’ve seen you at, you’ve been alone. I assumed you and Barnes…” he left the thought floating, the implication hanging in the air: Barnes has left you alone, I assumed you broke up.

You huffed out a laugh. God. Was your relationship actually over and you were the only one dumb enough to not see it?

“If you aren’t seeing anyone,” Harris continued, “I would really love to take you out. You’ve gotta know I’ve been into you for ages, and I figure if I don’t shoot my shot now, who knows when I’ll have another chance.”

You cocked your head and looked at him, taking in his earnest demeanor. Here was a man who genuinely wanted to spend time with you. Why were you waiting on someone who no longer wanted to be around?

“Um, I might have to get back to you on that, Harris,” you told him before excusing yourself. You needed air.

You found yourself on Lainy’s balcony, the air deceptively mild for the end of December in Manhattan. Alone with your thoughts, you pulled out your phone and dialed Bucky’s number. It went straight to voicemail.

“Someone asked me out on a date tonight,” you said into the recording, your voice choked with tears you didn’t want to shed. “And I think I might say yes, because, honestly Buck, what are we even doing anymore? You’re never here, and I’m always alone. I tried. I tried so fucking hard to not let it get to me, because your work’s important. I know that. I do, and I’m not begrudging you for your job. But… but I can’t keep on like this. I can’t even remember the last time we spent more than three days together. Isn’t that crazy? Three days. Everyone thinks you’re cheating on me. Did you know that? You’re away so much that everyone I know is convinced you’re fucking someone else. Maybe you are, or maybe you already left me, but I’ve been too stupid to notice; if that’s the case, you could have just told me.”

You kept your composure as you left the message. You weren’t angry at him; you never could be. You were just tired. So tired, and so lonely.

“All I know is that it’s another night where I’m all by myself, wishing you were here, wanting to talk to you, to feel you, and you’re just… not. You’re off doing something, or someone, more important than me, and I used to be okay with that, but I can’t be anymore. I deserve more than waiting on you, Buck. I deserve to be someone’s priority. I really wish I could have been yours, the way you were mine.

“So, let’s just call it, okay? Your heart’s obviously not in it anymore, and mine is too tired of being hurt and alone. We’ll have to figure out what to do about the house. I’m keeping Alpine, though. You haven’t been here for her, either, and it wouldn’t be fair of you to take her if you’re never going to be around.”

Inside, you could hear the rest of the party as they counted down to midnight. When they reached zero, the night erupted in fireworks, and you could hear cheers and cars honking their horns throughout the city below you.

“Huh,” you said into your phone, “it’s midnight. Happy New Year, Buck. I hope it ends up being a good one for you, and I’m sorry for whatever I did that made you decide you didn’t want to spend this last one with me.”

You hung up the phone and the tears finally fell as you slid down the balcony railing until you were crouched on the floor. You weren’t sure how long you sat there crying, but eventually Lainy found you, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders and ushering you into her spare room. She helped you change out of your cocktail dress and into a spare pair of pajamas, and helped you wash your face before tucking you into bed. She left you with a glass of water and a kiss on the forehead, promising that tomorrow would be better, that the next best chapter of your life was about to begin, but as you drifted into a fitful sleep, you couldn’t find the will to believe her.

You woke the next morning with a throbbing headache, the alcohol and the tears doing nothing but dehydrating you into agony. You grabbed your phone to check the time, but the battery had died in the night. From the slant of the sun coming in from the guest room window, it looked to be late morning or early afternoon.

You changed back into your dress, thanking Lainy for her help and making a small joke about doing the walk of shame in your clothes from the night before. You avoided her questions about what had happened, promising to go over it at length at the weekend after you’d had some time to process. You weren’t in the best headspace to get into at the moment.

Fortunately, your best friend knew you well enough not to pry, and you said your goodbyes, plans for brunch on Sunday having been made. You weren’t eager to get back home, to be surrounded by reminders of Bucky, when all you wanted was the man, himself. But he was your ex-boyfriend now, you supposed. You were going to have to come to terms with that sooner than later. Besides, Alpine needed to be fed, and you weren’t going to abandon her.

Your keys clicked in the lock as you opened your front door. “Al, baby,” you called, kicking off your heels and closing the door behind you, “Mommy’s home. You hungry, sweetie?”

You began making your way back toward the kitchen when a loud crash from upstairs got your attention. You rolled your eyes; what had the cat knocked over now?

But then there was the roar of a body barreling down the upstairs hall and toward the stairs, leaving you frozen where you stood. You cast a glance to where you’d left your phone in your purse by the door. Too far away to reach in time to call for help as the intruder came pounding down the stairs.

A massive figure rounded the corner, nearly knocking you over.

“Bucky?” You blinked, sure your eyes were playing tricks on you, but no– there he stood, and he looked like shit. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and his eyes were swollen and red-rimmed. He’d obviously been wearing the same clothing for at least a day, if not more.

“Y/N,” he breathed, throwing his arms around you and wrapping you in an almost bone-crushing embrace. “Sweetheart, I was so worried.”

“What are you doing here, Buck?” you asked him, pulling away from him. God, you wanted to let him hold you, but you just couldn’t. Not anymore.

Bucky cupped your face in his hands, blue eyes desperately searching yours. “I got your message. Doll, it fucking broke my heart. I came straight home, but you weren’t here, and I was terrified that you were gone; that you’d left me for good.”

You scoffed. “I’m not the one who leaves, Bucky.”

He flinched at your words. “I know, Baby. I know, and ’m so sorry. I had no idea. I shoulda known what leavin’ you so much was doin’ to you, ‘cause it was doin’ it to me, too. When I heard you say that people– that you– thought I was cheating on you, that I had neglected you so much you thought I found someone else, that I could ever love anyone else, ever want anyone else– I’ve never hated myself more, doll. I can’t stand that you even had those thoughts in your head for one second, because it’s always been you. There’s never been anyone else. You’re it.”

“Then why have you been gone?” you asked him in a whisper. “If there’s no one else, and I’m it, why don’t you ever want to be with me? Why do you keep leaving?”

Bucky ran both his hands along his face. “God, it feels so stupid now,” he said with a sigh. “But I was trying to save–”

“Trying to save the world, yeah, I know,” you interrupted him, annoyed. “Trust me, I’m well aware that I can’t compete with that. But I needed to know you thought we were worth saving, too, and you never did.”

Bucky started laughing then, and you scoffed. “Wow, you don’t have to rub it in, Bucky.”

“No, no– Sweetheart, no!” he shook his head. “That’s not it, at all. Hold on.” He went to the foyer and grabbed his go-bag; you had missed it when you walked in. Coming back to the kitchen, he put it on the table, opening it up and extracting a folded piece of paper and handing it to you.

It was a real estate listing for a farmhouse Upstate, with acreage on the Hudson. You and Bucky had talked about what kind of house you would buy if the situation had ever presented itself, and it was almost as if you’d dreamed it up.

You looked from the paper back to Bucky. “I don’t understand,” you told him.

“It needs pretty extensive renovations,” he told you. “I wanted to take on enough overtime to have the money for them and make a good dent on the mortgage, but it needed more work than I originally thought. And, I have to come clean– I haven’t been one hundred percent honest with you about where I’ve been spending all my time.” He looked up at you through his lashes, head bent down in shame.

“But… but, you said there wasn’t anyone else,” you stammered, heart ready to beat out of your chest.

“Oh god! No, and I mean that! There isn’t, I swear! God, I’ve fucked this up so bad!” Bucky tugged at his hair in frustration. “I’ve been going on extra missions, but sometimes, Sam, Steve, and I go Upstate to do some work on the house, to cut down the costs so I could still make my timeline.”

“You already bought it?” you asked, your voice flat. You were in shock. “You want to move out? Away from me?”

Bucky moaned in distress and drew you to him again. “No! God, I’m doing this all wrong. I want us to move there, together. To make it the perfect house. The perfect home for me, my wife and our stupid fur baby.”

You stilled at his words. “I’m sorry, your what?”

Bucky smiled at you sheepishly as he reached back into his go-bag. “I’ll have you know that I had an entire plan. Was gonna have the house ready by Valentine’s Day. Take you up there as a surprise, ask you properly, but I fucked that up, so…” He brought his hand back out, holding a small burgundy velvet box. He opened it to reveal a vintage engagement ring, a sapphire instead of a diamond. Your favorite stone.

Bucky got down on one knee. “Y/N,” he began as his voice choked up a bit with emotion, “I know I fucked up for the last eight months. I would completely understand if you can’t forgive me, but I need you to know that I love you. I have only ever loved you, and if you let me, I will spend the rest of my life making up for the fact that, even for a moment, I let you think that you weren’t the most important thing in my life, my number one priority. Will you marry me?”

“Buck…” you began, not sure how to phrase what you were about to say. “What about your job? I can’t keep coming in second to the rest of the world, and I get that it’s selfish of me, but–”

“I quit,” he said simply.

“What?” Your eyes were wide with shock at his statement.

“The second I heard your voicemail, where you said you wanted to call it because I was never there, I told Steve I was done, that I needed to start putting you first. It wasn’t even a question. I’m officially retired.”

Your mouth hung open. You had hoped he would cut down on his missions, but for him to have quit completely… You gently tugged him to his feet, taking the ring box and running a finger across it.

“It’s lovely,” you told him softly. “Absolutely perfect; exactly what I would have picked for myself.” Bucky beamed at you, pleased. “But I can’t accept it.” His face fell as you gently placed the ring back in his hands.

“Oh,” he whispered, eyes growing glassy. “I… um, I understand. I fucked up, hurt you. I understand if you don’t want to be with me anymore.”

“I still want to be with you, you idiot,” you admonished him. “But you did hurt me, and we’ve been apart for a long time. We need time to find our way back to each other again, okay? Ask me again on Valentine’s Day, just like you originally planned. Don’t do it now just because you fucked up.” You leaned up on your tip toes and kissed him. “And if it helps make you feel better, I’m probably going to say ‘yes,’ anyway.”

Bucky grinned at you. “Really?” he asked. When you nodded, he picked you up and spun you in a circle before pressing his lips to yours as if he hadn’t touched you in months. “I promise you, Sweetheart, I’ll do anything I can to make this up to you, I swear it.”

“Anything?” you asked with a smile. “I think I know where you can start.”

“Oh yeah?” he asked you. “And where’s that?”

“Take me to bed, Bucky Barnes,” you said, kissing him again.

Without a word, Bucky swung you over his shoulder and ran with you up the stairs, your squeals and giggles echoing behind him.

Much, much later, when you lay sated together tangled in limbs and sheets with Alpine snuggled next to your heads, Bucky played with your fingers as you rested your head on his bare chest.

“So, Doll,” he said, kissing the pads of each of your fingers, “you gonna tell me who had the nerve to ask my girl out on a date?”

You laughed. “Lainy’s cousin, Harris. I suppose I’ll have to text him now and tell him I’m not interested.”

“Hell no, you’re not interested,” Bucky chuffed. “Gonna have to remind that punk you’ve already got a boyfriend. The position has been filled.”

“That’s the thing, though,” you said, planting a kiss on his nose. “I don’t have a boyfriend anymore, do I?”

Bucky’s face fell. “But I thought you said–”

“I’ve got myself a fiance.”

Bucky tightened his grip around you, drawing you even closer to his warmth. “Yeah, okay. I gotta admit I like the sound of that a lot better.”

Your entire relationship with Bucky Barnes might not have played out like a fairy tale, but in that moment, you were more sure than ever that you two would get your happily ever after.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky x you #james bucky buchanan barnes #winter soldier #marvel mcu #mcu bucky barnes #james barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n

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pedge-page · 7 months

Text

Cravings

Frankie 'Catfish' Morales x F!reader

Summary: Pussy eating king frankie, who gets his aforementioned nickname when you tried to come up with ways to prevent him from relapsing back to coke.

Warnings: soooo much oral —pussy eating, cum eating, grinding, dry humping, cumming in pants, kissing, Frankie's mouth is everywhere, alcohol, drunk sex, unprotected sex, little dub con since Frankie doesn't ask if he can cum inside, overstimulation, free use esc situations

Notes: This is NOT the Frankie free-use series I mentioned before; I'm a bit delayed with writing it, so here's something else i had started as a drabble but then... did not stay a drabble. Please like and reblog if you enjoy this fic!

18+ ONLY

- - - -

Rather than drowning himself in coke, Santi slyly suggest he drowns himself in pussy instead. The guys around the table laughed, but you kind of agreed and told him you'd help set him up on hookups. Frankie didn't want to go through the trouble of having to find a potentially different girl each night. Plus, his cravings were sporadic. He would need his fix in that moment whenever it came.

He remembered back when you had drunkenly admitted guys could hardly satisfy you because you had a high drive, usually cumming on your fingers at least 6 times a day before bed, often times more on lonely weekends. He was left speechless at the time, but now he couldn't get Santi's proposition mixed with that knowledge of you out of his head.

You tried to cook him meals instead or buy him hoards of candy, but the idea was stuck in his mind. You knew you'd be a convenient alternative, given you only lived less than 10 minutes away and was always around when he needed help. But you were afraid of crossing that line with one of your all time best friends.

Eventually, being around him so much—"on call" as the boys put it—left you susceptible to his sweet touches, ghosting lips against your ears, sporadic twitches and jittery hands, antsy fingers dancing along your hips. You considered the option heavily before finally caving: you were doing this to HELP him, as his friend. Just a little relief every so often when he absolutely needed it.

You came 9 times on his tongue the first time. It wasn't even that he was trying to make you cum, but the eagerness in the way he moved so fast, growling and moaning at the taste, his lips attached and never left your heat. His big nose just perfectly bumping your clit each time he pointed his tongue dove deep into your craving hole, curling up and hitting that soft spot inside you left you shaking and crying out his name, back arched and fingers clawing at his shoulders.

He was sated for almost 6 days (and you needed the ample recovery time because not even your fingers could make you cum so hard) before the craving hit again. Incessant knuckles pounded your doorstep. You had barely unlocked the door before he was shoving himself in and devouring your mouth with his. "I need another hit, carniño."

He didn't wait for a response, knocking you on your ass on the sofa and stripping your sweats and panties off before throwing one leg over his shoulder. Flattening his tongue, he licks a long strip along from your hole to your clit, obscenely guttural moans from the back of his throat filled your ears. He looked wild-eyed and crazy, as if starved for weeks and was finally given the sugar rush of the century.

You inevitably move in with him, claiming his spare bedroom, worried about how bad he gets when he goes anything longer than a few hours without you.

He makes you ride his face until you're suffocating him, and he still can't get enough. Your juices flood his mouth and nose and his eyes roll back as he loses air. You try to get off and apologies, but he's caged your thighs with his muscular arms, holding your pussy flat against his face as he devoured you more, ignoring your squirming pleas. He hums against your nub, the vibrations sending you into your own addictive high. You cum again, and again, and again, and soon you're tugging his hair, crying his name with fat tears down your cheek, leaning back and scratching at his chest to let off, but its useless. He's so lost in your cunt that you become light headed, barely holding on to the headboard as your lower body continues to spasm.

He only pulls off for a minute, squeezing his nostrils to force out your juices. He's so dazed, pupils blown wide, beard and mustache drenched in your slick, so pussy-drunk and in love that he wants to do it again. "Sweetest fucking cunt, I swear. Just wanna curl up and live inside here, querida."

You offer to suck him off but he gestures embarrassingly down, where you turn to see a dark splotch on the belt-line of his pants where the tip of his spent cock peaks out, dribbling little white drops onto his lower belly, having cum untouched just from eating you out.

It gets to the point where you lock yourself in the bathroom when you take a shower just to have 10 minutes of peace. Your pussy is so puffy, clit so swollen from his constant assault day and night that you have to calm down and remind yourself what good its doing for him. He hasn't touched the white powder in weeks.

He's wondered where you've gone when he sees the bathroom light illuminate under the door. He knocks a few times, then raps harsher with his fists, calling out your name. You tell him you just need a minute. The makeshift locks on the bathroom door of Frankie's apartment isn't designed to keep an ex militant out, and he just pushes it forward with enough force that it gives way and he let's himself in. You go to cover yourself when he pulls the shower curtains away, but the same needy expression on his face as he narrows in to the slit between your legs has you aching once again. It's Pavlovian, the way he stares, practically drooling, hands twitching by his side, sending signals to your cunt to start dripping for his appetite. He spins you around so your cheek is smothered against tile, ass out towards him, not caring about the water drenching his baseball cap, grey shirt and pants as he kneels on the shower floor and puts his face between your legs. He moans when his lips start sucking on your nub, tongue thrusting in and out of your hole. He keeps you in your spread position with his arms holding your waist, making their way to spread your ass for him to dive further in, knees between your heels. You reach one arm back, knocking his cap off as you card your fingers through his damp hair, gripping it when you cum and grind yourself back on his scruffy face.

He's otherwise so gentle, so soft spoken, but when he gets between your legs, something primal takes over and you can hardly recognize him.

Sometime in the evening while you were watching a movie, you see his knee bouncing next to you. You has snapped at him earlier and refused his hunger when he peppered kisses all over your neck, down your back, then tried to yank your pants down while you were cooking dinner for the two of you, nearly burning your arm on the stove from such force.

You hated that you had outright refused him for the first time, but the truthfully the swollenness between your legs needed rest before he wrecked you again. He's biting his lip so hard, stealing glances at you before rubbing his hair and shifting his cap back on.

You instead take your top off, having gotten comfortable enough to go without a bra when it was just the two of you. Frankie is a bit shocked, only used to seeing you strip your pants first before anything else.

You crawl over to him before sitting in his lap, thighs spread over his. He swallows the lump in his throat, unable to take his eyes off of your tits right in front of him. His legs are still bouncing in agitation, the movement making your breasts jiggle right in front of him. He groans, licking his lips, breathing heavily.

"She needs a break, Fish," you said quietly, your soft and small hands seeking his big and callous ones, pulling them up over your waist before letting them settle on your cups.

He doesn't hesitate or ask further, head leaning forward and lips immediately latching on to your nipple. He moans, eyes closed as he sucks around the areola, tongue swirling your pebble as he kneads them in his hands.

You're trying so hard not to grind down on his cock, instead sitting upright on your knees so you're not fully resting your damp panty-covered crotch against the tent in his pants. The position is more head level with your tits, but he doesn't like that. He grips your hips to bring you flush against him, gasping out when you instinctually start rocking your hips steadily against his clothed length.

He noticed how heavily your chest is flexing, glaring up at you to see your brows furrowed, face tilted towards the ceiling trying not to cum on him. He cups his hands against your cheeks and brings you in for a sweet kiss, his lips slotting perfectly against yours as his hands return to palming your breasts. He presses his forehead against yours so your eyes meet, goosebumps wracking your whole body at the lust behind his eyes, and something more you couldn't place. "So good to me, querida. Perfect lips"—he gently pecks your lips—"perfect tits"—then a generous kiss to each of your breasts—"my perfect girl." You could smell the scent of your pussy on his lips, as if they'd be stained there now. Kissing your lips, your throat, collarbone, down the valley of your breasts, and erect nipples, and all the way back up again, was enough to keep his mouth busy and his craving subsided. And it worked almost as well, the two of you cumming sticky and wet against one another in your underwear with heavy sighs and sated eyes; you had calmed him down enough to get him to remove his clothes and put on a fresh pair of boxers before tucking him to his own bed with your favorite blanket.

As you tip toed into the bathroom to prep for a bath, you stared at your naked reflection: how swollen, and red your breasts were, covered in raised bite marks the shape of Frankie's jaws. Among your new scars are the faded scratches and bruises of Frankie's fingertips on your waist, stomach and lower back from how incessantly he devours you while his face is buried in your sopping pussy, like he had to sink his claws into you so you wouldn't slip away as he feasted. You look like you were attacked by a passionate lion.

His sweet nothings every time he stared into your eyes was what really turned you on. You tell yourself that it was just the withdrawal symptoms talking. That he was basically just high on a new drug.

To you, it must have looked like Frankie's craving were only getting worse with how increasingly frequent his lips found themselves attached to your body. In truth, his desire for coke steadily grew less, and it wasn't the replacement of the powder that he was seeking from you but rather the insaitability of finally having you that grew stronger.

The rest of boys noticed the effects you're having on Frankie too. They see it when he meets them for a drink every other Saturday, the way he anxiously taps his foot under the table, glancing around like he's unsure what to do, where to go, because he can't sit still. It's the signs of his cravings kicking back in, and they're all worried at first. But it's not until you up show later and slide into the booth next to him that they notice: Frankie casually drapes his arm around your shoulders like he always did—that part was normal. But what was new is how they could visibly see Frankie's heart rate slow, the way he slumped against the bench and completely calmed down from just your presence.

They also couldn't help but notice the way his eyes raked you with a mix of lust, love, and obsession, his dark gaze never once leaving the sight of you the entire night. All the while you laughed and chatted with them about your week, oblivious to the change in demeanor of your friend from just a few months ago.

You assured the boys that you two weren't fucking—and it was true, you hadn't slept with him once. albeit a few blow jobs, it was exclusively just Frankie eating you out or kissing. You were very hopeful that his cravings were going to go away soon since its the longest he's been off coke. You were even talking to your old landlord to see if your old apartment a few blocks away still had openings since you'd be moving out of Frankie's place soon. Santi couldn't help but see Frankie's dejection, his arm sliding away from you as he excused himself to get more beer.

By the end of the night, Frankie was drunk out of his mind. Will suggested he slow down so he wouldn't pass out before he could walk home. It sounded like a good plan, until Francisco glanced over to the bar and saw you sitting there and smiling at a guy who was flirting with you. Fish took a giant gulp of his beer, downing the entire jug before slamming it on the table and striding out of the booth towards you. He overheard the guy asking if you had a ride home tonight.

"She comes home with me. Every. Night," he slurred, his sweaty palm skimming possessively over your jean-clad thigh and snaking between your legs, face coming so close to you that your noses slide against each other. Frankie's eyes bore into yours with so much desire, it bordered on range. You knew those were his craving eyes. The pungent smell of alcohol on his breath made you flinch as he tried to pull you in for a kiss. You quickly tell the confused guy that he's your roommate and you need to get him home immediately. You could barely finish excusing yourself from the stranger before Frankie was dragging you out of the bar. You managed to wave to the others, making a drinking gesture and pointing to Frankie before being yanked into the street.

He was stumbling all over the place, breath uneven as you hoisted him up to lean against you, eventually making it through his apartment entrance and turning the key to unlock his unit.

With a renewed sense of urgency, Frankie slammed the door close behind him and pinned you up against it, his hands roaming your body as his mouth desperately sought yours. "Craving," he mumbled against your open lips. "Need"—tongue forcing its way into your mouth, he nipped at your lower lip, sucking on it before releasing with a pop— "need you," he panted.

"I know, I know—Jesus Fish. I'm—gonna help—gonna take care of you—" you breathed, ashamed of how quickly you could feel your panties dampen. It never bothered him though, and only encouraged his sweet tooth more. You weren't nearly as drunk as him, but your few margaritas made you extremely susceptible, even welcoming, to his touch.

You hummed into his shoulder when his hard bulge rubbed purposefully against your covered core. He bit your earlobe as he fisted your low-neck shirt before pulling it down roughly, the fabric tearing away. You gasped, ready to scold him but he pressed his mouth on you again, teeth clashing, his hands slotting down your body to pinch, grope, scratch at any bit of skin he could get.

"So—so good t'me. Always taking—such good care of me, cariño."

His fingers dip into your ass and hoist you up so he's carrying you, your arms and legs wrapped securely around him as he boldered through his apartment, kicking his door open before tossing you on the bed, watching you bounce. You never break eye contact as you unbutton your jeans at the same time Frankie pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it aside to unfasten his belt and zipper.

Clambering over you to reseal your lips, you breath in his scent, hands exploring his tone arms, down his chest and muscle middle all the way to the little pooch of tummy hanging. His hands gripped your jeans and pulled them along with you down the length of the bed, bringing you to the edge, his grip pushing up on the back of your thighs so your knees are digging against your rib cage, pulsing pussy exposed at his mercy. "I fuckin' love this pussy, querida," he growled before burying his face between you folds for the thounsandth time. "So fuckin' wet for me," he mumbled against your thigh, nipping at the skin.

He ate you out with precision, eyes hungry watching you, determined to make you fall apart quickly. He wasn't doing it for his own taste, but the sheer satisfaction of watching you writhe for him, knowing your body inside out as the only one who could get you like this. He's languidly thrusting two fingers in and out. You didn't even need to be stretched: he'd practically been prepping you for months now. You're crying out into the air as you cum, hips bucking against his nose with your heels digging into his shoulder blades. Frankie pulls away, kissing your stomach and up your tits before making you taste yourself on his lips.

The feeling of his cock nudging your entrance make your once dazed eyes go wide and alert. He pauses, suddenly worried. He can't read your expression, time dragging out too long and it scares the fuck out of him that he's taking it too far, that you didn't agree to this.

He had wanted to tell you everything right then: how he dreams of you riding him, or when he fists his cock in the shower when you're at work to the thought of what your tight walls would feel like wrapped around him when first violates you, how he automatically gets aroused now when he just sees you or smells your laundry, or admitting how many times he's actually cum in his pants without you noticing when he is buried between your legs, dying to have you cum around his cock instead of his tongue.

It's not until you sense his hesitation that you wrap your arms around his neck to pull him close, sharing the same breath of air, nodding as your calves hook over his ass and squeeze his hips, the tip of his flush cock slipping in to your wet heat.

You both sigh heavily into each other's mouth when he takes charge again and thrusts fully inside you. He scrunches his eyes closed, forehead dipping down to your breast bone to revel in the overwhelming feeling of the tight space inside you.

You warmly caress his hair to bring him back up to you, kissing him and whispering, lips trembling, "Don't—don't think about it. Just... just use me."

His heart sank: You probably just thought this was another hit for him.

He didn't want to think about the fact that you were everything he'd needed in that moment, the image of perfection beneath him beautifully laid out for his eyes, his touch, but not for his soul. He gritted his teeth, pulling out then slamming back in, jolting your whole body up the mattress. It was fast, rough, and not at all how he wanted your first time to be with him, but he couldn't control his urges. He was gasping loudly as he fucked you, your cunt gushing around his member, the obscene sound of slick and skin slapping skin echoing in his otherwise empty apartment.

He brought his thumb to rub messy circles on your clit, sending you into a spasm of praises and expletives, but the most satisfying sound was his name repeated over and over again.

He barely manages to pull out before jerking his cock only twice and creaming all over your folds and clit. Groaning in post orgasmic bliss, he watches you heaving and shaking, filthy pussy covered in his seed. Half of his mind is only working now as he slides back down to lap you clean with his mouth, his own saltiness filling his throat, fingers scissoring inside to get your juices flowing, obsessed with the sight in front of him: your back arched off the bed, heels digging into his lower back as his hands pinning your hips down flat so he can work his mouth over you. And then you're cumming again, so angelic on his tongue, your sweet moans going right to his dick, hardening once again as he ruts into the mattress. He nips your clit and sucks, reluctant to pull away as he lines up and splits you open. You scream out, and if it weren't for the way your barely-recovered battered walls kept sucking him back in, he'd be worried you're in pain. His hands hook under your lower back, lifting you off the bed as he plows into your squelching cunt over and over again.

Youre both covered in a thin layer of sweat, the pillows and comforter of his bed strewn haphazardly around the floor as he dominates you. The headboard slammed recklessly agains the wall, and neither of you cared about your neighbors trying to sleep at 1 in the morning. He ignores the oversensitivity of his cock and your clit, forcing you both into an unexpected climb of another orgasm like it was a primal need.

It was happening without warning; he should be asking for permission, but he knew you took the pill, and he's been dying to release inside you from the moment you first let him put his lips on you. You're cumming on his cock again, hips bucking and grinding against him without your clit being touched, and he was done for.

With a harsh cry, he climaxes again, his length flooding your womb with ribbons of white. His arm shoots in front of him, flat on the bed next to your ear to hold himself up so he didn't crash down on you as his hips jerked, pushing his seed deeper in to you.

He rested most of his weight on top of you, labored breaths combined into one. He kisses the top of your nose, whispering "thank you," unsticking your sweaty bodies as he rolls you two over to have you lying on top, your head next to his. He pats your hair over your ear, pebbling your forehead and eyelids in kisses. His cock twitched in your spent heat, cum leaking out and dripping down to his balls and on the bed.

"Glad I—could...help..." you mumbled, eyes already closed as you drifted into sleep.

His softening dick slipped from your pussy, warm hands wiping you with his shirt before settling you gently on a pillow. He watched the gentle rise and fall of your breaths, naked and fast alseep on his bed. He pulled his sheets higher to your shoulder, his heart beating faster at the way you snuggled further into his pillow.

Frankie stared at the ceiling for hours, hand on his forehead in anguish, wondering how the fuck he was supposed to tell you it wasn't cocaine he was craving last night.

- - - -

Part 2: Crash

Series masterlist

#pedro pascal smut #francisco morales #frankie morales smut #triple frontier smut #triple frontier #frankie morales #catfish morales #catfish morales smut #frankie catfish morales #frankie catfish morlaes smut #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fanfiction #catfish morales x reader

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atlabeth · 2 months

Text

too sweet

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: a night out makes hotch realize a few too many things.

a/n: me??? writing for criminal minds again out of nowhere??? what is going on. and i do not have an answer i was just in a hotch mood bc he's fine asf and i finally have the confidence to write for him here we are lol. hope u enjoy this short lil thing

wc: 2.4k

warning(s): alcohol consumption, a sexual joke or two, written in one go so might be a mess! aaron is all in his head but this is basically all fluff

Hotch can’t focus.

Mostly because he can’t stop glancing over at you. Normally it’s not a problem—he’d lost count of how many times he’d distracted himself from mounds of paperwork by meeting your eyes through his office window, often accompanied by a smile that made even his heart beat a little faster—and especially now, it shouldn’t be a problem.

You and Derek have had some kind of bet going on during the past few nights out—you didn’t believe he was as charming and suave as he claimed, and Morgan was all too happy to prove you wrong.

You bet that he couldn’t get at least five numbers every night, and come last Thursday, Morgan took the win at the end of the evening with a smile on his face. As punishment, the first round of their next night out was on you.

And that’s nice, sure. Hotch is always thankful that his team can still joke around and have fun with each other despite everything they have to deal with each day. He hopes they keep the light in their eyes as long as possible, especially the younger ones. He’s fine with being the stick in the mud, the one who never smiles, the iron willed chief that scares local uniforms.

Hotch is not so fine with the way he feels right now.

It’s a busy night at the bar, which is understandable. Hotch is sure half the precinct is out alongside them, celebrating the BAU finally solving the case that had torn them to shreds over the past week. You, Reid, and Garcia put the threads together an hour into scouring through evidence, and the unsub was cuffed before noon.

Certainly something to celebrate—there’s a reason the whole team agreed to go out tonight and leave tomorrow. Even Rossi decided to join when he learned you would be buying, but he’s already abandoned them in favor of catching up with some old friends. Hotch even thinks they might have another round in their future because of their solve, courtesy of the local chief. They had a long night ahead of them.

But you haven’t gotten the drinks yet, and Hotch wonders how long it’ll take even after you do. Because some officer is trying to talk you up, and you’re smiling and laughing along and giving him every bit of your attention.

Hotch recognized him the moment he set eyes upon him, even in plain clothes. He’s some joke of an officer from the station, and he’s been trying to get your number—or even just get your attention—throughout their whole visit. Always sidling up to you during debriefs, specifically giving you any information or evidence he finds—Hotch has overheard him asking for your number more than once.

Hotch has been so focused on the case he’s not even sure if you’ve rejected him or not, and the mere thought is enough to annoy him. If he wasn’t equally as sure of your ability to defend yourself and afraid of overstepping with you, he would have stepped in.

But it makes sense. The officer is young and handsome, you’re young and pretty—not to mention you have a way of lighting up any room you step into. Hotch spent the whole first month of your employment wondering why you would want to do a job like this. He’s spent the rest of it thankful that you did.

You’re sharp as a whip, naturally, but you’ve also done wonders for the team atmosphere. It’s hard to feel down with a smile like yours beaming his way. The job weighs you down like it does everyone, but you still manage to lift everyone’s spirits on the jet ride back before they jump into the next case. It’s impressive.

It’s also trouble. You’ve been part of the BAU for almost two years now, and Hotch has spent just as much time tearing his eyes away from you as he has working. It’s wrong, and it’s wholly inappropriate in terms of your working relationship—he’s your boss, for god’s sake.

But sometimes, Hotch will be beating himself up over one thing or another on a case, and you’ll plant yourself in his vicinity and refuse to leave until you’ve helped him work through it. If you ever tire of the FBI, he thinks you have a second calling as an elementary school teacher.

Sometimes the hotel they’re staying at will have truly shitty coffee, worse than they’re used to at the BAU, and you’ll already be in the lobby with a tray full of the team’s orders. Hotch never recalls telling you his order—you just figured it out, and you remembered it.

Sometimes his gaze will drift your way, and he’ll find you already staring at him. You look away just as quickly as he does, and it makes him wonder.

Hotch has made a living off of studying the behavior of others. More often than not, he finds himself profiling his co-workers just out of instinct. His job is to know what others are thinking.

But god. When it comes to you, Hotch doesn’t think he’s ever felt more unsure in his life. Especially when you look at him the same way he wants to for weeks, then act nothing but proper another day; when you fall asleep against his shoulder on the jet one night and entertain some desk jockey another night.

It makes him feel like a highschooler again, trying to figure out if Haley really liked him or if she was just playing around, and it’s more embarrassing than it should be. Especially when he’s still dealing with the lingering emotions from the divorce.

“Hotch.” JJ’s voice is enough to break him out of his trance, and he blinks as he turns to her. At least someone paid him the mercy to dispel his thoughts, even if only for a temporary time.

“What?”

“Did you hear a single word I said?” she asks, a slight smile curving on her lips.

“Of course,” he responds. “The chief’s over there talking with the commissioner. He’s the same guy who made your life difficult the last time we were in Milwaukee.”

JJ’s eyebrows shoot up, and she nods. “I didn’t think you were listening.”

“I think he just got lucky,” Morgan cuts in, his gaze darting over to you momentarily. “I think you were too focused on our drinks.”

Reid frowns. “I don’t think he was focused on the drinks. He’s—”

“Just making sure they’re still coming,” Hotch interrupts, and he straightens his tie. Today really has been a long one—usually, he’s better at covering these things up. “And I wasn’t lucky. I was listening.”

“Trust me,” Morgan says with a laugh, “I’m watchin’ her until I’ve got a glass in my hand. She’s not getting out of this after the way she bragged this whole month.”

“The stupidest thing to make a bet on,” Prentiss remarks, “especially with you.”

“She said she just wanted to prove you wrong,” Reid contributes. “She thinks you’re too cocky.”

Morgan grins. “It’s not cocky if you can back it up.”

Hotch’s attention goes back to you, and you’ve finally gotten their drinks. You’re loading them onto a tray like you’re the bartender yourself, and his brows crease. Maybe he should have gone up with you.

“Do you think she needs help?” he asks. How obvious is too obvious? Why does it feel like his brain only works at half power whenever it comes to you?

“She’ll be fine,” Prentiss says. “And if she needs it, that guy talking her up can help.”

“Jason Rodriguez,” Reid remarks. “He hung around her the whole time we were trying to pinpoint a location, and he wasn’t any help, which makes sense because he's practically desk-bound at the precinct. I’m surprised she got any work done.”

JJ chuckles. “I’m surprised he hasn’t given up yet. He’s been following her around all week, like some lost puppy.”

Morgan shrugs. “I dunno. She seems pretty into him.”

“I don’t think ex-frat boys are her type,” Prentiss says wryly. Hotch doesn’t think so either, but he doesn’t say anything. Contributing to this kind of conversation is certainly too obvious.

“I doubt we’ll be back here for a while. She might as well.” Morgan smiled. “She probably needs a win after such an embarrassing loss.”

Thankfully, before Hotch has to keep pretending not to care about this topic, you walk over carrying a tray of cocktails—and you’re alone. The subject of their previous conversation seems lost in the crowd, and he feels a dangerous amount of relief.

“Are you all talking about me?” you drawl.

“You know we are, sweetheart. Thought you were never gonna get here.” Morgan sits up, smiling at you. “What’d my win get us?”

“Long Island Iced Teas,” you muse as you set the tray down. “Enjoy it, because I’m gonna be working some overtime to make up for all these.”

Morgan grins as he takes his drink. “You should’ve never doubted my skills.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t need any help,” Prentiss says. “You’ve done this before, huh?”

“Bartended my way through college.” You slide into the booth next to Hotch, just a bit too close for a bit too long, and he hopes that no one can see his chest still for a moment. It’s impressive that he still hasn’t figured out how to lessen the effect you have on him. “I’ve probably got better hands than you, Morgan.”

“Do we need to make another bet?” he asks. “Because I’d love to clean out your wallet.”

“Maybe wait another month before you prey on any more poor, defenseless agents,” you croon, and Morgan laughs.

He pivots the conversation away from you when you pick up your drink and take a sip, and you look at Hotch. Whenever your gaze is on him, you make him feel like he’s the only person in the room. He’s sure you never look at anyone else that way, but Hotch wonders how much of that is his mind trying to justify his imagination.

“I’m surprised you agreed with this,” you say, mercifully interrupting his thoughts. “I thought you’d want us to go back tonight.”

“You all earned a night out after the work you did,” Hotch says. He thinks about taking a drink, but he decides against it, at least for now. He can barely trust his sober mind.

“You’ve earned it too,” you say. “We wouldn’t be anywhere without you, Hotch. You keep us all together.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think I ever would’ve connected the dots like you and Reid can with Garcia. I hate unsubs with secret codes.”

“I’ve always liked puzzles,” you muse. “There’s nothin’ like it when it all finally clicks.”

Hotch hums, and for a moment, he’s silent. Your gaze remains fully on him, and that might be why he has trouble thinking. It’s too easy to get lost in your eyes.

“What did that guy say?” Hotch finally manages to ask, because he honestly can’t help it. Morgan’s points actually worried him a bit, and he wonders what that says about him. Ex-frat boy certainly isn’t your type, but someone forgettable for a one night stand isn’t the most absurd thing in the world.

Your brows knit together as you drink some more. “What guy?”

“The officer you were talking with,” he says. “He seemed to like you.”

He’d been flirting with you since the moment you stepped into the precinct, actually, desperate for your attention, but Hotch didn’t really want to say that. He’s sure you noticed either way, if the rest of the team did.

“Oh. Him.” You shrug. “He’s nice, I guess. Definitely a looker. But he’s got nothing beneath that hair.”

“Morgan’s surprised you didn’t bring him back,” Hotch says. He wonders if he’s pushing too much, and again, he feels like a highschooler testing the waters. Do you know what you do to him? What you reduce him to?

You shrug as you take a sip. “If he knows what’s good for him, he knows he doesn’t have a chance. My attention’s on someone else.”

Prentiss calls your name and you get drawn back into the middle of the team’s conversation, and thankfully, Hotch has a chance to digest your words—and the stunner of a smile you flash at him before you get pulled into their talk.

His decision to not drink seems even wiser, now. Hotch has to loosen his tie, and he ignores Reid watching him. It’s futile trying to hide anything from Spencer Reid—the kid already knows everything.

Again, it's dangerous how much satisfaction he gets from it—from knowing you never really paid that officer a second thought. You didn’t smile at him the way you smile at Hotch. You don’t smile at anyone the way you smile at Hotch. He thought he was imagining it at first, or that he was just a bit too stuck up, but it was the honest truth. You paid him special attention, and he couldn’t blame the warmth in his chest from the thought on any alcohol.

He tunes back into the conversation just to hear Morgan demand you pay for his next drink.

“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous,” you say.

He puts a hand to his chest. “Generous? You’re just paying what you owe me.”

You laugh and shake your head. “Pick your poison, pretty boy.”

“How do you feel about tequila?”

You make a noise of disgust and shake your head. “As long as I don’t have to drink it.”

“You’re just paying, sweetheart.” Morgan’s eyes dart to Hotch, and he nods as he grins. “One for me and our fearless leader.”

Hotch shakes his head. “Someone has to get us back to the hotel.”

“That’s what cabs are for!” Prentiss exclaims. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Hotchner. You deserve to let a little loose.”

“It takes most people an hour to process a drink,” Reid contributes, “so you’ll be fine before we leave if you want to drive.”

“Come on, Hotch,” you say, and you nudge his shoulder. “You might as well—I’m paying.”

“...Fine,” he says, and the whole team cheers. Even Reid smiles.

“Y’know, you can smile tonight, Hotch,” you say with one of your own before you down the rest of your drink and stand up.

And one actually tugs at his lips. It feels a lot hotter in this bar with your eyes sparkling and you beaming right at him, and he fights the need to shed his jacket. Your grin somehow grows.

“That’s what I came out to see,” you remark as you pick your wallet back up from the table. “I expect another when I get back, Hotch. There’s a lot to celebrate tonight.”

Yeah, he thinks as he watches you go. There just might be.

#me ignoring all my wips for a hot man?? it's more likely than you think #also ive listened to too sweet on repeat for like 3 hours i dont want to take my whiskey neat anymore #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner imagine #sadie writes

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motherofagony · 7 months

Text

FIRE WALK - one shot

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: au, no outbreak!joel x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+, minors dni word count: 6.5k summary: a chance encounter at a motel has you crossing paths with a stranger in a blue t-shirt. content warnings + tags: age gap (we'll say 15-20 years), very brief references to past non-con encounters (not with joel, no details just shitty men in general), soft!joel, alcohol, mentions of family trauma and ab*se, unprotected piv, fingering, oral (f + m receiving), A Scene With a Belt™, slight mentions of reader's clothing but no physical descriptions otherwise, love as consumption and women as fruit a/n: this was a brain-worm of a one shot, so i had to press pause on AHFE and get it out. consider it a dirty love letter to strangers with stories in shitty motels. and i have to give the biggest thank-you to @iamskyereads for stepping in and offering to be my beta reader in the final hour. she was so unbelievably thorough and thoughtful and kind. i owe you big.

New-age boogeymen hang two-way mirrors and jiggle motel door handles with broken hangers.

That’s what the news says.

August licks an unforgiving line of heat up your back, and cutoff denim and halter tops do nothing but give the sun more skin to burn.

It’s sweltering, brutal as an Arizona summer is, and The Palms Motel promises a pool and a mini bar on their dirty marquee. You’ll take what you can get, can’t really afford to be picky with fifty dollars in your pocket, but at least maybe you’ll live like royalty tonight.

Some guy you met — Tom, Tim, Jim, whoever — pulls his convertible up to the front office. Your knees knock together over the speed bump, cartilage kissing bone.

It’s the closest you’ve ever come close to a chauffeur, but the chauffeur you see in movies doesn’t usually take liberties with trying to work his grease-speckled mechanic hand up the passenger’s shirt.

You met him at a gas station in Tucson, thumbing your way from northern Texas to put as much distance between you and your whiskey-breathed dad as you could. He’d torn your clothes apart at the seams with his eyes when he spotted you in the parking lot, swimming in blood-infested waters with sharp, sharp teeth.

There was no plan, no directions penned and cities circled on a folded map, just glass in your hair and a final straw.

He asked if you could buy him some booze — revoked license, baby, y’know how that goes — and you shouldn’t have, but when he flashed a leather wallet thick with cash, you knew you’d be stupid not to.

You hid behind a shelf inside the gas station while he idled in the parking lot and plucked a fifty from the wad, stuffing it deep in your bag. You grabbed some shitty malt-something from a fridge along with a 6-pack, flashing the slack-jawed cashier a wink.

He didn’t try to hide the eye contact with your tits, but neither do most men. Sometimes you milk it in your favor, sometimes it just makes your lunch rise to the back of your throat.

And when you’re by yourself, it’s hot iron, ready to strike. A doe in their headlights, a buck with a nice rack. Skipping through the center of their bullseye.

You bought a little palm-sized bottle for yourself and tucked it safely next to the stolen cash in the abyss of your purse. These tiny cons got you by, made power surge deep in your belly. It made loneliness feel worth it, knowing you had an upper hand to lean on if you were ever in a bind.

He bitched about inflation when you came out with less than was reasonable for the amount you spent, and you just shrugged. Not your cash, not your problem.

You bartered for a ride to the nearest motel, and now Tom-Tim-Jim is asking you over the purr of the engine if you need company for the night.

If you were feeling a little more you, you might’ve taken him up on it. Maybe he would’ve even paid for the room, maybe he wouldn’t get angry like your dad does. Maybe he’d be able to fuck you without hitting you.

You’re good at diffusing the temper in most men, can touch them in ways that make them grit their teeth, can be a good girl and go fetch.

But you’re not in the mood to bend, to give someone’s son — someone’s husband with a tan line around their ring finger — a place to wipe their shoes on. You don’t feel like wiping their dirt, your mascara from your eyes and saying thank you while they zip up their pants.

And you sure as fuck don’t fancy being on a milk carton.

“I’m alright, sugar. Thanks for the ride,” you say, dipping your chin to peer over your sunglasses. “I know where to find you, don’t worry.”

Yeah fuckin’ right.

He doesn’t try to conceal his disappointment, just sucks his teeth and squeezes at the exposed skin of your thigh. His way of saying goodbye to something he could’ve dripped sweat on, came in too early. You think your flesh might rot off in chunks.

You open the door and swing your legs out in a way that’s a little too eager.

Tom-Tim-Jim waves solemnly with two fingers up and two bent, and then he’s gone in an aggressive rev.

The motel might’ve been a kitschy dream in its heyday. It’s not a total dump; more of a vintage skeleton of washed-out pink and umbrellas that’ve been ripped by weather and overuse. There are a million faded emblems of cartoonish palm trees. It’s almost endearing how tragic it is.

You can tell that it was popular and swarming with tourists at one time — there are dusty, water-stained pamphlets lining the wall next to the front desk that brag Named one of Arizona’s top destinations in 1996!

A mounted fan whirs and oscillates, but it might as well be someone blowing hot breath down your neck.

There’s a tired woman holding down the fort at the desk with a name tag that claims Brenda, and she looks surprised to see you. You figure most customers are stopping in for a night’s rest on the way to somewhere more important, their final destination. But you don’t look like you have anywhere better to be.

“Hey, honey,” Brenda trickles, laced with an accent that’s more New Orleans than Arizona. “Need a room?”

“Yeah, just for the night,” you say, fishing out your wallet with confidence that doesn’t meet your eyes. “How much?”

“Forty-five a night, ‘less you wanna upgrade to the honeymoon suite.” She looks somewhere over your shoulder.

That’s nearly everything you have, but it sounds a lot like tomorrow’s problem. At least you’ll be safe tonight from the prowling stares of nighttime predators, and the leftover change will give you a decent vending machine dinner.

“Just a normal room’s fine,” you smile, sliding over the crumpled, stolen fifty.

Brenda types busily on the keyboard, asking for your name but nothing else. And when she hands you a plastic keycard, you finally relax your shoulders. Untangle the nerves in your lower back that are choking one another.

Room 17, it reads. Your oasis awaits!

You thank her, spin on your heel, and immediately bump chest to chest with something hard.

You’re eye level with a worn, cornflower blue t-shirt, ringed with a light stain of sweat at the collar. They’re grasping both of your arms to steady you, and you’re snagging the gaze of a tousled man with a bag slung over his shoulder.

“Watch where you’re goin’,” he murmurs, but it isn’t reprimanding or mean like you’re used to, just sickly sweet and Texan. Syrupy in a way that drips right down between your legs.

You don’t remember seeing anyone else in the lot when you’d pulled up. And the stealth of him entering soundlessly behind you sends a jolt of electricity up your spine, the clench of something that would be fear if it were any other stranger.

But he doesn’t look at you with intent to devour or to claim. Just eyes you like you’re anyone else. An equal. The bare minimum, but rare and shiny nonetheless.

“Sorry,” you breathe, and he’s releasing you a little too quickly for your liking. Leaving brands on the creases of where your forearms meet upper and elbow.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

So you don’t.

You brush past him on the way out, a polite nod. And that’s that.

The heat is the kind that feels hotter, unbearable when paired with the shrill sing of cicadas. An endless buzzing that you think might be the sun sizzling on the concrete. If you stood in one place for too long, your flip flops might very well melt you in place.

Your room key clicks to unlock Room 17, and you push the door open to a heavy, humid space that smells vaguely of mold. You’re so grateful for the privacy that you can’t even bring yourself to wrinkle your nose.

Flip flops discarded, your toes sink into shag carpet — a dirty luxury that makes you moan. It’s only been two days since you left home, fled home, but it beats sleeping with one eye open on a bus stop bench.

You up-end your leather bag, dumping all of its contents onto the bed. Cigarettes, some loose film canisters, your toothbrush, a lighter. There wasn’t much time to pack, nothing worth bringing, and the less, the better. Nothing to weigh you down if you had to dip at a moment’s notice.

It takes you only a couple minutes and a light sheen of sweat to realize that the A/C is busted. Smothered, you try to crack open a window in the bathroom, but it’s no cooler than the hell you’re standing in.

When you let Brenda know, she just shrugs with an apologetic kind of half-smile.

“Most of ‘em are out these days, honey,” she says, and you decide then that it’s a small price to pay. “We got someone comin’ to look at it next week.”

You shoot her a smile, figure that she’s had enough rotten backtalk in her day. You scoop a set of flamingo-themed matches from the bowl on the counter and turn around, only to see a familiar blue shirt waiting his turn.

His eyes try not to roam, but he’s giving you a nod and stepping up without hesitation, asking Brenda for extra towels.

The way that she titters and blushes, you’d think he’d asked if he could spit in her mouth.

It irritates you, and you can’t say why.

The door chimes behind you as it closes, and you linger, striking a match and lighting a cigarette. When he emerges, a stack of towels so high it’s hitting his chin, you step in stride on the walk back. Tracing his footsteps, catching up with his shadow.

“You followin’ me?” you quip, a cigarette dangling from your mouth. The cherry ignites on every breath, smoke erupting in tendrils that hug each word.

He answers with a laugh, turns and squints back at you with one eye. Almost as if he was expecting you to ask.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart? Could say the same to you.”

You stop in front of 17, hand over your brow to shield from the sun that’s winding its way down, getting ready to tuck itself in for the night. There’s nothing that touches your tongue that doesn’t sound exactly like a fuck yes. So you don’t say anything.

“Enjoy your sauna,” he chuckles over his shoulder, passing you with his towels on the way to Room 20.

—

Led Zeppelin filters out through the radio, half-static, half-electric. Your legs are crossed in the air behind you, and you’re posted up face down on the bed, kicking along to the beat while you flip through whatever Cosmopolitan someone left behind in a drawer.

Someone raps a few times on the door, and if it’s a repairman, they’re getting their fucking dick sucked.

You army-roll off the flowery duvet, abandoning a how-to on finding your g-spot, and you peer through the peephole.

Your breath hitches on a soft swear.

When you open the door, you see Blue T-Shirt standing there, skin creasing around his eyes slyly. An unopened beer hangs and swings from his restless fingers. He offers it up wordlessly, the butt of it pointed at you.

It’s ice-cold and slippery to the touch, erupting goosebumps on your forearm. Saliva coats your tongue, and you don’t think it’s the thirst for alcohol, but maybe the tall drink of water.

“Um… thanks?”

“Figured you’d either be dead by now or parched,” he says smugly, and it’s velvet to your ears.

“Oh. Yeah, thanks. I got the fan to work at least,” you mutter, jerking your thumb vaguely behind you.

“Listen, uh —”

He’s rubbing the nape of his neck, and you catch the way the network of muscles flex from his elbow to the seam of his armpit. He looks like he’s in pain, struggling with the fit of a puzzle piece into something rough and jagged.

Something he shouldn’t be trying but has to see it through, exhaust it until it’s definite one way or the other.

You just squint, sucking in the corner of your lip between your teeth. You nearly grin, but it’s much more fun to watch than to connect the dots for him.

“A/C works in my room, so ‘f you wanted to… y’know,” he trails off, not even sure in his own offer. “No pressure. It’s hot as hell outside, don’t want you t’get heat stroke ‘f I can help it.”

This kind of approval you like. This kind that sizzles girl-honey between your legs, winning it from a man that’s playing to earn, not to cheat.

“I try not to make a habit out of going into motel rooms of guys I don’t know the names of,” you harp sweetly. But it might as well be a done-deal.

“D’you make a habit outta accepting beers from ‘em?”

You smile. Typically, yes.

“Joel.”

His hand shoots out, strong and suggestive. Fingers like alligator teeth that’ll grip you, hold you under until you thrash.

And you pluck your cigarettes and gifted liquor bottle from the bed, arms full when you carry them down to Joel’s room.

—

You’re sprawled on the full-size bed next to his, head propped up on hand propped up on elbow.

You’ve been trading your little fist of bourbon back and forth, swapping stories in the same way. Somehow, you fall into it easy like old friends, and it’s nice to follow someone’s lead instead of keeping one step, three, seven steps ahead. Arm outstretched to the door knob, feet ready to break into a run at the change in tone, blackening of pupils.

Without meaning to, you’ve wordlessly agreed that the person in possession of the bottle has the proverbial mic, and they swig to help with details and theatrics. It’s counter-productive in flow, but it makes you laugh when Joel exaggerates the story he’s telling on purpose, reaching out to pass it back and suddenly yanking it back, remembering a shade of gray or a funny expression.

Your knuckles keep zapping each other, brushing a little longer than the time before. There’s no numbness to consensual touch.

Joel’s mid-40s. From Texas, like you. He came to visit his daughter Sarah at college, says she’s growin’ up too fast, doesn’t need her old man anymore. It’s a thrill to see someone talk about their own flesh with love, admiration for who she is and who she’s becoming. You find yourself leaning in, enraptured that there are no IOUs or fine-print that you know to come with a parent’s love.

Mentions of his stubborn brother Tommy who he works with and who just can’t stop getting into trouble. The unspoken guilt that maybe he could be the one to keep him out of jail if he tried harder. It doesn’t work that way, and you tell him so.

You tell him about your dad when he asks about your life, your story, and you don’t know why you do but maybe you know exactly why. No one ever gets close enough to ask, so it comes leaking out of the corners of your mouth.

You’ve never told anyone, not even your diary, not even the guidance counselor who slipped a note to your fifth grade teacher and pulled you out of class. Shaky fingers, shaky limbs when they asked if they could roll up your sleeves just to see and you said no.

Crying because you knew your dad wouldn’t let you go back. Not to school, not to your friends.

You omit the nitty-gritty details, but Joel gets the gist. Swigs his share of the liquor a little too angrily with tight lips. Not like your dad does, but you don’t miss the irony of it all.

He holds anger for you, on behalf of you. It simmers as he listens to you in patient silence, coming to a boil at the bad parts when he gets up and starts walking lines in the shitty carpet. Pretending to look outside in interest at his truck parked at the end of the lot, but gripping the curtains until you can see every expanse of bone in his hand.

You don’t need this from him. It’s a hurt you’ve wedged between the pages of a book and doused in flames of acceptance long ago. But it spreads from your toes to your ears, the burn of someone feeling like this. For someone like you.

He finally settles down in an armchair by the window, a funny corduroy thing that would probably light up under a blacklight on one of those crime shows. Legs parted, a warm stare on the way you take up space on the bed. Facing him comfortably, your vision buzzing around the edges. A loose smile shared as if this room was meant for the two of you all along.

“So, what’s your plan?” Joel’s humming, his words getting lost in an echo of the bottle neck.

You don’t have one. Can’t have one when you have nowhere to go but gone.

It stretches on and on between you — a mouth opened and closed too many times on possibilities. If you admit to it, you end up with pity or an upper hand dealt to a stranger. You can’t afford to owe anyone a favor, nor can you front the cost of needing one.

But you’re so tired.

“Dunno. I’ll figure it out.”

“You got enough time for that?”

And you know what he means. Enough time in the motel, enough time before you’re a thief at wit’s end, doing anything for survival. He doesn’t need to ask to know you don’t have a destination, some relative waiting for you in a California dream.

You’ve excused yourself to the bathroom, soft radio bleeding in under the door, arms braced on the sink, all glossy eyes.

You want him, bad. But he won’t make the first move, won’t take advantage of what isn’t his and what others before him took without asking. You’re a pawn, entitled to the first move. The rejection would kill you, but not knowing would be worse.

He could hold you soft, give you something to think about when tomorrow rips you both in opposite directions.

When you pull open the door, Joel’s frozen in mid-stride towards you, like he’s just made up his mind about something.

He straightens but he’s still. Afraid of moving too fast, saying too much, scaring you into flight. Out of the unlocked cage of his room — something he did on purpose, because he doesn’t expect anything from you and wants you to know he doesn’t.

You meet him in his dusty shag quicksand. You take his wrist in your hand, kiss the thrum of life in the dip where veins meet palm. An offering.

Joel looks like he’s in pain, like what you’re doing is excruciating and thorny. The front of his jeans strains. He’s searching you for any hesitation, any obligation because he did something kind. He knows what currency you feel the need to pay in, and this isn’t that.

“Please,” you whisper simply. And he nods, accepting, succumbing.

There’s a careful meeting of lips, wanting to do it the right way, in the right order. When you push your tongue in, used to the pace of animals, he just holds your face and slows you down. It’s languid, his mouth showing you what sweet and gentle can taste like. Your tongues take their time, and your hands slip beneath the hem of his shirt, all ribbed muscle with a sprinkling of hair.

He shudders against the lightness of your feather-fingers.

Joel’s hands are peeling your shirt off, his thumbs resting to press against pillowy hips. He’s not letting your lips go, something like impatience stirring in you.

Doesn’t he want to fuck you hard? Fuck you fast and selfish?

Isn’t there a catch?

He’s taking his shirt off now, up and over. Carved by Michaelangelo, thrown up on a ceiling in a library book you read once. You’re touching him in reverence, but not letting yourself learn too much of him.

His eyes are molten. Joel walks you back to the edge of the bed, scratchy quilt tickling your thighs when you fall back on it. You start to pose yourself, angles that make you look more desirable, pliable. But he’s not paying attention to that, just unbuttoning your shorts, kissing the jut of every curve and permeating down to the bone, punching out a soft groan when he slides the denim off and sees the shining ambrosia that’s waiting.

He’s kneeling, tugging you down to meet his waiting mouth. And you’re just breathless, flinching when he pulls you apart, guiding your legs over his shoulders and wasting no time devouring you. Your legs, his bib.

Joel’s tongue flicks through the shell of you, teasing you in alternates of quick and slow, starving and full. It feels like a slice of heaven.

You pitch out a tangled gasp, hands instinctively moving to knot in his hair. Anything to hold onto, a different kind of grounding.

“So wet f’me,” he vibrates lowly into you, all husk. “Taste so fuckin’ sweet.”

He sinks a middle finger into you, and you’re keening, hips canting and unable to stay glued to the mattress. You feel him smile against your cunt, just pressing his forearm across your lower half to keep you still.

Joel’s twisting and working into you, onto you, and you’re so fucking close from just this — a tiptoeing to the edge that grows longer, more erratic in stride. He sucks your clit — pulsing sensitive, so swollen — into his mouth and grazes it with the tip of his tongue just so. Baring his incisors and closing around you in a delicious scrape like a Venus flytrap taking its meal.

You think you see God behind the flutter of your eyes.

You’re close enough to warn him, to rasp it out in the symphony of moans. His free hand reaches up to roll your peaked nipple between his forefinger and thumb, and he stretches you with an added ring finger. You’re writhing. Possessed.

He’s watching you through thick lashes. Letting your heels dig into his shoulders as the drenched sounds of you fill the room.

“Joel, please — I’m gonna —”

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he just murmurs.

You feel that little pull at your navel.

And you’re tipping in a freefall, seeing stars. You clench down around his fingers, fingers that are still pumping against that spongy spot deep inside you. Your arousal gushes, wet and sticky against the scrape of his beard. He laps you up, the sight making heat creep up your chest and wrap around your neck.

When he lifts his head, he’s high on it. Pupils dilated like tiny, round moons. Your orgasm glistens on him, smeared over lips and chin. The fur of a peach peeled back far enough to sink teeth into.

It’s fucking filthy.

Joel places open-mouthed kisses from your hip up to the center of your breasts, a trail of your orgasm shiny on your skin in perfect, sloppy Os. His breath meets your throat where he nips at you, and you don’t have time to drag in a breath before you’re tasting the saltiness of yourself on his tongue.

Your fingers fumble on his belt, practiced with years of releasing the tension on the metal prongs, the slithering sound whooshing from the loops of pants. You’re good at it, like you used to be good at gymnastics until your mom stopped getting out of bed to drive you.

There was always a little gold for contorting your body.

He detaches from you unwillingly, putting all of his weight on his knees and shins as he straddles the space of your thighs.

You’re pulling yourself up in a sitting position, pushing denim and boxers down past his hips. Letting his cock spring free, the head a dark pink and beaded with precum. You swipe the flat of your tongue against it, peeking up at him while you soak up the taste of it.

When you push the length of him into your mouth, ridged hard with veins, Joel tips his head back, chin to the ceiling. He groans something brutish yet helpless, cradling the back of your head. You’re seated in the driver’s seat, all control.

It’s new, different.

But then he’s moving his hips back, pulling himself from your mouth, wiping the saliva from your chin with a steady thumb.

“Don’t need t’do that,” Joel whispers hoarsely. “Not ‘f you don’t want to.”

Confused, you knit your brows. He laughs darkly, shaking his head.

“Didn’t mean it like that, it’s — it feels fuckin’ good,” he says, awestruck. “Would just rather make you feel good instead.”

Oh.

He doesn’t wait for an answer or a negotiation. The rest of his clothes pool on the floor in a pile, and he’s climbing back over you, an anchor or a buoy in a storm.

He lines himself up at the seam of you, puffy and so wet from before, nudging the tip of his cock at your warm center. A thumb coaxing the bud at the apex of you in lazy circles.

Joel’s sliding in slowly by each inch, filling you full until there’s nothing left and his patch of hair prickles the pearl of your clit. All you can do is whine and tense around him.

He’s resting tentative hands on either side of your face, indenting the weak mattress with handprints. He groans, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t give in when you try to rock against him.

“This alright?”

You’ve forgotten how to do anything, hoping that digging your fingertips into his forearms is communication enough.

“I’m gonna need a yes, baby.”

You feel around in the dark for the tether back to your body, and it jerks you like a marionette, giving him a nod.

“Yes. Fuck.”

That’s enough. He’s rewarding you with a roll of his hips, and you feel like you’re on fire. It’s a stuttering, painfully slow pace at first, his mouth so close to your ear that every grunt is amplified. But it evolves into something eager, unsatiated, snapping up into you with a relentless sort of fucking.

He’s hitting that place so deep within you, letting you unravel and grow hoarse from the moans tearing their way up your throat. That pressure is roiling, the kind that you get only when you touch yourself but intensified by a million.

It just feels so right, because there’s nothing to prove.

You’re ships passing in the night, strangers making a pit-stop on the way to nowhere. There’s no backstory, no history to make mention of. No shame in the morning when he inevitably rolls over and pretends to be asleep, and you scrub off the smell of him with your provided travel-size shampoo.

It’s not love, but it might be the closest you ever get.

The glow of him above you, a deity with his face screwed in agony. Chasing after you when he feels the tightening of your cunt, the easy glide of every thrust that tells him you’re close.

Then, you’re snapping like a rubber band. Gushing in a dripping mess that trickles to where your ass meets thigh. Crying without tears, overstimulated but blissful. Joel is quick to follow, like he’s been waiting his turn.

He’s trembling, emptying inside you in a warm flood. Groaning low and beautiful, gripping your hips to keep you flush to him.

When pulls out, tearing himself away, he’s slinging an arm over his eyes on the pillow beside yours. One hand on your leg to make sure you don’t go anywhere.

“So fuckin’ perfect,” you hear him mutter.

At some point you drift off, his arm draped over you. You open a bleary eye to a neon 2:49AM that casts a halo over the nightstand. Joel’s tucked you in, the thin duvet snug up to your shoulder. He’s not snoring but not not snoring, just breath getting caught in his throat in a satisfied, well-spent way.

It’s all too much, too pure to be real.

Before you let yourself change your mind, you slink out from under the warmth of your generous stranger. You step in your shorts one foot at a time, tugging them up gelatin legs too springy from coiling and uncoiling.

You promise yourself that you’ll take just one mental picture as a keepsake, and it’s this. A sleepy Joel who will be well on his way to a second cup of coffee on the way out of Arizona, maybe even nursing a little headache behind his right eye. And he’ll remember an apparition of some girl he fucked in a motel. The touristy thing to do, a sight to see.

He might even tell Tommy, say you were a crazy little thing with too much baggage, but it was fun to stay up past his bedtime.

You don’t mean to do it, really you don’t, but you flip through his wallet that lays innocently on top of the TV.

If you take a little something, that’ll turn this into another one of your stories that you tell your kids born from a loveless marriage somewhere in the crevices of a future from now. It won’t pull on the tendons of your heart.

And it won’t mean anything. You won’t let it.

—

The next morning, there’s a soft knock at the door, and it’s probably housekeeping kicking you out for overstaying your welcome. Time to turn down the bed for the next lost soul. You imagine Joel’s long gone, hopped in his truck and back to a reality you’ll never meet him in.

Your fingers are slow to gather up your purse, and you’re shoving your toothbrush in from its place on the sink.

“I’ll be out in a second!” you yell in a voice that reeks of years of diner-flavored customer service.

More persistent knocking that borders on pounding. It shakes the chain in the deadbolt.

You’re yanking open the door, and there’s Joel, white shirt and jeans. And it isn’t that cushion of admiration from last night, no greeting with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Just a wolf coming to claim his continental breakfast.

Fuck.

You try to shut the door, suddenly too ashamed of what you’ve done, and to someone undeserving. Someone that showed you kindness, empathy.

But his boot catches the door before it can close, and he’s inside, slicing through the space between you. It’s not quite anger, but it’s shadowy. Sardonic.

Your shoulder blades kiss the cheap wallpaper.

“You’re real funny, y’know that?” he starts, and he’s smiling but not really.

Shrinking small, so small that maybe you’ll disappear.

There’s a tick of silence. His thumb skates to your collarbone and then to the hollow at the base of your throat. He wants to squeeze but he doesn’t, his fingers wrapping loosely around the column to fix you there. Heat creeps up the back of your neck into your hairline.

The instinct to flinch bubbles up against your joints, but you can’t bring yourself to.

“Y’think you can fuck me,” he muses, disgustingly deadpan, “‘n steal from me.”

Dread weighs heavy like lead in your stomach. You can’t stop yourself from shaking your head, still playing dumb.

He bristles at that, thunderous. You both know it’s a lie; you’re a hundred dollars richer than you were last night. His fingers briefly flex around you in a way that you’ve seen before, and horror hits a fever pitch in you.

Tears prick your eyes, and you’re putting your palms on his chest and shoving, but he doesn’t give. Unstoppable force meets immovable object, and all that.

It’s not so much the blaring punctuation in a sentence, the ticking of dynamite ready to blow. He’s confronting you with proximity, with your own dishonesty. Wanting to shake you and tell you that it doesn’t have to be this way.

Joel just leans in closer, almost grazing noses. You try to breathe around the lump of panic.

“The hell’s the matter with you?”

It’s disbelief, it’s hurt. In the same way, it’s understanding, incredulous. It’s him stepping back and loosening the hold around your neck like no one’s ever done; it’s softening and imploring.

He’s shoving his hands in his pockets, guilty and recoiling. Sorry he could even make himself look like one of them — a forced penance in the flesh.

There’s no answer that can justify what you did. Nothing simple about nothing personal. But truly… that’s all it was. A pie wafting steam on an open windowsill. Something to make you feel better about the void he’d leave.

“‘F you needed money, you coulda just asked.”

He’s disappointed, desperate. In a tone that really says, I would’ve done anything you wanted.

A dam inside you gives, crumbling deep at the foundation and knocking the walls down around you. Words don’t come, but you shove your hand in blind into your bag, pulling out the loose bill and extending it.

Joel sees the regretful offering and your heart with x-ray vision. That you think of yourself as a doll, less valuable without her box. Used without tags. Free to a good home.

He shakes his head, the softness of a keep it barely peeking out of his mouth.

You’re skinning yourself raw, wanting another way out but having none. With half a mind to say that the next night could come with fangs.

You feel the stab of relief, and shame. So much shame.

Like a soothsayer, he foresees the coldness of a bench, the shrinking of you into the safety of an alley.

You drop to your knees in exaltation, thinking you know what’ll fix this. You can’t see through the watercolor blur of your tears, but you touch his belt with fingers that are cold to the tips.

But Joel knows what you’re doing, shaking his head no no no.

He won’t let you do it like this. He drags you up gently by the elbows. Pulls you into his chest, says stop stop stop. Kisses your hair, then your lips. You cry until he can taste the tears, until the front of his shirt is damp.

“I’m sorry,” you rasp out roughly. “I’m so sorry.”

He tells you to never say sorry to him again.

—

Joel pays for a room for two more nights, but only one — his with the working A/C.

You move your toothbrush and your bag over to Room 20.

You go to the pool, swimming laps around him in a tank top and your cherry-embroidered underwear, squealing and splashing in a flail when he swims underneath your legs and stands up to hold you on his tan shoulders.

Sunscreen streaks greasy on your stomach when you lay out together on the loungers after. Joel likes a cat-nap with his face under a towel, grumpy and tired from the sun. But he never snaps at you, never gets impatient when you ask too many questions while he’s dozing off.

You learn the pinched expression he makes just before he comes. That his right palm has hundreds of lines you can see best by lamplight. He misses the noise of Sarah in his house, of sharing the coffee pot with someone. He doesn’t like the small piling of toast crumbs left only by him on the kitchen table.

He learns that you apologize for wet, clean hair on his pillowcase, for laughing too loud. Things that don’t need a sorry. A collection of oversaturated manners that might take time to unlearn, but he promises to teach you.

He learns that you approach an orgasm with tentative toes in cold water, almost unbelieving that sex can give, give, give instead of take, take, take. He learns that you like the meeting of eyes when he’s buried between your legs, pushing your thighs apart to keep from suffocating. That when he does let you get on your knees for him, you know just the spot to caress with your tongue on the underside of his cock.

Joel’s belt is snaked under your stomach, across your hips, fists intertwined in the leather as he pulls you back, slams himself forward. It bites and creates indents in your flesh, and you don’t care. He gives you marks to love, to admire in your reflection, never ones that are ugly. Never ones out of hate over spilled milk.

There’s a dirty slap of skin, growing louder, competing with your moans. Your nails are tearing into the cheap sheets, and Joel’s so close but won’t come until he coaxes another out of you. A grand total of at least four by now, but you’ve lost count.

At long last, you splinter around him. Pitching off the cliff in a cry. Joel’s leaning — his chest, your back — and spilling deep, holding onto you for dear life. You hear him whimper in a strangle. Big, tough game that’s been taken down with an arrow in his chest.

Hot tears are flowing out of you, stuttering sobs close to follow, and Joel pulls out slowly. Seems to know why. And he rolls you over, into him, hand careful in slow strokes against your hair.

You’ve never been good at goodbyes. Maybe that’s what this is.

Men like to say that women like you are insane, too analytical, too tear-streaked, too conscious of the way they look when they sleep. Because waking up with your mouth open, a drying corner of drool threatening your cheek is too human, not pretty.

Sometimes women like you are dead, rotting pomegranate flesh. Long forgotten in decay on the ground when the weight became too heavy to hold yourself up. And those men pick up your seeds and shove them squelching back into places where they don’t fit.

The winters come bitter and harsh, but you’re always reborn in the spring. And without fail, you grow back fiercely into a tree reminiscent of Eden, low-hanging apples plucked and bruised and bitten into once and spit out in tart disgust.

Women like you choke men like this with your pits, strangle them with vines, poison them with berries. They can consume, but so can you.

But then, in the ripe, cool shade of summer, you’ll have a visitor like Joel that will come with a basket and a blanket and they’ll stay and read books beneath you. They’ll enjoy your fruit, you’ll drip from their mouth and dry tacky like flypaper, and they won’t be able to imagine a day before you.

They’ll collect all the pieces of you on a Tuesday morning and give you change to get a Coke after checkout. They’ll tuck you into the front seat of their truck, let you put your feet up on the dash, hand protective and calm on your thigh while the other steers you both back to Texas. A new home without shouting and bottles thrown.

And they’ll stay through every season.

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us smut #the last of us au #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller #tlou fanfiction #fire walk #my writing #joel miller one shot #motherofagony

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tommysversion · 1 year

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Jealousy, Jealousy [ Joel Miller x Reader / Tommy Miller x Reader ]

Summary: you walk in on Joel & Tess, despite your building chemistry with him. Hurt, you turn to his brother for comfort. Joel finds out, and he isn’t happy.

CWs: derogatory language / unsafe sex / age gap implied / oral sex (m!receiving) / cum play / cum eating / choking / alcohol usage / use of pet names / very little plot it’s just a spicy mess

Tag List: @joelsgirl @loquaciousferret @dreamingofdaddydin @funnygirlthatgab

Notes: like always, this is for the girls, the gays and the theys. I wanted to finish my other WIP but this took over. Have fun.

Buy Me A Coffee?

Part Two / Alt Version

The whiskey burns your throat on the way down. You’re on maybe your third or fourth, but it’s still not enough to burn away the sight and sound you came across earlier.

You don’t have any claim on Joel, not really. Nothing has ever happened between you, even though there’s been a few close calls, but you were almost certain that he felt the same way about you as you do about him.

Until you walked in on him and Tess. Now you can’t get the image out of your head, the sight of her beneath him, the sounds…

You slam your empty glass down on the bar. It’s a shitty dive of a place in the QZ, one you all know well enough.

“Whoa there.”

You turn your head to find yourself face to face with Joel’s brother, Tommy, concern etched into his face. He’s not bad looking, not really, but you’ve never really been interested in him. Until now. Now, he’s looking pretty fucking good. Or maybe you’re just noticing him. Who cares.

“Come on, let’s get you home before curfew.” He holds out his hand to you. You don’t need it, not really, you aren’t drunk enough, but you take it anyway, let him lead you out of the bar and onto the streets.

“Why’d you come looking?” You ask as you let him walk you home.

“You didn’t show up to drop off this afternoon. Figured something was wrong, figured I’d find you here.”

“Didn’t think anyone would notice. Joel and Tess seemed too busy to care.” You can’t help the bitterness that creeps into your voice as you mention it.

“Ah.” Tommy shrugs, “try not to worry about it. My brother’s an idiot.”

Normally you’d argue. Jump to his defence. Tonight you just don’t feel like it, too hurt by what you saw to argue. Reaching your apartment block, you turn to him.

“You gonna come in for a drink? Least I can do after you walked me home.”

You know what you’re implying, don’t mind if he takes the hint that you’re offering more than a drink. You almost don’t expect him to follow you, but he does, up the stairs and into your apartment, shutting the door behind you both while you fish out two glasses and a bottle.

“Make yourself at home.”

You pour the liquor while he drops himself down onto your couch, spread out and lazy. Really, he’s quite attractive. You’ve never really noticed before, and maybe it’s the fact that you’re so angry and hurt that’s making you see him in this light, but still.

You hand him one of the glasses, down your own before you sit yourself down on the floor by his feet. You’re being forward as hell and you know it, but you’re tipsy and hurt and you just want to forget for a short while.

He looks down at you, surveys you with dark eyes so similar to Joel’s. The thought makes your heart hurt, so you push it away.

“What are you doing, hon?” His hand comes down to catch your cheek, tilting your head up to look at him.

Tommy doesn’t know what’s going on between you and his brother. Knows that Joel’s an idiot if he doesn’t realise that you’re interested. If he was a better man, he’d push you away, but, well…

It’s been a while since he’s gotten anything, and if his older brother is too stupid to realise you’re right there, dumb enough to fuck around with your feelings and Tess? Well, he doesn’t mind being the collateral.

“Trying to decide whether or not to suck your cock.” You admit, not bothering to be coy as you look up at him.

“Oh, yeah? What’s holding you back?”

“You haven’t said that I can.” You shrug, fingers creeping up his thighs.

“There’s a pretty girl on her knees for me askin’ to suck my dick, you think I’m gonna say no?” Amusement colours his tone.

“Well… I wanted to be polite and ask.” You smirk as your fingers find the zip of his pants, tug it out the way, your small hand reaching in and wrapping around his cock, stroking lazily.

He just leans back into the couch, watches you as you rub your thumb over the head of his cock, brushing across beads of precum, collecting them on your fingers to lick them up.

“Christ…” his eyes darken as he watches you, your eyes on his as you lean in and press feather light kisses to the tip of his cock. He’s nice and big, thick, slightly curved, and you love the slightly salty taste of him.

You don’t like to brag, but you know you’re good at this, enjoy it even, pressing little kisses along the length of him, tiny kitten licks to the slit in the tip, teasing until he fists a hand into your hair and yanks your head down onto his cock, almost making you choke.

You recover quickly, sucking his cock like he’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted, moving your head up and down, guided by the heavy hand in your hair.

“Fuck…” he rocks his hips up into your mouth, getting deeper into your throat, “such a sweet little mouth…”

You hum around him, urged on by the praise, eager to keep pleasing him, so desperate to be wanted…

You know full well this is messy and sloppy, your drool coating his cock, eyes watering slightly as you look up at him. You can’t see it, of course, but you’re a vision to behold, on your knees for him, mascara running down your face as your cheeks hollow out for him, his cock disappearing into your throat like you were made to take him.

God, he’s impressed, both by how well you worship his cock, and by how quickly you’ve worked him up.

“Gonna make me cum, pretty thing…” his hand releases your head, strokes your cheek lazily.

You pull away from him for a moment, wrap your hand around his cock and stroke slowly.

“Cum on my face.” You tell him, hazy with lust and drink. “On my tongue.”

He groans, moves to guide your mouth back to him, but you move faster, wrap your lips around him and let him rut up into your throat, moaning around him. Fuck, he tastes so good, exactly what you needed.

You can feel him becoming more erratic, groaning softly before he pulls out of your mouth, wraps his hand around his cock and strokes it roughly as your lips part, tongue flicking out to catch the hot ropes that spurt from his cock as he groans.

Fuck, you’re a sight to behold, on your knees, makeup a mess, lips parted with his cum on your tongue and your face. You lean in and lick him clean, swallow every drop you can get.

His fingers reach out, swipe through the mess he’s left on your lips, press them into your mouth.

“Suck ‘em, that’s a good girl.”

You do exactly as he says, swirl your tongue around his fingers until you’re satisfied they’re clean.

“You want me to -?”

You shake your head. You’re exhausted, your throat hurts, and while the offer is nice, you don’t think you can stay awake for it.

“Nah, ‘s okay. I just wanted to give you something.” You offer him a small smile as you get to your feet, watch him tuck himself back into his pants.

To his credit, he’s not a jerk. He makes sure you’re safely in your bed with a glass of water beside you before he heads off into the night, leaving you almost wishing you’d taken up his offer.

——

A week later, you’re sitting in the same bar with one of your friends, pointedly ignoring Joel a few seats away.

Once again, you’ve had a few too many to drink, and it’s loosening your tongue.

“So, what’s the deal with you and that guy anyway? The mystery man you were telling me about the other day?” Your friend knows exactly the right questions to ask, and while normally you’re not the bragging type, seeing Joel again has sent that spike of bitter resentment and jealousy through you.

Sure, it’s not like he’d ever promised you anything, but he’d damn well seemingly made it clear he was interested. Only for you to walk in on him fucking Tess like he loved her.

You hate him for it. Hate him for hurting you. More than that, though, you hate yourself for not being brave enough to confront your feelings.

But right now, you’re feeling spiteful, and you know damn well he can hear every word you say.

“Oh, it wasn’t really anything, just a one night thing.” You shrug.

“What did you say his name was again? Jimmy?”

“Tommy.” You run your finger around the rim of your glass.

“As in Miller?”

“Mmhmm.” You can feel Joel’s gaze burning into you as you speak. “He walked me home, one thing led to another…”

“Fuck, he’s so hot though…” your friend sighs, “I bet he has a great dick.”

“I mean… I liked it.”

You giggle, a very uncharacteristic sound, but still. You don’t regret what happened, not at all. You like giving head, and it wasn’t like he had an unpleasant dick. If anything, you kind of wish you’d let him fuck you. Maybe another time, seeing as Joel is clearly no longer interested.

“Are you gonna give me any details, or?”

You’re about to open your mouth when a hand clamps down on your shoulder.

“Outside. Now.”

You don’t need to look to know Joel’s pissed; you do anyway, are met with his stormy glare.

“Nice to see you too, Joel.”

“I mean it. Outside, now, or I’ll drag your ass out.” One look at him tells you he’s not kidding.

Sighing, you excuse yourself from your friend. Follow Joel out of the bar into the street, or rather, let him tow you out. Let him drag you by the wrist back to your apartment. Nobody wants to be caught in the streets at this hour.

“What the fuck, Joel?” You demand as soon as he’s slammed the door behind you.

“Don’t you what the fuck me.” He growls, crossing his arms over his chest as he backs you into the small room.

“I absolutely will, what’s your goddamn problem?” You hiss at him, furious. Furious and still hurt, because the last time you saw him he was fucking another woman, and no matter what you do you can’t get rid of that image.

“You! You’re my goddamn problem, running your mouth in that bar where anyone could hear you.”

You roll your eyes at him, your own temper flaring.

“How is what I was talking about any of your business?” You demand, glaring at him. “How is what I do any of your business?”

Admittedly you’re not very intimidating in comparison, but still.

“You were making a damn fool of yourself. Do you ever know when to keep your fucking mouth shut?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask your brother? He seemed to know how to shut me up.” The words come out before you can stop them.

Joel exhales slowly, pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

“Is there a reason you’re being such a goddamn bitch? Fucking my brother included.” He’s so damn frustrated right now, not understanding what’s gotten into you.

Usually you’re so sweet to him, the pair of you dancing around the mutual attraction you share. He’s not going to push it if you don’t, but maybe he’s misread things?

You stare at him.

“Are you fucking serious right now? You don’t know why I’m mad at you?”

He just stares at you.

“I heard you and Tess, you asshole. So yeah. I know that for all your sweet words and the way we’ve been dancing around the subject? That’s just how you are, right? Anything to get laid, I guess.” You spit the words.

Something in his gaze snaps as he crosses to you, backs you against the wall, slams one hand into the cracked plaster beside your shoulder, the other settling on your throat.

You’re too angry to be scared, even though you know he’s dangerous, know you’ve pushed him too far, like poking a goddamn angry bear.

“First, don’t fucking assume that you know any goddamn thing about what happened that day.” He’s leaning right down to you, you can smell the whiskey on him, but still you aren’t afraid.

“Second, don’t presume that I’m that sort of bastard. You really think I’d do that to you?”

You glare at him.

“You already have.” You hate that your voice shakes as you say it.

Joel sighs as he looks at you.

“I’ve known her almost as long as you’ve been alive. Almost but not quite. There’s a difference between me fucking her when it means nothing, and what you’ve done.”

You glare at him again, because you don’t see any difference.

“It may not mean anything to you, but it definitely does to her.”

“And that’s her fucking problem, I’ve made it goddamn clear to her that I don’t see her that way, that that would be the last time. Then you go and fuck my brother?”

Somehow, suddenly, it becomes important to clarify. As if somehow it will make him less angry.

“Technically, I didn’t fuck him.”

“You-“ Joel stops mid sentence and looks at you. “You didn’t?”

“No. I mean, I sucked his dick, but… I was angry, I was so fucking angry and I just wanted to feel something. I just wanted to feel wanted.”

Joel stares at you like he’s never seen you before. Like he’s trying to understand you.

“And I don’t make you feel wanted?”

“Not when I walk in on you fucking someone who hates me, no. Not particularly.” You look away from him, before you do something stupid, like cry, which is a very real possibility whenever you think about what you saw, what you heard.

“Guess I need to change that.”

His hand drops from the wall, the other one releasing your throat as he leans in and devours your unsuspecting lips in a kiss. It’s desperate and angry and hungry, but you cling to him, your fury and your need pouring into it as he lifts you up, carries you across the room and into your room.

You pull him down on top of you, not letting go when he sets you down on the mattress, kisses still full of fury and rage but of something else, too, something you’ve been holding back for far too long.

“Still can’t believe you let my goddamn brother touch you.” Joel growls it into the soft skin of your throat, grinding his cock against you, your clothes still in the way.

You shove your skirt up, hands finding his belt. He catches your wrists in one hand.

“Were you this fucking eager for him, too?”

There’s that dark glint in his eyes again, possessive and jealous, even though he started this, even though he knows that really, he has no right to be angry. It doesn’t stop him.

“Does it matter, Joel? You really think I’d have done it if you’d just fucking…”

“Just what, sweetheart?” He releases your wrists, only because he needs his hand to tear your panties down, cup your bare cunt in his rough hand.

“Just fucking admitted you wanted me first!” You snap at him, grinding yourself against his hand in spite of your temper.

“Yeah, well. We all make mistakes, don’t we?” He plunges two fingers knuckle deep into your cunt, effectively stopping you from answering with anything but a strangled moan.

Your hands tear at his belt, yank his jeans down, your hand wrapping around the length of him. Fuck, he’s big, bigger than his brother, thick and hard and dripping pre cum, all for you, all because of you, because in spite of how angry he is, he still wants you.

Just as you want him, your cunt aching and dripping onto his fingers as he fucks you with them, hard and fast and punishing.

“I should make you suck my cock, refuse to touch you; but if I do that, what’s to say you won’t go and whore yourself out to someone else?”

His words are dark, gaze feral as he looks down, watches his fingers disappear inside you.

“Better I just take you, ruin you for anyone else. You won’t want anyone else when I’m done with you, it’ll be nothing in comparison.” He leans in and bites your throat, right above your collarbone.

“Is that right?” Your hand strokes him roughly; you can feel how needy you are for him, feel yourself tightening around his fingers but it’s not enough, you need more.

“Don’t fucking push me, sweetheart.” He growls it, drags his fingers out of you, presses them to your mouth.

Automatically you part your lips, suck on his thick, rough fingers until they’re coated in your saliva rather than your slick, your eyes on him the entire time.

He groans, a sound that’s still closer to a growl than a moan.

“Fuck sake…” he’s still furious with you, that fury coming back tenfold at the lewd way you suck his fingers, as if they were his cock.

“This how you sucked him off?”

“I don’t know,” you challenge, “are you gonna fuck me like you fucked her?”

He glares at you, and for a moment you’re afraid he’ll pull away, that you’ve pushed him too far.

He does the opposite, moves so fast you can’t keep up, lines himself up and slams into you, every inch of his cock pressing deep. You scream out for him, half in pleasure, half in surprise.

Fuck, he’s so big it hurts, you feel so full you’re not certain you can take him, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t give you any time to adjust, one hand bracing himself on the mattress, the other gripping your waist to pull you onto his cock, over and over until your back arches off the bed.

“No,” he growls in answer to your question, “I’m gonna fuck you like you deserve.”

He’s relentless, pounding into you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, rough and hard, growling against your skin the entire time, covering every bit of exposed skin with bite marks and bruises.

“Joel…” it comes out half squeal, half moan as he hitches your leg higher around his waist, gets deeper inside you.

“That’s it, sweetheart, can feel how needy you are for me. Don’t think you’ll ever want anyone else, huh?”

You shake your head, mute except for mewls and sighs of pleasure, your nails digging into his arms, trying to hold on, but unable to think straight, barely able to see or focus.

“That’s what I thought, baby, gonna get you so fuckin’ addicted to my cock you’ll forget all about anyone else. This sweet pussy is all mine.”

Fuck, he wishes he’d done this sooner, wishes he’d avoided this entire fucking debacle, because he’s afraid it’ll always hang between you now, unless he fucks you so hard you forget.

“Already was, Joel, always been yours…” you moan it out for him, fingers finding the sweat damp curls of his hair and tugging, hard.

He moans, a deep, guttural sound that you immediately commit to memory, the sound alone making your cunt throb around him.

“Oh, you like that, baby? You like hearing what you do to me?” He shakes his head, grinds into you slowly before resuming his relentless pace.

“Fuck, Joel, I’m gonna…”

Oh, he knows. He can feel you fluttering around him, tight little hole becoming even tighter as he fucks you, leans down and presses a searing kiss to your mouth before he pulls out of you.

You whine at the loss, but before you can say anything else he has you flipped onto your front, face buried in the mattress, ass in the air as he slams back into you, both hands on your waist as he fucks you so hard you see stars.

There’s no holding back, not anymore, your hands clawing at the mattress as your eyes roll back slightly from the pleasure, feeling yourself tighten painfully around him before your climax hits, hard and fast, washing over your entire body, leaving you shaking beneath him, screaming his name loud enough that the entire goddamn building can hear.

“That’s fucking right baby, you scream for me. You tell everyone that you’re mine.” He yanks your hair back, holds you upright as he ruts into you, thrusts becoming more and more sloppy and erratic with each movement.

“Every fuckin’ inch of you is mine, you hear me?”

“Yours, Joel, all yours…” you moan it for him, still on the high of your climax, entire body over stimulated.

“That’s goddamn right.” He slams in deep once more, one final time, grinds against you as he cums, fills your tight little pussy with hot ropes of his spend, groaning the entire time.

He stays there for a moment, catches his breath before he pulls out of you, flops down beside you.

There’s a moment’s pause, where you aren’t sure whether you’ll still see rage in his eyes if you look at him. Aren’t sure whether he’ll see it in you, either.

He saves you having to look, answers the unasked question by pulling you into his arms, holding you tight against his chest.

“I’m so-“

“Don’t.” You reach up to touch your hand to his lips. “Don’t be. I should be the one apologising.”

“I think we both owed each other an apology, to be honest.” Joel says finally, “though, uh… maybe that was a good start?”

You laugh, lean into him.

“Skip the apology and go straight for the makeup sex, huh?”

Joel smirks, presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Oh, darling. That wasn’t the makeup sex. That was the I’m fucking furious sex. You’ll like the makeup sex a whole lot more.”

Smirking yourself, you roll on top of him, lean down so you can press a kiss to his mouth.

“I like the sound of that. How do I sign up for it?”

“You promise we won’t touch anyone else. Ever.”

You press a long, heated kiss to his parted lips.

“Easy enough for me.”

“Good.” Another smirk before he rolls you, pinning your smaller frame beneath him. “I fucked you like I hated you. Now you’re gonna find out how I fuck when I love you.”

You just whimper, wrap your fingers into his curls and drag him into another kiss. It’s going to be a long night.

#my writing #joel miller #the last of us #tommy miller #pedro pascal #joel miller x reader #Tommy Miller x reader #joel miller smut #tommy miller smut #pedro pascal character fic #tommy miller x you #joel miller x you

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sickslimez · 5 days

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STILL IN LOVE! #7 — TOJI FUSHIGURO

SYNOPSIS...after still messing around with your ex husband, you began to wonder if you’re still in love with him after finding out about his new girlfriend…

INFO...ex husband!toji x fem!reader, reader & toji have two kids, megumi is readers bio son, jealousy, smut, angst, arguments, alcohol, drinking problem, family problems, arguing in front of kids, toxic behaviors, crying, mentions of divorce

OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated

Toji stood in the empty living room, the light illuminating from the television as it played some random show that you were watching before he came. It’s been so long since the last time he was here, at least that’s what it felt like. Nothing really changed for the most part, still the same decor, the layout still the same. He couldn’t help but notice the set of fresh roses that sat on your dining room table, paired with a detailed glass vase. He already had his guesses on who gave them to you.

Toji looked over his shoulder towards the corridor that led to the bedrooms, you were still busy helping Naya wash up. He walked over to the table, fingertips gently touching the delicate petals. There was still regret and jealously that bubbled in Toji’s chest. When it came to you, he was selfish, never thought in a million years he’d lose you once he had you. That was his problem. With each longing look at the roses, it reminded him of when he did have you, the beginning of things. He used to buy you flowers just for the hell of it, buy you small trinkets he knew you’d like, addicted to your smile when he’d handed them to you. But like almost everything in this world, things fall apart.

Those moments turned into him coming home while you were in the kitchen, eating dinner with Naya and Megumi, not even glancing your way. Not a word to you or his kids all because of an argument you had before he left for work that morning. Of course he regrets it all now, when it’s too late for something to be done and said. It’s cliche, but it was true.

His eyes flickered towards the small card by the roses, his jaw clenched as he grabbed it, slowly opening it to read:

Beautiful flowers for a beautiful woman — Kento

“Hey.” The sound of your voice snapped Toji out of his thoughts, quickly placing the card down and facing you. “The kids are, uh, asleep.” You nodded.

“Should we talk here or?” Toji cleared his throat, stuffing his hands back into his pockets.

“Bedroom should be fine.” As you walked down the corridor, Toji followed behind you. There was still that picture of you and the kids on the wall, the one that he took when you all went to the water park. It was a bittersweet moment, but he’s glad that you still had it up despite the memory that came with it.

He shut the bedroom door behind him as you stood in the middle of the room. “So, you wanted to talk about the kids and us?”

“Yeah, I just want us to find a level placement where we can co-parent healthily. You know…where we don’t fight and argue every time we talk to each other,” you explained with a slight chuckle. “I just want better communication. Like if you can’t or can take the kids, if you’ll be going to their school events or something.” You fiddled with your hands.

Toji stared at you even while you avoided eye content with him. He took notice you how you played with your hands too, something you always did when you were anxious, thinking about things. He could tell something else was on your mind. Something else was on his mind too.

“What I’m saying is, I just think we should strictly keep communication minimal. Just about our kids. What we do with our personal lives should be kept private unless it involves Naya and Megs somehow.” You inhaled, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth.

Toji’s brows furrowed at your statement. “Isn’t that what we have been doing?” He questioned, leaning against your wall.

“Despite what you might think, no. And to be honest, I know that you know that not what we’ve doing, Toji,” you scoff.

“If this is about what’s been going on the last few months, I apologize,” he spoke.

“It’s,” you sigh, “it’s more than that. Ever since the divorce, we never acted divorced.”

“You mean how we were still sleeping together,” he bluntly said.

You rolled your eyes at how honest he was, but you should know by now that he was no different from when you first met him. “Yes,” you answered.

“We haven’t slept together in months—”

“And about the unresolved feelings that we still hold for each other. That needs to stop. All of it,” You interrupt.

Toji was at a loss for words, staring at you, and finally for the first time in this conversation, you locked eyes with him. “You’re really taking this guy seriously, huh?”

You sigh, plopping down on the edge of your bed. “He’s a good guy, Toji.”

“I never said he wasn’t.” He shrugged, standing up straight.

“Okay, but you’re acting weird about it. Why can’t you accept that I’ve moved on? You should do the same.” You stood upright. “Me and you,” you gestured between you and Toji, “it won’t work out.”

Toji knew in the back of his head that you were right, but to hear those words out loud felt like a knife to the heart. Both of you stood in silence. All kinds of thoughts were running through his head, every single of them screaming at him to say something, to try and get you to change your mind. He doesn’t want to argue or fight, not anymore, so he holds his thoughts and feelings back even if it does hurt.

Say something. Don’t. Say it. Just keep quiet. Tell her.

“I’ve tried to move on just so you know. I’ve really tried, y/n.” And there it goes. There goes the words spilling out of his mouth despite what may come next. He just needs you to hear him just this one last time. He doesn’t care if it doesn’t change a thing between you two, he needs you to know regardless. “Trying to get with different woman, having sex, drinking, pretending to be who I was before I met you. But where did I end up each time? Right back to you, right back in your bed, in your home, holding you, kissing you, regretting everything bad I’ve ever done to you, to our kids.”

“Toji—”

“We were together for 10 years, married for 8 . As soon as you told me you were pregnant with Megs, I knew right then I wanted to make you my wife, to build a bigger family with you, to do right by you and our kids. I can’t just throw all that away, all those memories. Even the bad ones. You changed me, made me want to be better. No other woman has done that but you.” Toji walked closer towards you. It felt like your feet were glued to the floor, incapable of moving.

“Then why did you treat me that way?” Your voice slightly broke as you held back tears. “Like you were beginning to hate me, to hate us.” The thought made you clench your eyes shut as a frown formed on your lips. You hated to remember. Your should began to shake as a sob racked through your body. “You don’t understand how that made me feel,” you whimpered.

Toji looked at you with soft eyes. “I never hated you or the kids, not a fucking second. That thought would never even cross my mind. Hate the woman who brought me the most beautiful thing life can bring you? Hate them? Even though they can be a pain in the ass,” he chuckled. You laughed along with him, nodding in agreement. “Look at me, mama.” Toji lifted your chin, wiping the tears off of your cheeks. “I can never hate you or our kids. Tell me that you understand that.”

“I understand.” You sniffled.

“I know the way I started treating you and our family towards the end is what caused everything to fall apart. I don’t know why I did what I did. Arguing with you over stupid shit, acting like a fucking asshole, not being there when I should’ve. You had every right to leave. It’s my own fault that I didn’t realize what I had before it was gone. I’ll live with that for the rest of my life. You’re an amazing woman, a beautiful person, a wonderful mother. You were everything I could ever ask for. I’m sorry for making you feel like you were any less than that.” He wrapped his arms around you, hugging you tightly while you cried into his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

For the first time in years, you and Toji had a conversation without it turning into a heated argument. It was like a huge weight lifted off of your shoulders, like you could finally take a deep breath of fresh air. Toji just held you while you cried it out, rubbing your back gently. Though it hurts, he’s glad he was able to tell you, to apologize. “Mama, you deserve to move on and be happy. It’ll hurt like hell for me, but that’s what I deserve for what I did. My karma. I’ll level with you, I’ll do what you want.”

You pulled away from him, teary eyes staring up into his. “You mean it?”

Without hesitation he replied, “of course.” If it wasn’t painfully obvious already, Toji was still in love with you. How could he not be? He’ll miss you, miss the times you spent together. He wishes he could make up for all those bad times, replace those memories with good ones.

“Thank you, Toji.” You softly smiled.

“Dont thank me. It’s the least I could do.” He held onto your hand, his warm touch lingering on your skin before he pulled it away. “I’ll see you around, y/n.” Before he said anything else, he needed to walk away. Opening your bedroom door, he disappeared from your sight down the hall. You bit down on your bottom lip, brows furrowed as you sat there and began to process everything that happened.

Toji sat in his car outside your house. “Fuck,” he sighed. It should be him. You and him. He should be buying you flowers, kissing your soft lips, holding you tight, making love to you, telling you he loves you. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as looked at your front door. In front of him, a familiar car pulled into your driveway. Toji sat and watched closely, noticing it was the man he caught a glimpse of in your house, your new boyfriend, Kento. As he walked up the steps, you opened the door for him before he knocked, wrapping your arms around him and kissing his lips with a smile. His hands were on your waist as he kissed you back, pulling you closer towards him.

Toji tore his eyes away from the sight in front of him, jaw clenched as he started his car. You were his karma and the woman he was in love with.

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rinhaler · 7 months

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I will kiss you and hold you and pet you and call you a good girl if you write a toji os abt him having a one nightstand with someone and when he’s undressing them he unzips their dress WITH HIS TEETHHHHHHHHHHH AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA……….. anyways!!! :3

am i a good girl now :(((

warnings: 18+ MDNI, fem!reader, soft dom!toji (maybe), alcohol consumption, squirting, fingering, face-sitting, vaginal sex, tit sucking, praise, slight degradation, reader passes out for a sec.

words: 2.4k

“Can I buy you a drink?” a handsome stranger asks you as you sit by your lonesome at the bar. You came here with your friend, who has since disappeared since locating her ex-boyfriend. And you suspect he won’t be an ex for much longer. The attention makes you giddy. His scar pulling as he smirks at you, a grin that grows wider when you nod. He pulls out his card and waits to flag down a bar tender. “I’m Toji, by the way.”

You introduce yourself and you curse yourself for how pathetic you must seem. It’s embarrassing, really, feeling so accomplished that a man deemed you worthy enough to talk to and buy a drink for. He’s like a model, possessing a wide build and tall figure. He could have any woman here if he wanted, you’re sure. And despite your inner monologue telling you to act coy, you’re sure you’re a bashful fool.

He orders you the same blue lagoon cocktail you’ve already had three of, and himself a lemonade.

“You don’t drink?” you ask him.

“Nah, it doesn’t really affect me.”

You shrug, slurping the ice cold cocktail through a metal straw you brought from home. He smirks at that, noting that you’re the type to prepare this much for what he’s sure is meant to be a casual night out. And he asks you questions about yourself that you’re so willing to answer. You ask him questions about himself that he answers too, though the responses are surface level and simple. The mystery only adds to his allure.

He's funny, effortlessly. Everything he says seems to make you giggle. You’re a cliché, too, twirling your hair as you hang on his every word. It’s a mix or attraction and intoxication. Is he really so interesting and funny or are you just wet and transfixed by his looks?

Your laughter dies out when you feel a tap on your shoulder. It’s your friend, coming to say goodbye. She points at her ex and tells you she’s leaving with him.

So much for girl code.

Though she does offer you to hop in the taxi with them so you can go home. But you don’t want to leave Toji. You want to keep making a lovesick fool of yourself for him and maybe see where the night takes you. So she waves and you focus on the older looking man beside you. He licks his lips, his scar glistening under the everchanging technicolour lights flooding the club.

“Wanna get going, gorgeous?” he asks, leaning over to speak into your ear. The rough gravel to his voice rushing straight to your pulsing cunt. You shouldn’t, really, should you? It’s not smart to go home with guys you’ve never met. You don’t know him or his intentions, he could be plying you with alcohol to get you stupid enough to kill you.

“Mhmm.” you nod, dumbly, consequences be damned. If you die, you’ll die by the hand of a man so beautiful you’d think an angel would cry at his presence. He takes your hand, leading you outside and hailing a cab. You at least have the sense to go to your place, knowing your cousin lives a few doors down and will surely here if things go wrong.

He kisses you deeply in the back of the cab, fingers digging into your skin as he squeezes your plush thigh. You moan, lewdly, when he tells you to stick out your tongue and he sucks it before licking it with his own. Tongues tangling as he continues to squeeze and knead your malleable flesh.

“Head on up, I’ll follow you.” he tells you as he pulls out his wallet. You nod, agreeing, whispering your apartment number before clambering out of the car. The chill of the 2am air bites at your skin, and you hurry to the security door. You pull the key from your purse and rush inside.

Toji takes his time paying the driver, grunting as he puts his wallet away and slides out of his side of the car. He slowly skulks to the entrance, smiling when he realises you remembered to leave the latch for him to get inside. He sees a crowd gathered by the elevator and opts to take the stairs instead.

He smirks, gleefully, when he sees you waiting by the front door.

“Watcha doin’, gorgeous?” he wonders.

“Waiting for you.” you confess, looking down at your feet awkwardly as shame surges through your body.

He approaches, slowly. But before you know it you’re looking up at him and caged between his body and your front door. His hands rest against the frame as he studies your blown eyes and nervous face.

“Somethin’ tells me you’ve never had a one night stand before,” he smiles, scar pulling deliciously once again. You can barely form a thought unable to break yourself from the hypnotising mark on his lip. “Unlock the door.”

“I already did…” you gulp, nervously, still unable to tear your eyes away from his.

He likes your answer, picking you up so that your legs wrap around his waist and he lets himself into your home. Your lips lock and tongues clash as he controls the kiss, but your eagerness gets the better of you. Your hips rutting and soft moans pour from you as you portray yourself as a desperate slut for his benefit.

You pout, a little defeated, as he sets you back down. Though the disappoint dies an instantaneous death as he spins you around so your back is to him, pushing you into the wall by your entryway.

“Have you fucked a stranger before, princess?” he asks, brushing your hair from your shoulder and whispering devilishly into your ear. You shake your head, pathetic strings of ‘no!’ spilling from your lips as his fingers explore under your dress and pinch your ass. You bite your lip as you feel his heavy fingers prod at your drippy panties. He huffs out a laugh when he realises how wet you are. “Allllll of this jus’ for me? You shouldn’t have, darlin’.”

“B-Been wet… since you asked if I wanted a drink…” you tell him, giggling a little and hiding your face against the wall.

“No no no…” he objects, tugging your hair softly to draw you out. “Wanna see you, wanna see how you look when I ruin you.” you feel your body flush with heat at his words, turning your head to the side so he can see you again. You place your palms against the wall to brace yourself, not expecting him to pull your panties down your legs from under your dress.

He relishes in how you can barely keep your eyes open as he sinks two fingers into your sopping cunt and your panties drop to the ground. You bite your inner cheek, though it does little to keep you quiet as he curls his fingers against your spongy insides.

“Oh fuck.” you gasp, ashamed that you might cum after a few pathetic pumps of his fingers. Though it doesn’t feel right. You don’t want it to stop, but you don’t feel like you usually do when you’re close to cumming. “W-Wait.” you move your head and try to close your legs.

“Sh.” he stops you, kicking your ankles to keep your legs open. He holds your head against the wall with his forearm, his breathing heavy in your ear. You shudder when he kisses against it, chuckling quietly when he feels your pussy begin to clench. “Stop clenching, push. It’ll feel good, promise… push against me.” he commands.

You don’t know what’s he’s talking about. Push your body? No, he said stop clenching. You’re trying to keep him inside, keep the feeling inside. But he repeats it. Push. And like he’s the master of your cunt, it listens.

“Good girl, baby…” he praises you as he notes the pressure switch from your tender hole. You moan, and he coos. Faux sympathy as he fucks you dumb on his thick digits.

“Toji! Ngh—!” you moan. Clear liquid jets from your pussy, dripping down your thighs and soaking your panties and the floor beneath. He doesn’t let up, either, still battering his fingers against your g-spot.

“There you go, princess. Good fuckin’ girl… so good for me darlin’.” he moans, too, getting off on your pleasure and the striking realisation that you’ve never squirted before. He’s proud of himself, and he’s proud of you. “Fuckin’ soaked your pretty panties, sweetheart. Dirty little girl…” he teases.

You don’t have the energy to respond, already spent from cumming in such an alien way. He kisses your shoulder as your legs continue to shake. Any logic from the thought of telling him to stop fingering you dissipates when you think that he can you make you cum like that again.

He feels his hardened cock over his jeans as he looks down at the puddle beneath you. Still pumping his fingers against your sweet spot until your eyes roll over white. He can’t take it anymore. The unrelenting inner voice telling him to touch himself. He thinks he might die if he doesn’t stroke his length, even for a minute.

“Don’t move.” he orders.

You stay still, unsure of what he’s doing. Though you whimper as you feel his body press against yours. His head sinks to the top of your dress, and you just about cum again when you realise he’s biting down on the metal zipper, pulling it down with his teeth as exposing your bare back.

The black mini dress falls to the ground into the puddle of your lewdness and your drenched underwear.

“Good girl, stay there.”

He pulls off his t-shirt and tosses it aside down the hallway, only to be seen by the end of this dalliance. You hear him kick off his shoes and quickly throws away his socks. Eagerly, his pants follow, as do his underwear. He’s just as naked as you, now. And you choke out a breath as you hear him drop to his knees, licking up the mess on your thighs and pussy. But he turns around, sitting on his ass with his back against the wall, without a care for the wetness beneath. He wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling your cunt towards his face.

“Sit.” he instructs.

You do, without pause, moaning boisterously as he sucks at your clit and covers his face in your sweetness. One arm remains hooked around thigh while the other releases, hand in search of his aching length. He plays with himself, alternating between lazy strokes and passionate ones. The taste of your cunt makes him dizzy, unable to believe how much slick you’re producing as he relentlessly feasts on your flesh.

“F-fuck, Toji… finger me, please.” you beg. He’s leaking like crazy, and thinks your request might have come at the perfect time. He lets himself go in favour of pleasuring you, the sound of your sticky cunt squelching with each press throughout your eerie apartment. Neither of you had even found time to turn on a light, the only thing illuminating the room is the filtering light sneaking in through the cracks of your front door. “G’na cum, a-again… holy— s-shit.” you moan.

It spurs him on, maintaining all of his ministrations as he tries to coax your second orgasm out of you. He grunts, loudly, against your sodden folds as you squirt again. His face and hair doused with your release as he doesn’t dare pull away. The sadistic desire to prolong your ecstasy is fuelling him to keep going. He feels like he might cum untouched as he feels your cum cover him.

Your legs give, his burly arms hook around your thighs again in a bid to keep you stable. But his hands wander, impatiently. Fingers grip into your waist as he pulls you away from the wall.

He helps you down, hovering you above his longing cock as he guides it to your spent hole.

“I don’t have any condoms.” he tells you.

“Don’t care—” you assure him, wriggling your hips eagerly. “’m on the pill.”

“Greedy girl,” he smirks, pushing you down onto his cock. You want to scream from the stretch but you manage to refrain. He sets a ruthless pace, forcing you to accommodate to it quickly. “Been so sweet for me, darlin’. Gonna be nice ‘n do all the work for ya, okay? Say thank you.”

“T-Thank you! Thank you.” you babble nonsensically.

His knees are bent as he fucks up into your abused hole, the velocity propelling you forward. Your fingers clutch onto his shoulders for dear life as he takes advantage of your body being in such close proximity to his mouth. He sucks your tits, eliciting a dreamy moan from you. The gorgeous sounds you make for him have his cock drooling inside of your unprotected walls.

It's so sorrowful, really, thinking about how pathetic you both are. He seemed so calm and collected and yet neither of you could even make it through the hallway of your apartment before you were both stripped bare. You thought you’d be fucking comfortably on your bed. But here you are, being fucking destroyed by his monstrously large cock on the wooden, soaking, hallway floor.

“Gonna cum, baby.” he breathes against your spit soaked tits. The admission makes you cream, clenching around his thick, veiny cock as you brace yourself. “Fuck, darlin’, you’re gonna cum again. Can feel it, little cock slut. No one’ll fuck you like this again, y’know.”

“Ah- aaaah—!” is all you can say as a lesser stream of liquid shoots from you once more. The internal bliss you feel makes you pass out momentarily. But you come around quick enough to feel your untainted insides become stained with his white, creamy warmth.

He groans, deeply, bouncing you up and down his length. He wishes there was a light on to see the creamy ring and the messy puddle you’ve created together.

“You’re fuckin’ amazing, baby.” he tells you, grasping the crown of your head with his palm to guide you into a sloppy kiss. He manages to stand up whilst keeping himself slotted comfortably inside of you. You giggle as you guide him to the nearest light switch, and both of you look down at the mess you’ve made. Shame builds once again and you hide your face in the crook of his neck. “Awe, pretty girl made a dirty little mess f’me.” he teases you.

“Stop! ‘m so embarrassed!” you tell him, the sentence muffled as you talk into his skin.

“S’okay, rest up.” he tells you, stroking your back soothingly. “Give me a tour, wanna see the next place we can make a mess of.”

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