𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝
Spencer calls you drunk and in need of rescue. You confess a few secrets to him while he won’t remember them (or so you think). 3k, fem
cw drunk!spencer, mentioned past drug use, confident/bombshell!reader, flirting, spencer getting some well deserved comfort, a handful of his drunken compliments, insecurity, intense mutual pining
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
You’re blissfully sleeping in the arms of a REM cycle when your phone rings. It pulls you by the chest, a punch of shock and expectancy at once. It’ll be someone calling you into work, Hotch himself if you’re lucky.
You search blindly for your phone. If you’re even luckier, it’ll be a wrong number. Your fingers curl around the little body of your phone and you bring it to your ear without checking the number, frazzled. “Hello?” you ask hoarsely.
Total quiet.
“Hello?” You pull the screen away. The caller reads: SPENCER. You pull it back rather than hang up. “Hey, Spencer. Are you there?”
“Hello.” He laughs. “Hello, are you there?”
“I’m here, Spencer, where are you?”
“That’s an interesting question, actually, and I’m sure there’s a great answer, but…”
“But what?” You sit up quickly, your throat aching with sleep. Your room is black as coal pitch. “Spencer, what time is it, my love?”
“You shouldn’t call me stuff like that.”
“Stop being weird and tell me where you are.”
He laughs like a hyena. You can see it in your mind, his smile and all his pearly perfect teeth. You love it when he smiles like that and he rarely ever does. “I’m somewhere and I need your help getting home!” he says with another funny laugh.
“Are you alright? You sound…” He sounds inebriated.
Spencer struggled with his drug problem for so long before you found out. You just hadn’t been around enough, and when you were he’d gotten good at hiding it. You can still remember how furious you’d been with everyone, including him, because you could’ve helped, would’ve done anything to support him through it. If he’s hurting now and hasn’t told you, you love him, but you’ll be insanely angry.
“Spencer?” you ask quietly.
“I went for drinks with a girl but she didn’t like me and I may have drowned my sorrows too much,” he admits. “Um. Did you know gin is very strong?”
“Aw, baby. You’re cheating on me?”
“I’m afraid so,” he says, and hiccups.
“Where are you?”
After some hassle wherein you persuade Spencer to give the phone to someone else in the bar for a slightly less drunk interrogation, you dress and gather your bearings for the drive. You zip a hoodie up over your pyjamas, stuff your feet into some old converse, and set out into the dark to find him.
He calls you again as you’re parking. “Hello,” he says as soon as you answered. “I need you to come and get me.”
Spencer called you twice to save him. Even if he doesn’t remember, he’s called you to come and get him when he knows he needs help, and that realisation is hard to ignore. “Spencer, I’m two minutes away, I’m parking. You’re still where you were?”
“Where was I?”
“At the bar, sweetheart. Are you still there?” It’s scarily dark out and you didn’t grab any sort of defensive measure before you came, which you regret now, climbing out of your car to walk the dimly lit road. The bar glows like a beacon to be followed.
“Still where?”
“Did you hit your head?”
“Not to my knowledge. Though I’m not sure I have much right now. I feel like I’m forgetting everything I’ve ever read, and I’ve read a lot. You know I can read about eighty average length novels in one hour on an e-reader? The buttons make it faster.”
“You haven’t told me that before.” You shiver against the nighttime winds, footsteps heavy on the grey sidewalk.
“I’m trying to be more conversational. Emily says it’s not working.”
“You’re conversational. Isn’t the only condition of being conversational to prompt a conversation? We’re always talking.”
“…What?”
You laugh like crazy. “Spencer, you don’t need to change the way you talk.”
“I annoy people.”
“You don’t annoy me.”
You approach the door of the bar, a ramshackle sheet of plywood over what looks to be a glass door. The bar building seems in similar dessaray, with modern features wrecked by scratches and smashed panes. It’s a real dive. Spencer couldn’t have meant to come here.
You war with both hands to open the door and find yourself faced with a long and empty corridor leading to another door. Worried you’re going to get kidnapped, you bring the phone back to your ear, Spencer’s chatting an immediate greeting. “…telling me I’m doing something wrong without telling me what it is, it’s impossible.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, can you come to the door?”
“I don’t think I have control of my legs,” he says without inflection.
“It’s definitely the building with the smashed door?”
“Yesssss. Are you here?” he asks excitedly.
“I better not get murdered, Spencer Reid.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“How are you even keeping the phone to your ear right now?”
“I’m on speaker phone. Milly showed me how to do it. Say hi, Milly.”
“Hi Milly,” a new voice says.
You rub your eyes with one hand and square your shoulders, prepared to defend yourself if the creepy door leads to a creepier room.
Spencer is immediately visible from the get go. You open the door on to a rather cosy looking bar, which you’re thinking might be the whole point; wretched exterior, secret attraction. Warm orange light ebbs into the space from sconces and a faux fireplace, while a wrestling match playing from the small TV behind the bar casts brighter light down onto Spencer’s shoulders. He looks out of place, dressed in a white oxford shirt and a suit jacket, his tie loosened and hanging from either side of his neck, compared to the lingering patrons who sit dotted around the room in booths and on barstools. One such patron sits in a plaid shirt and a trucker hat, her hair to her back, thick and dark.
You hang up the call and put your phone in your pocket. Spencer gasps like he’s been smacked and picks his own phone up from the bar, clicking at buttons with clumsy fingers. “No,” he hums sadly.
“Spencer,” you say, not wanting to disturb the people spending their sorry-looking night here. “Spencer. Hey, Spence!”
His phone tips between his fingers. The woman you assume to be Milly catches it and offers it back without looking too far from her beer.
“Hey,” you say gently, crossing a wide empty space to meet him. The room itself is shaped like a horseshoe, the bar taking up a surprising amount in the centre, and booths and tables placed around it. Spencer’s off of his barstool as you approach, eyes like puppy dog’s, arms extended. “You okay?” you ask.
You can feel eyes on you both from every angle, but it doesn’t matter, not when Spencer’s falling into your arms (or on to them —he’s surprisingly tall when you aren’t wearing heels). “You alright?” you ask again.
“You don’t have to be worried, I’m fine.”
He’s less coordinated in real life than he’d sounded over the phone, his slurring unmissable, his hands like jumping fish as he tries to hug you. It’s weird and straining to take his weight but you do it without complaint. He smells the same, at least, only his cedary cologne is sharpened by the tang of gin on his breath.
“Thank god you’re here,” he whispers.
“Why?” you ask, pulling away to check for danger.
“I missed you.”
“I missed you too, handsome,” you say, genuine but laying it on thick simultaneously as you ease his head back to cup his cheek. You can’t help yourself. He’s the prettiest man you’ve ever met, and it gets worse every year.
He frowns at you deeply. “I don’t like first dates.”
“Then don’t go on them,” you suggest, “you don’t need to until you’re ready.”
“I’m ready for love,” he says. You pull your lips into a flattened line, unsure of what to say, how to explain that it’s waiting for him, but his chin dips towards his neck and his eyes lock onto your face. “You’re not wearing makeup. God, you’re so pretty.”
You flinch away from him. “Fuck, Spencer.”
“I’m sorry! It’s not that you don’t look pretty with makeup, but I never see you without it!”
You’d forgotten you weren’t wearing any. Makeup isn’t a shield, exactly, but you like putting your best foot forward, so to speak. You’ve no clue what you look like tonight, hadn’t managed to look in the mirror, you’d been focused on getting to Spencer before he got lost. You can imagine the puffiness.
Spencer touches your cheek. You let him turn you mostly because he’s surprised you, his eyes roving up and down your face with a fawning curiosity.
“You’re beautiful. You know that already, but people don’t tell you enough,” he says, his hand falling from your cheek.
“Spencer,” you say softly, “let’s get you home.”
You thank Milly for her help and grab Spencer’s bag from the floor to hang on your shoulder. You’d make a joke about how heavy it was if you didn’t think he’d take it from you, and, considering how drunk he is, topple over from the imbalance it provides. His shirt is clammy where you push your hand through his arm to link them, his footsteps wobbly.
“I didn’t want to go on a date,” he says.
“Then why did you go?” you ask, helping him over the door jam into the long hallway.
“I don’t want to be alone forever.”
“Spencer, you won’t be.” It doesn’t feel like the best time to bring up how much you like him. You’re sure he thinks you’re kidding, doesn’t everybody? Don’t torture him, they say. Don’t toy with him. Every time you flirt with him the team acts like you can’t mean it, and for a while it worked for you; you weren’t in love with Spencer. You weren’t playing with his feelings, but you didn’t love him, and then you joined the team and got to know him, watched him fluster at every comment you made or under any soft looking and realised you could love him. It was easy to fall for him. You liked doing it. But now he’s determined to write your affection off as a joke and going on dates?
In the morning, when he’s sober, you’ll have to tell him how you feel. Or you could let him find someone more like him… ugh. It’s such a mess.
You grapple with the size of your feelings for him as he hums and laughs his way down the hall to the glass door. On the street, he squints and straightens his back, fighting to regain his arm from your hold to cover your shoulder instead. “It’s cold,” he says in surprise. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, I got my jacket. It’s a short walk, come on.”
His arm stops acting as protection and starts to use you for support. “I didn’t mean to drink so much.”
“Drowning your sorrows is always a terrible idea because it tends to work,” you lament, less scared of the dark with him at your hip, though what protection he might offer is negated by the alcohol.
“She kind of looked like you.”
You squeeze your eyes together quickly. “Oh.”
“I didn’t know she was going to. But she didn’t– she didn’t– it’s hard to talk. She didn’t listen like you do,” he says, lightly slurring, “she just stared at me like everyone used to in high school. Like she could tell there’s something wrong with me.”
“Spencer, there’s nothing wrong with you.”
“I know,” he says.
“Do you?”
“Yes.” He frowns. “No, I don’t know. I don’t feel like there’s something wrong with me,” —his voice turns to a nearly indistinguishable mumble— “but everyone else always does.”
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.”
“Is that why you make all your jokes?”
“What jokes, babe?”
“Like that! Like babe. It’s funny ‘cos you’d never date me.”
You’d slow if he weren’t already walking at a snail's pace. “That’s not true. Let’s talk about it in the morning, okay?”
“I won’t remember to ask you in the morning.”
“Spencer, you remember everything.”
He drags his feet. “I wish I wasn’t so weird,” he whines. It’s playful at the forefront but desperate otherwise, and it gives you pause. “I wish I was normal, and you could like me normal.”
You look down at your hands, panicking, a flash of Is this a good idea? like an alarm in your head as you turn on the sidewalk to face him. He’s looking at you like he’s begging you to disagree with him.
You’re happy to.
“Spencer, I like you like this,” you insist loudly. His eyes and all his sweet lashes track the movement of your hand as you touch your chest, and your neck. “You’re not normal, I’m not normal. Do you know how many times I’ve been rejected? Just for being me? I’m too bossy, too outspoken, too– too high maintenance. I've had friends with good intentions tell me I need to lower my standards, need to relax, because otherwise I’m going to end up alone for the rest of my life. I feel alone all the time.”
“But you’re perfect,” he says, puzzled.
“To you. And you’re perfect to me.” Your hand crawls to the base of your throat. “So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do. You think I’d come and get anybody else in the middle of the night dressed like this?” you ask him, gesturing to your ratty pyjamas and your dingy converse.
“You look so cute,” he says mournfully.
You roll your eyes. He’s too wasted for this conversation. “Come on, sweetheart. You can think about this too much in the morning. Let’s just get home in one piece.” Physically and emotionally.
“Can I come home with you?” he asks.
That had always been the plan. “Ask me nicely and I’ll consider it on the way.”
— —
Spencer shuts his eyes, hands itching to clap over his ears as you scratch the head of a spatula across your frying pan. “Is three eggs too many? People usually have two but that’s never enough for me.”
“I think…” Oh my god the metal screeching is so loud. “You should have as many as you want. You know your body. There’s this study on intuitive eating…” I'm too hungover for this. “Three eggs is better than two.”
“So you want three?”
He cannot eat right now. “Yes. Please.”
Spencer’s half sick with dehydration and half grief. He stayed at your house last night and he was too drunk to be nosy. He slept in your bed. He slept in your bed. He woke up to you at your vanity doing your hair, the nutty smell of hair oil mixed with the heat of the hair tool on high and realised with a start that he’d missed something he thought about all the time.
You’d tipped your head back to smile at him. “There’s my boy. Sweet dreams?”
He didn’t dream, but if he had, it would’ve been another agonising wish where you were his girlfriend, or his wife, or just there looking at him with love. He wakes up feeling sick because it isn’t true. And now you’re making him breakfast, humming a tune under your breath, sourdough sizzling under the grill and a shoddily blended avocado sitting in the bowl in front of him.
You asked him for one thing. He picks up the fork and starts to mash the avocado again. He can’t fight the foreignness of sitting in your kitchen, a gap in his memory.
He knows he told you about his date, how she looked like you, how she didn’t seem to like him much, but he’s struggling to collect the finer details. Why had you picked him up? He must’ve called you, but you could’ve said no. He remembers thinking you looked beautiful, but he always thinks that.
The avocado is making him feel sick.
“Here,” you say, sliding a plate of toast in front of him. “Do you want butter?”
“I think I'm gonna throw up.”
“You’re okay.”
“I can’t believe how I acted,” he says, pressing his palms to the hollows of his eyes.
You turn off the hob. Fat bubbles and pops until it’s cooled. The clock on the wall by the refrigerator ticks incessantly. His slept-in shirt feels too tight despite the undone button.
“Hey…” You round the island but don’t touch him, your voice gentle. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He drags his hands down his face. “I can barely remember what I said.”
“You were really nice to me… told me I looked pretty without my makeup, n’ that I was perfect. You were really nice.”
Your tone is off. No flirtatiousness, no endless confidence, you sound wistful, like you’re glad he said it. You take the bowl of avocado he’s made a mess with and put it aside with the toast, resting your arm on the counter, and leaning into his space. “Spencer, last night? You didn’t do anything to be embarrassed of. You were nice, and kind. You tried to open the car door for me and you almost lost your eye, but you were fine. You don’t have anything to be worried about, really.”
“But it’s you.”
“Gonna touch your hair,” you say, giving him enough time to move away as you reach out and rake back his fringe. His heart leaps into his mouth. “You said something last night like that, you know? Do you remember that? You said if you were normal.” You grace the skin beside his eye with the tip of your thumb, your perfume floating his way as you move. “And I said–”
“I’m not normal,” he says, remembering now.
You’re not normal, I’m not normal, you’d said.
But you’re perfect, he’d said.
To you. And you’re perfect to me.
“Right. We’re not normal, Spencer Reid, so forget that girl. She didn’t deserve you anyways,” you say.
You draw a short, silken line down his cheek with the side of your pinky. To be touched so lightly has his stomach in knots —he’s not shocked by the swiftness with which your affection can make a bad situation good again.
You turn away. “Now we should eat before everything goes cold.”
He watches your shoulders move, and he remembers one last detail. So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do.
The way you’d said it… you couldn’t really mean…
“How’s your appetite? Still feeling sick?” you ask.
Spencer smiles to himself, the ghost of your touch glowing warm on his cheek. “I’m feeling a lot better, actually.”
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
thank you for reading!!! please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed, i appreciate anything and it always inspires me to write more<3!! my requests are pretty much always open for bombshell!reader (even though this one strays a bit from their usual story haha) so if you wanna see more let me know❤️
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Vanilla? ✭ Oscar Piastri
Summary: It's always the quiet ones that are the freakiest. But that wasn't what every other driver on the grid thought as they teased Oscar and you for being too innocent to know anything beyond vanilla sex. So when you guys didn't put up a fight, they figured they were right... until someone was lucky enough to see you and Oscar on the other end of the spectrum of "plain sex".
Warnings: not vanilla sex! fingering, oral (male receiving), bondage (hands tied together), spreader bar (if that even what it’s called), unprotected sex, rough because how else would you have it? Gagging and deep-throating Oscar’s huge dick 😩
Word Count: 1.6k
A/N: Oscar is the man who makes me wanna wake up in the morning and I love it!! I'm so obsessed with him it's making me go insane, but if I'm going insane it's fine because I'm going insane over him. Everything about him is beautiful and I wanna call him pretty and gorgeous and watch as he blushes. Then ride him and take control of him until he wants to teach me lesson and makes me pass out. (I’m just a girl) Based off of this request.
“Oscar, how would you say relationships outside of F1 have helped you grow in this sport as a driver and as a person. If they had an impact, and if not then why?” Oscar’s PR manager testing questions on him, posing as one of the many journalists trying to break Oscar’s wall that he’s been perfect at keeping up so far. He finds it amusing that they have so much interest in his life, only encouraging him to keep his words to a minimum. Well as long as you don’t come up– his cheeks immediately flush and he starts every sentence with “my girlfriend” before he looks at others and silently begs them to say something to shut him up.
“Well, everyone’s been supportive of my career. Which only makes me want to do my best, and better than that.” Keeping a straight face as he answers until he looks at you beside him then Lando with a proud grin on his face.
“Who’s everyone…? Your girlfriend?” Lando’s voice teases, like every schoolgirl talking about their friend's crush.
“I- yeah. She does a lot for me, helps me let off steam before and after races, she also-”
“Let off steam, huh? Is my Oscar making his girlfriend cum to let off steam?” Lando’s mouth wide open, making an ‘o’ shape. Both you and Oscar have mixed emotions– heat coursing through you remembering just this morning, but also shock from Lando’s unhinged question.
“You’d be surprised?” Oscar’s answer broad, but you knew. Letting Lando believe that Oscar lets you cum, when his favourite thing is edging you until tears roll down your face.
“Oscar, you probably just learnt what a clit is.” Lando having nothing better to do than tease him as his pale cheeks turn pink.
“Believe whatever makes you happy.” Oscar shutting down the conversation before he reveals too much, a little smile on his lips as he chuckles and moves his hand further up your thigh.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.��༘⋆
It wasn’t just Lando who would have a say about you and Oscar’s sexual life, but any driver who happened to walk into the conversation at the perfect time.
“Oh yeah, Oscar you’re vanilla.” His fellow Australian, Daniel Ricciardo, says. Joining them on their walk to wherever they all had to be next.
“Well actually I think Oscar is a little more than vanilla. He’s vanilla but not vanilla.” Logan pops in too.
“No. Oscar is sooo vanilla. Like he’s too scared to choke his girlfriend because she’ll die and he’s never marked her so she knows she’s his.” Lando expresses his words with so much passion it makes Oscar roll his eyes but know exactly what Lando’s doing when their hotel rooms are beside each other and he’s invited a girl over.
“Wow. Calm down Lando, I think we learnt a little bit more from you than Oscar. You definitely need a girlfriend.” Daniel spoke the words everyone was thinking. Letting Oscar finally breathe and have all the attention over to Lando and his desires.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆
“Fuck, I needed you.” Oscar groans out, thrusting himself ever deeper into your mouth. “Talking ‘bout how vanilla we are. But look at us.” The position you were in was unimaginable. You lay on your back, head on the edge of the sofa as Oscar rammed into your mouth with his fingers opening you wide and making you cum. But still, that wasn’t enough, your hands tied together and a spreading bar made sure your legs couldn’t be shut, always ready for Oscar, but with a blindfold over your eyes how would you know? Each of your moans were muffled by his cock and as one of his hands played with your clit the other toyed with your nipple.
Blood rushed to your head from this position and it filled in for the loss of his hand around your neck. Oscar pounded into you, his dick making you gag as you deepthroated him. An explosion of fireworks inside of you as he continued making you cum, a loud scream trying it’s best to flee your puffy lips, but Oscar couldn’t help but enjoy hearing you struggle to make out any coherent sounds because of his cock.
By now it was impossible to remember the amount of times he had made you release. From his mouth, fingers and dick, all you did know was that that number was only going to increase.
Each of his moves were so intense, Oscar had you spellbound. Unable to notice anything other than him. Well that was until he pounded himself as deep as he could into your mouth and then stopped. Everything went silent.
“Oh fuck! Oscar?!” Those words certainly didn’t come out of your mouth, and when you realised who did say that, oh you couldn’t have been more embarrassed, but somehow aroused. Seconds later the door finally shut, and you could only think about the uncensored view Lando had of the both of you.
“Fuck, I’ll deal with him later. But for now…you need to cum.” Pulling out of your swollen mouth and grabbing you off the couch to lay your shamelessly sinful body on the floor. Oscar doesn’t take his time, manhandling your legs so your feet are nearly inline with your head and then making your arms keep them back by going in front of the spreader bar.
Leaving your pussy so exposed and vulnerable that Oscar could do whatever he liked between those drenched folds. It was always a gamble with Oscar, sometimes he’d take his time to tease you, others he wouldn’t even give you time to catch breath. This was just as unpredictable as others, by now you would either be covered in your own tears from his edging or on the verge of passing out because you could feel him in your throat after coming in you repeatedly.
You felt less of an advantage, not even being able to lay eyes on him, so you listened to your own heavy breathing until he touched you again. Fingers going between your folds and spreading them apart with his index and ring finger. Lightly teasing you with his middle one. “Looks like you’ve had enough today huh? Or can you take one more?”
You nod your head as an answer, but it’s never enough as he asks you for words.
“Y-yes. I can take more.” You force out between breaths, in shock of how you even managed to say those words.
“Oh really? Well that’s great.” Oscar holds your pliant body up even further and then makes a swift move of ramming himself deep inside of you. Once again it pulled all of the oxygen from your lungs and the stretch from the position couldn’t be compared to the stretch from his cock. You couldn’t complain as he thrusted in again and hit your g-spot. Bringing more tears to your red eyes.
Grunts and groans slipping past his lips and making his actions such a godly sensation.
Oscar pounds himself into you with no mercy, finding pleasure in your moans and cries. You wish to hold him, dig your fingers into his shoulders and mark his back. Adorn his pale skin in love bites and make his lips swollen. Thinking about the way his body flexes with every thrust and how divine he would look from this position that you’ve been in many times but each new one has a different effect.
“What’d you think Lando’s telling them?” Oscar grips your thighs tighter–fingers certainly making bruises– keeping you in place as he vigorously rams inside of your overstimulated pussy. Never losing pattern or momentum.
“You think he’s telling them about how you took me so well? Your hands tied up? And how fucking good you looked between my legs.” Each of Oscar’s words having such an effect on you it could've been a trick of hypnotism. Your legs shaking and lips parted as you came. Oscar savoured the beautiful sounds leaving your mouth and he worked harder to fuck your high out and bring his in.
You clenched around him, forcing a moan to finally leave his lips and bless your ears. Oscar spasms and releases inside of you. Pushing himself so deep and his cum even deeper. He thrusts a few more times, easing both of you out and spreading his cum inside your walls. Oscar sits in you for a while before pulling out. “Fuck, that was so. Fucking. Good.” He starts untying you and helping you come undone from all of the restraints. Letting you lay flat on the floor as he did all the work.
“I would’ve been in you for hours if he didn’t come in. Can’t imagine what he said to them”
Oscar crawls up your body and plants a kiss on your lips.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆
Finally leaving Oscar’s room you both didn’t know what to expect. Well definitely not drivers surrounding a small table as Lando spoke to them all with hand actions and his face even worse.
“Y’know vanilla isn’t even that bad. But wow Piastri, I didn’t think that.” Daniel brings all the attention to you two. Every driver turned their head with a series of reactions on their faces.
“You are freaky Oscar.” Logan couldn’t hold back and somehow Fernando was there to agree with him.
“I have to tell Charles! Now I know what you two do.” Pierre smirks, making you blush and look at the ground.
“Well I guess I was wrong, but Oscar why didn’t you tell me you sneaky boy. Because then I had to see it.”
“It seemed like you wanted to join.”
“No I-”
“The way you’re speaking about Lando, it seemed like you wanted to join.” Daniel once again kind of saving Oscar from these unfortunate topics.
“What? Guys this is about Oscar and how freaky he is with his girlfriend!”
“If you want to join, just ask.” You finally speak, teasing Lando and watching the way his face changes.
“Oh you guys are so not vanilla!”
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Late Manchester Nights
Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x pregnant!wife!reader
Word count: close to 700
Warnings: reader having to piss every 2 mins, simon being cute n fluffy, pregnancy?
Summary: The best nights are the ones spent at home.
Late Manchester evenings spent at home were Simon’s favourites. Yours too. You both loved sitting at home, locking out the world, just the two of you.
And it was about to get a whole lot better.
Stroking a hand over your very swollen belly, you came back to the couch, after your third bathroom break of the evening. You curl into Simon again, sighing as you both continue watching the show you had put on. He strokes your hair as you two watch the show. You feel so comfortable and safe being wrapped up in his arms, especially since you’re in your third trimester and need the support. Simon’s touch always calms you down, his scent always reassuring.
“He kickin’? I feel something,” Simon breaks the silence between you two.
“He’s always kicking,” you take his hand and place it on your belly.
“Lil bugger’s strong, ain’t he?” he chuckles softly. “Only a month to go, lovie.”
“5 weeks, technically. And he’s strong like his daddy, just as annoying too,” you giggle.
“I don’t know how I would’ve survived without you in my life. I don’t want to know what would’ve happened to me. I don’t wanna think about it,” he presses his lips to your forehead.
“Well, for starters, you’d probably never have a home cooked meal,” you tease.
“That’s true. I’ve always been hopeless in the kitchen. No one else could’ve ever taught me. You’ve really made a positive difference in my life. You gave me all the love I needed and more. You made me strong and taught me how to really love someone. Thank you, lovie, I don’t know how else to thank you for everything you’ve done. And I want you to know, I won’t stop ‘til I can make you just as happy as you make me.”
“You already make me so happy,” you lean against him, wrapping your arms around him. “You’re the best.”
He hugs you tightly, enjoying the closeness and the way he can feel your belly against his. He kisses you softly and brushes your hair out of your face.
“I have to pee again.”
He groans and lets you get up, his arms falling by his sides. “I don’t get it. How many pints of piss could be in that lil body of yours, lovie? Y’can’t just have one pee every once in a while?”
You giggle at him as you waddle to the washroom. He laughs at you, shouting the word ‘penguin’ at you.
When you come back, he’s still chuckling. You slap his shoulder as you sit down again, sighing.
“You get more beautiful every day,” Simon whispers.
“Really?” you look up.
"You don't even realise your beauty. Every day I look at you, all I see is perfection. You're getting bigger and bigger with our baby but you don't look anything like a fat slob. Y'still as beautiful as the day I met you, if not more. And as you grow more beautiful, so does my love for you,” he mumbles, stroking your cheek.
“You’re gonna make me blush,” you tease.
“You're the best wife any man could ever ask for. I get to wake up next to my gorgeous, pregnant wife every morning, how does that not inspire happiness in me? I get to go home every night next to the light in my world and I don't dread seein' you. We had some rough patches at the beginning but we made it through, and now we get to spend the rest of our lives together,” he nudges your nose with his. “Perfection.”
“You’re too good to me,” you smile, leaning into him. “You know I couldn’t have found anyone better than you? And before you go on about that ‘I’m traumatised’ bullshit, just know that your whole past and everything you’ve been through is why I love you. It makes you stronger every day and I get to be the lucky person sitting by your side watching you become the best version of yourself. You are the best for me, Si.”
He smiles, kissing your forehead.
“Hey Si?”
“Don’t say it, lovie.”
“I have to pee again.”
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