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gtgbabie0 · 11 months

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Ouch!

{Spider-Man!Spencer comes home late with a gift and an apology}

I love this au so much it’s insane. I really hope you enjoy!! 💕

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2:23 am. The clock reads in bright red colours and you swear it’s taunting you, mocking you almost as you wait and wait for Spencer to return home. Angry felt like an understatement, you were beyond angry at this point and you blame him for making you sick with worry.

Spencer would normally send you a text at the very least, just to let you know he was coming home, but tonight, nothing, just complete radio silence. And now you were completely consumed with panic, a feeling that left a bitter taste in your mouth.

And that’s why you felt like throwing a pillow and a blanket at him as he clumsily climbs through your window, knocking his books off the shelves as he does, to tell him he’ll be sleeping on the sofa for the rest of the month.

But then he pulls off his mask, trying to catch his breath, his hair all messy and he gives you the biggest sweetest smile ever, eyes creasing with the action. He knows he’s messed up, big time.

“Baby- I’m sorry, I just-” he watches as you scoff before walking off into the bedroom, his smile drops and his eyebrows knit together with confusion, “Hey! Where are you going?” He asks, only to be met with the bedroom door in his face.

“Well now that I know you’re not dead, I’m going to sleep,” you tell him, and he winces slightly at the anger in your tone.

He didn’t mean to return so late, it was partly Derek's fault, he was the one who dumped all that paperwork on his desk, which made him late to his ‘late night parkour sessions’ as you so kindly called it.

Spencer rests his head against the wooden door, sighing softly, “I’m really sorry, can I come in-- please?” He asks, his voice so gentle that it almost makes you feel bad, “I really missed you today”, almost.

You contemplate packing a bag and calling Penelope, but then you would have to come up with a believable excuse because you couldn’t exactly tell her that Spencer, the same Spencer she’s been working with for years, is Spider-man.

He starts tapping the door to some rhythm in his head, “No, I don’t want to look at you right now” you tell him, hoping that he would just give in but that wasn’t exactly in Spencer’s nature.

Your words pain him more than you know, it hurts to hear but he couldn’t exactly blame you either, he knew you would worry.

He rummages through his brown shoulder bag looking for the necklace he and Derek brought. You wanted it for your birthday but it was sold out everywhere, then JJ had seen it on her way to work and immediately called Spencer, who was going to swing over to the jewellery shop, literally, but was soon stopped by Derek who said he’d go with him, something about Penelope having a rough week and wanting to treat her.

He holds the small purple box gently, thumb grazing over the velvet, sighing at the entire situation.

Then the door opens and a hopeful feeling blooms through his chest, “I’m going to get some water” and just like that it withers away.

He follows you out into the kitchen, his brown eyes full of guilt. He just wants to hold you again. “Sweetness, I was going to text you I swear- but then my phone” he admits holding up two pieces of his flip phone, snapped in half.

He’s about to go on a rant, explaining to you how it completely wasn’t his fault, how these guys were trying to rob this old woman on his way home, and Spencer being Spencer, plus the whole Spider-man thing, couldn’t just ignore it.

But you don’t let him, you guess you were just overcome with relief that he was alright, not bleeding out in some random alleyway, it kinda just hit you, washing over your tired body with haste as you threw your arms around his neck, bringing him close to you.

That same relief bleeds onto him, and with a heavy sigh as he rests his head in the crook of your neck. His arms encircling around you as he holds you close to him. He doesn’t want to let you go.

“I can’t keep paying for new phones” you whisper, trying to hold back the cries that wedge in the back of your throat with a giggle, and he chuckles softly shaking his head.

“You don’t have to, I’ll figure it out,” he says, pulling back slightly as he peppers gentle kisses all over your face, and his heart skips a beat at your soft laughter, the lovely sound only urges him to continue.

You’re hands cup either side of his cheeks as you look at him, studying his pretty face, “You really scared me tonight Spencer” you tell him, and he gives you an understanding look as he takes your hands in his, his thumb smoothing over the bumps of your knuckles.

“I know- I’m sorry, really-” you watch with slight confusion as he pulls out a small purple box from his pocket, “It won’t happen again, I promise” he whispers handing you the gift, he smiles watching with excitement as you open the box.

His heart stutters in his chest as he watches your eyes light up, glistening with joy as you look up at him, you go and say something but all that comes out is small gasps, and it makes the butterflies in his stomach all too prominent.

“I know this won’t make up for everything, and- and I’m not trying to buy your forgiveness, that’s not what I’m trying to do- I just want you to be-” and before you completely lose him to his panicked rambling, you push your hand against the back of his neck bringing him down as you kiss him, leaving him breathless.

He lets out a nervous chuckle, “S-so you like it?” He asks quietly, his lips against yours.

“I love it, thank you, baby,” you tell him, and he helps you put the necklace on, his gentle fingers grazing against your soft skin before you pull on his hand leading him into your bedroom with hushed giggles, your hearts full of love.

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goldpomegranates · 2 years

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Some Sacred Shore

Will Ransome / Male!Reader

Rated E for religious imagery, allusions to period typical attitudes towards homosexuality, and explicit sexual content. Wordcount: 3.9k Also on AO3.

Luke Garrett's invitation to a birthday party in Essex seemed uncharacteristic, and upon your arrival you find that the intention was to pit you against the village vicar in a contest of intellectual wit. Fortunately, the guests are too preoccupied to lend both of you much attention. Unfortunately, the reason for Father Ransome choosing to live out in the marshes of Aldwinter becomes abundantly clear.

† † †

The news that reached London had been unbelievable at first. Rumors of mythical beasts were nothing novel, your cousin having written you about the alleged hellhounds of Dartmoor just last year—but even tales of murderous serpents paled to the news that arrived from Essex on that dreary Monday morning. Atop your desk, written in fine cursive made slanted by haste, was an invitation. A birthday party for Michael’s widow, hosted by none other than Luke Garrett himself.

It was as odd as it was scandalous. Mrs Seaborne, more sentient trophy than woman, had never been one for parties. She was reclusive, quiet, hung on Michael’s arm with a thousand-kilometer stare that sat well with no one who noticed her reticent demeanor. Honestly, the invitation carried the stench of Garrett’s ulterior motives, scoundrel that he was, more than it did any genuine desire for celebration. While there were a million and one things you would rather do than hop on a train down to Essex, you had promised Spencer an attempt to integrate yourself into the social circles of doctors and academics in hopes of climbing the ladder of success.

And so, overnight bag packed and donning your finest suit, you made for the station.

† † † † † †

Aldwinter is, to put it nicely, a mess of a village. No amount of sidestepping spared your shoes from a muddy demise, and no amount of scrubbing them against the house’s edge could make them suitable to be worn indoors. But you weren’t raised an animal, and so you ask the nearest person who looks the vaguest bit familiar to fetch you a rag.

“You can just take your shoes off and leave them by the door. Half the people in here have already shed their dignity alongside their jackets,” said a woman with arms crossed over her chest and thick eyebrows raised. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Martha.”

You give her your name and offer a hand, which she takes in a firm grip. “I’m a friend of Dr Spencer. I must confess that I’m not entirely sure why Garrett extended me an invitation, but I’m appreciative of the opportunity to be here.”

And speaking of the devil. “You!” Garrett shouts from across the small room, twirling away from Mrs Seaborne in a half-drunken stumble, wine glass in hand. “My friend, I am absolutely delighted you could make it.” He swings an arm around your shoulders in overconfident camaraderie, patting your back. “Make yourself at home. There are drinks in that direction, the birthday girl is over there, Spencer’s around here somewhere but….but.” Garrett pauses, leans in conspiratorially. “You see that man over there? The one in the stuffy suit?”

You follow the direction he’s pointing towards, and you see him, leaning against a door frame, awkwardly sipping his drink. Tall, windswept despite the obvious attempt at personal grooming, the most well-dressed in a house filled with already over-dressed people.

“That,” Garrett whispers, “is Will Ransome. And he’s the reason why you’re here.”

You fix him with an impassive glare. “That’s it? Not because I’m a joy to have?”

Martha hides a laugh behind her hand. “Oh, I quite like you.”

Garrett lifts a finger. “You’re a philosopher,” he says, still clinging to you. His breath reeks of alcohol. “A brilliant one, so I’ve been told. All that deep-rooted nonsense of what we are and what have you… He. That man. He’s a vicar.”

It’s your turn to laugh, both with surprise and mild confusion. One never expects to see a man of God at a party, especially not one this rowdy. “Let me guess. You want me to engage him in conversation.”

“Exactly!”

“Why?”

“He has a way with words. Simple, sure, but inspired. I want to see him sweat, see how good his belief is when pitted against the scholarly.”

“You brought me here to antagonize a pastor,” you say, peeling Garrett’s arm off you. “I don’t think I’ll be doing that.”

“Oh, come now. It’s all in good fun! Martha, tell him.”

“I think you’ve lost your mind,” she tells Garrett. “Go. Cora’s waiting for that sixth dance you promised her this evening.” He disappears into the sparse crowd like he had never accosted you. “He’s had a bit too much to drink,” Martha says, “not that I blame him. Can I get you anything?”

Your shoes still on and frankly ruffled by the exchange, you nod. “I would like a glass of water, please.”

† † † † † †

The jaunty music and raucous laughter are more than you care for, and after giving Mrs Seaborne the impersonal gift you purchased for her from Hatchard’s, you’re ready to call it an evening and head back to the pub for the night. Your plan is thwarted however, by a knock on the kitchen door.

The vicar has to duck his way into every room, and he does so with the grace of an adolescent goat. He’s no posh bastard from the Westminster elite, and no amount of cleaning up can disguise how easy it is to picture him knee deep in mud. He greets you by name with an inquisitive arch of his eyebrows.

“Father Ransome,” you greet in turn. “A pleasure.”

“Please, just Will.”

“Have you been enjoying the evening?” you say, moving to refill your cup. “You seem to be faring better than I.”

“Not by any choice of my own. First, it was my wife who argued we stay for Cora’s sake. And then it was Dr Garrett who was most insistent that I converse with you.” Will holds up his glass to you, and despite the traces of wine still in it, you top it off with water. “Thank you.”

“I assume he’s told you all about me.”

“Only that you’re a student of philosophy. Quite the genius.”

“But…?”

Will’s mouth twists into an unpleasant half-smile. “I believe he thinks I'm illiterate.”

“Luke is a well-traveled man, and his fault is believing he knows all because of it,” you say. “He operates on one heart, and he thinks himself better than God.” You watch him intently, and marvel at his lack of affront. “As for you. You could have been a man of law, I’ve been told, but instead you turned towards faith. I’m unsure if that is wise or foolish given the times we are living in.”

“Do Plato and Aristotle offer comfort in the face of adversity?”

“Somewhat. I choose to find the comfort hidden in logic. There is strength in thought, understanding in enlightenment. I am faced with a serpent, and I do not declare that there is no such thing due to lack of evidence. Our fears and perceptions are powerful enough to make even the fantastical real.”

Will looks down at his glass, nodding thoughtfully. “Then how to differentiate between logic-based serenity and self-realization in the absence of concepts that transcend life?”

You don’t mean to gawk, hiding the ungainly expression behind a cough. “You’re much more well-read than even I gave you credit for.” Unlike Garrett, Will does not look smug. “I didn’t expect a vicar to wield the words of Nietzsche. What’s that parable about biting into the fruit of knowledge? Something about the original sin?”

“Familiar with Scripture, I see.”

“Only the basics.” The water on your tongue is blissfully cold, staving off the heat of too many people in a small space. From somewhere in the living room, Mrs Seaborne laughs, and you notice the way Will flinches at the sound. He fidgets with his glass, and it does not take a genius to put two and two together. “Why don’t we step outside? I could use the fresh air.”

Surprised by the simplicity of your proposal, Will agrees.

† † † † † †

You walk, and you listen.

The night sky is lit a radiant blue, more aqueous than the marsh you tread upon. Wisps of atmosphere cut through it like eels in search of sustenance, bringing the firmament to life. You’ve never seen anything like it, not in London, not anywhere. But the color, that stunning hue of blue, is eerily similar to that of the vicar’s eyes.

He’s a brilliant man, deceptively educated, with a fountain of knowledge nestled between his temples. He weaves truths both personal and universal, engaging in topics that would cow a lesser man of the cloth. You can see why Ambrose mourned yet respected Ransome’s decision to join the church, to move out into the middle of nowhere where people lose themselves to the whims of superstition.

“—and, quite frankly, I’m at a bit of a loss,” he says, digging at his bow tie to loosen it. “It’s as if I have been abandoned, set adrift, unable to navigate the waters I once knew so well.” Will laughs, quietly, and it’s a mirthless sound. “My apologies. I must be boring you.”

“Not at all. There is understanding that can be gained from listening in on others’ misfortunes,” you try to joke, but it falls flat. “Did these trials and tribulations begin when Mrs Seaborne arrived in Essex?”

Will stops in his tracks and gazes out towards the water. Neither of you brought your coats, and you’re beginning to feel the evening chill seep into your bones. He seems unbothered by it, however.

“I’m… unsure,” he says, and you find his lack of denial curious. “A man gleans nothing from avoiding judgment. The least he can do is renounce his sins once he’s acknowledged them.”

“And what sins need a vicar acknowledge?”

Will looks up, and a hint of shame slithers its way down your throat. He cuts a beautiful albeit tragic silhouette against the penumbra of that late hour, and you can’t help but stare. Out here, he does not look like a man of God. He is merely a man dressed in his Sunday best, a bit inebriated, searching for answers on how to best help his village. A quasi-reluctant patriarch; or, at least, one that can use a moment’s respite.

“There is no serpent,” he says, shutting his eyes, “but I can still feel its unrelenting hold on me. The fear is sickly sweet, the uncertainty oily on my skin. I long for the calm that reigned before all of this began. I long for the simplicity of Sunday service followed by supper and a meaningless walk along the shore.” Will heaves a sigh and casts you a fleeting glance. “I long… I long for the time when my flesh wasn’t so weak to temptation.”

You shove your hands into your pockets before walking down the bank to him. “A man of God is, in the end, still just a man. And his conversations with said God are of no one else’s concern. I understand that He has the ability and mercy to forgive.”

Will’s exhale mists the air. “The sentence for premeditation is far more severe.”

“Perhaps in human law.”

His expression speaks to a profound sense of torment that no man should shoulder alone. You know of pastors that have committed much more heinous crimes with less weight on their conscience, but you ascribe Will’s guilt as the mark of a good person. He is trying, he is failing, and you are riddled with compassion.

You look over your shoulder, at the house in the distance whose interior is filled with warmth and cheer, a beacon out in the stormy sea. The rest of the world, in its bleakness, is where you have always stood, where Will has deliberately waded out to. There is something missing here, something you cannot put a finger on, or, rather, something you’re too skeptical to even consider.

But your ability to tell is yet to be wrong.

You can see it in Garrett, in the way he latches to women yet prefers the company he shares in with Spencer. You saw it in how Martha looked at Mrs Seaborne. Staring at Will, thinking back to his beautiful wife and lively children, you can feel the flicker of a flame pushing towards the realization.

“What is a man like you really doing, hiding out in the marshes?” you say, starting towards the pier, your back to him to allow him a moment to collect himself.

Will doesn’t answer, but he follows.

It’s dark beneath the deck, and you’re mindful not to get caught in the fishing nets abandoned for the night. The bright sky allows enough light for you to see, and the position in relation to the house grants you privacy. The briny air is infinitely better than the London smog you have grown accustomed to over the years, and while you prefer the gentle smells of lavender and bergamot that permeate a well lived-in home, the setting could be much worse.

Beneath the weathered wood as the tide rises, Will considers you with a wary side-glance. His nerves betray his carefully guarded secret because an invert will always recognize an invert. It’s a good hiding place, if unoriginal. Ignore the sin, pretend to be normal, pray to God for serenity.

The cotton of his shirt is stiff and scratchy, a suit seldom worn, and you wonder how he looks dressed down in homey linen. He likely returns to his house covered in mud, rugged for a vicar, and your imagination has always been both your most intimate friend and traitorous enemy. Your palm presses against his chest, fingers fanning out and catching on the buttons, and the faintest pressure has Will leaning backwards, his back pressed up against a pier.

He breathes heavy, chest fluttering as he braces his hands against the wood behind him, eyes shut tight.

“Blame it on me,” you say, stepping up to him until you’re toe to toe. You pinch a side of his bow tie, tugging on it until he finally looks at you. “Sometimes, collapsing an infected lung is the only way to cure it.

Will stammers but you silence him with a kiss, his thin lips pressed firm together to deny you further invitation. His hands clasp your biceps, and you wait for the inevitable, for him to shove you away, to sneer at your abhorrent behavior, to cross himself and run off to his church and beg for forgiveness—but it never comes. Will holds you in place, at a respectable distance. His mouth does not move, and you debate whether or not he’s actually breathing, but that too withers into surrender when your hand not pinning him to the pier comes up to carefully stroke his cheek.

“You’re the Devil,” he says, nuzzling into your hand with a shuddering sigh.

You laugh and kiss him once again. This time, he reciprocates with no shortage of hesitation. “You don’t believe that,” you say, taking your lips to where the collar of his shirt meets feverishly warm skin, “just how you don’t believe in a serpent bringing out the worst in your flock.”

The grip on your arms ease, Will’s thumbs rubbing circles over the fabric of your jacket. He brings you closer, chests pressed together, and you look up at him, marveling, slightly flustered at the intensity of his attention. “I shouldn’t,” he says with a lick of the lips, eyes dimming with raw desire. “We should get back. You’re shivering. And the tide is—” Will trails off into a heavy sigh, your leg slipping between his and pressing up against his groin. “Please.”

You unbutton his jacket, your hands roaming to drink in the heat he emanates while you pepper kisses along the underside of his chin, enjoying the feeling of his beard. You live for the sensation, for the roughness that accompanies tender exchanges. “Please, what, Father?” You embrace him, hold him tightly, whisper hotly into his ear. “Whatever is said, whatever we do, shall stay between us and God.”

Will surges forward, his mouth on yours with uncontained fervor, desperate whines drowned out by the wind rippling the water. His hands cradle your face, a touch both grounding and fleeting, as his teeth graze your bottom lip. You open for him, for his kiss, his tongue, and it is your turn to fall into the maw of unbridled lust. Cold water against your shoes proves to be a ticking clock.

You shove him against the pier again and Will gives, legs parting just enough to accommodate you between them. His hands float along the parts of you he can reach yet hesitate at your hips. You pause with a grin, pressing your nose to his. “Go on.”

A brief hint of embarrassment flashes in Will’s eyes, but he’s too far gone to give it further thought. Calloused hands grope your ass and you moan, rutting up against him to feel the bulge in his pants press against your groin. It robs you both of breath, suffuses you both with heat, and you take. You take without holding back.

You loosen your tie as Will fumbles with his pants, pulling his erection free and giving it a generous stroke, eyes fluttering shut once more. You watch him, the pinched set of his brow and the tight frown, the way his shoulders shake. Those last dredges of reluctance fighting a losing battle.

“It’s called free will for a reason,” you say. “You have the power to walk away.”

He shakes his head, swallowing with an audible click. “I need you,” he whispers, the sound nearly swept away by the breeze.

The confession rests heavy in your chest, the delirious hunger of a handsome stranger who, in another lifetime, you would have courted. But as it stands, he is a man of God, a married one at that, and while you have never sunk this low you wonder why the grip he has around your heart is as powerful as it is.

You distract him with a kiss, a long and languid one that grows messy, with spit gathering for either of you to lap up with debauched abandon. You wrap a hand around his cock and swallow his shocked moan, settle between his thighs as you fumble with your own fly. “Quiet,” you say, shimming until you’re pressed just right to slip him between your thighs. “Sound carries.”

Will nods but it’s a thoughtless gesture, his arms wrapping around your back to hold you tightly to him, face buried against the crook of your neck. He pants as his hips stutter forward, aborted little sounds falling out of him as you counter his thrusts with stilted movements of your own. You squeeze your legs tighter and he whimpers, fingertips scrambling across your back.

A hand wraps around your own prick and you startle, surprised that he even has the forethought to return the pleasure. Will’s hold is awkward, unpracticed, but you forgive it. You can’t help the moan that bubbles out of you, and neither can you ignore the sudden trace of wetness his cockhead leaves between your thighs.

“I wish I could take you properly,” you tell him, and his pace falters, frantic. “Undressed, beneath me, slick you with oil.” You chuckle. “Anoint you.” Will’s teeth latch onto your shoulder and it’s almost enough to push you over the edge, but not quite. “Would you go to your knees for me, Father? Let me bestow upon you a true sense of rapturous ecstasy?”

“Please,” he mutters, moving to press his forehead to yours, wide eyes unfocused, not a hint of blue left in them. “Please.” You grip his wrist. “What? What is it?”

Straining to listen, only the distant sound of a jaunty tune reaches your ears. You give his hip enough of a push to dislodge him, and Will looks devastated by the loss of contact. However, you do not give him the chance to speak his piece. With a firm hand on his shoulder, you give him a look that leaves no room for misunderstanding.

Water laps at your ankles, and ruins Will’s pants as he goes to his knees before you.

His hair is soft as it spills through your fingers, giving it the gentlest tug that has him panting for more. You trace your thumb down his cheekbone, your touch worshipful, driven to speechlessness at how beautiful he truly is. Will is painfully vulnerable, surrendering more than just his body to you at the very moment.

Dragging a fingertip along his bottom lip, you encourage him to open his mouth. He obeys, hands clasped at his lap in involuntary prayer. You feed him, placing yourself on his tongue and ordering him to hold, to commune with his god before taking it into his belly. The good reverend remains still, eyes open, awaiting his deliverance.

Fingers tight in his hair, you push your hips forward until he hums a complaint, his breaths coming in short huffs through his nose as you sink all the way in. You hold him there, his mouth spread wide around you. He’s tight, hot, and wet, and your thighs quiver from the profanity of it. This blasphemous encounter out in the marshes, beneath a bright sky, away from God’s eyes.

“Please yourself,” you tell him, easing back just enough for him to cough with relief. “Think of my hand, or my mouth on you in turn.”

You brace your free hand against the pier, the other still in his hair as you hear rather than see Will stroking himself at a punishing pace. His moans around you send shocks of electric delight up your spine, turning your limbs to liquid as you draw your pleasure from him, and him from you.

You make sure to stifle his sounds by being deep in his mouth, nudging the back of his throat, when he climaxes. Each grunt is punctuated by a rough jerk of his arm, a sound so guttural you find yourself nearing your own orgasm. You offer Will a small mercy, unaccustomed as he is, by withdrawing and taking yourself in hand.

His eyes are wide and gleaming, jaw slack as he gazes up at you in abject exaltation, as if you have offered him his salvation. And that is enough. You stroke yourself to completion, spilling across his swollen lips and reddened face. Will makes no move to wipe himself clean, just allows your essence to dribble down his chin and onto his shirt, rendering every piece of his suit ruined.

The tide is coming in, the water refusing to wait for two sinners to gather the courage, or the want, to pray for forgiveness. What is done and is done, and in the ebb of lust comes the twinge of guilt—not for any religious figure, not for the church, but for those who must never learn of this encounter. When clarity sets, your heart aches for the man who holds onto your coattails, shivering from the cold both external and inside.

No amount of wine can fix the vicar. No amount of prayer can change the societal standards that must be abided by. But here, beneath a pier in Aldwinter, at least a shred of comfort can be shared between two men who cannot change fate.

#the essex serpent #will ransome #will ransome x reader #male reader #will ransome x you #tom hiddleston #c's writing.#crosspost #reader insert #will ransome imagine

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