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the worst part about being a server is getting a 15 top and they all want separate checks 😔

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Part Two is finally out!

part two

read on ao3

One-Way Mirror (Gavin Reed x Reader)

Summary: Both Gavin and Reader suck at feelings Content: NSFW 18+, gn!Reader, smut, angst, hurt/no comfort, fingerfucking, dirty talk, friends with benefits, unresolved feelings, unrequited love, basically just angsty smut Word Count: 1.6k read on ao3

You love him.

Or at least you think you do.

Sure, Gavin Reed is the resident asshole of the Detroit Police Department and he can be hard to swallow—both figuratively and literally—but he's something more to you. He's an enigma that you want to—need to—figure out.

You glance up at him from your kneeling position, one hand wrapped around his cock and the other between your legs. His head is thrown back and his bottom lip is between his teeth. You think he’s pretty like this, with his eyes shut and that screwed-up look of pleasure on his face.

When he’s like this, he doesn’t notice you staring—doesn’t make some dickish comment like “take a picture, it’ll last longer.” It’s one of the few times he’s actually quiet—besides the soft muffled sounds coming from his mouth. 

You don’t think he loves you back. You really just think that he’s incapable of love, incapable of being more than this.

He lets you see him like this because you understand him—because you get him. He can call you as many names as he likes and you always shoot them back— dickwad, douchebag, asshole. He likes that about you, you think—that you can match his energy.

Your lips wrap around the head, tongue swirling around like you have to taste every inch of him. He lets out a groan—if he could sink right through the mattress, you think he would. He’s melting and you know that you’re the heat that molds him.

“Fuck… ” he mutters, one of his hands running through his hair and the other gripping your head. He doesn’t push you—he knows better—but he knows you like when he grips your hair. You hum around him before taking him deeper into your mouth.

He’s like water in your hands, slipping through despite how much you try to cup them and keep him there. He’s always two steps away even when he’s right here.

He pulls you off of him, his eyes open and he looks down at you. He’s panting and the wrinkle between his brows deepens. “I don’t wanna finish like this,” he says, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. “Come on, get up here.”

It’s not a demand or an order like he usually gives you, it’s something more blurred—his voice is gentle, not full of spite and a lack of sleep. He’s asking you, letting you deny him even though he needs this. You need this.

You push yourself off the ground and join him on the bed. He’s on top of you in seconds, yanking your pants down your legs–your belt makes a clinking sound when they hit the floor.

There’s this glint in his eyes that you only see when he’s hovering over you. You know it’s probably nothing– just a trick your mind is playing on you–but you swear it means something, that this is what he can give you. It’s not quite love, but it’s enough. It has to be enough.

One of his fingers fills you, drawing a sharp exhale from your lungs. He adds another and your hand clasps over your mouth, drowning the sounds into your palm. He grins that cocky grin that would usually piss you off in any other circumstance—but he’s proud of himself and you're okay with letting him have this. You’d let him tear you apart if he asked.

“Yeah? You like that?” He questions, his own type of pillow talk. “I don’t even have to do this—you’re always ready for me like the good whore you are.”

You should feel insulted—you don’t. Instead, you respond with a muffled moan and a slight head nod. He seems to like that answer as he adds a third finger. 

Your free hand grips the sheets and you feel like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the ground. If heaven was real, you were sure this was it.

“Nobody else makes you feel this good, do they?”

No, they don’t. Nobody else makes you feel like they’re holding your head underwater and that you trust them enough to pull you up for air when you need it. Like sleep to the freezing. Something so good but so wrong.

He pulls out his fingers and you whine, eyes snapping open to narrow in frustration at him. He just laughs that god-awful laugh that you love despite how much it grates your ears.

“What? Is something wrong?” You can hear the smirk in his voice—he’s so smug and you want to fucking throttle him.

You open your mouth to fire back but you’re swiftly shut up by his cock filling you. He’s never gentle when he’s fucking you—it’s hard and it’s fast and it pulls you apart. You’re not sure you ever want him to fuck you any differently.

Your eyes find his face as his hips piston into you, grunts escaping his throat. He’s not looking at you— he never does. You’re always watching him and he’s never seeing you. 

His eyes are closed and you wonder if he’s imagining someone else. Someone more pliable to what he wants. You’re made of stone—he can chip away but he never can mold you into something easier to hold. You’ll always have sharp edges—he grabs you like he doesn’t care if he slices his hand.

You close your own eyes, trying to think of someone else. An old hookup. Your last Tinder date. That new android detective, Connor—you know Gavin would hate the thought and you can’t do that to him, not even subconsciously.

Gavin’s presence in your head is overbearing. Every choice you make somehow leads back to him, from your choice of clothing to the life-or-death decisions you’re forced to make each day.

You’re pulled out of your thoughts when Gavin grabs one of your hands and interlaces your fingers. It’s so… intimate —you don’t know what to think. His hand in yours makes this real—at least to you. It tells you that he’s aware of you for once, that he’s not just fucking a hole— he’s fucking you and he’s conscious of it.

He slams into you again, his head coming down to the crook of your neck. You can feel his breath against your skin, soft pants as he thrusts in and out. “Fuckin’ hell,” he groans, the fingers of his other hand digging into your hip. “You’re so good for me.”

You want it to mean more than it does to him. You could be good for him, you think, you keep him grounded yet you share the same misery—the same reliance on caffeine and these exchanges of endorphins. Maybe you could make him happy, outside of the serotonin he receives when he’s filled you. You’d dote on him; dress up for him, make him a lunch for work, and have coffee ready for him in the morning. It’s a pipe dream and you know it.

“You’re so fucking… fuck… you’re so tight,” the words stumble from his lips as they usually do—he’s close. 

Your free hand reaches down to play with yourself, to bring yourself right to the edge with him. If he asked you to jump, you’d ask how high.

His mouth presses against your neck, his teeth hovering over your carotid. He holds your life in his mouth and you trust him with it despite all the signs warning against it. He’s fire and you’re gasoline.

“I’m gonna–” his hips start to stutter. “Fuck.”

You tumble over the edge with him, legs quaking where they wrap around his waist. He collapses onto you, knocking the air from your lungs—it’s suffocating and you love it.

He lets go of your hand and pushes himself up, sliding out of you with ease. He sits back on his knees, hands on his thighs as he catches his breath. He raises a hand to drag over his face, wiping away the sweat. There’s a faraway look in his eyes, like he’s not really here with you. You wish he was.

His eyes shift to the wall to his right. He never looks at you straight when he’s done—you wonder if he regrets it.

You wish he’d just lay down beside you and pull you close. That he’d kiss your head and promise you things he’s not sure he should. He won’t and you’ve accepted that. This is what he can give you and you’re fine with that. You can savor him better like this—if he gave into you, you’re sure you’d eat him whole.

He slides his legs out from underneath himself, one of them resting on its side on the bed and the other pulled to his chest. His arm rests on his knee, his knuckles pressed against the side of his face. You’d paint him like this if you knew how.

“Well,” his eyes flicking in your direction but focusing on anything that isn’t you. “I’m gonna shower.”

He gets up and heads towards his connected bathroom. You wanna reach out and stop him. You wanna ask why he won’t look at you–why he can’t look at you. He acts like you’re the sun—he orbits around you without ever staring at you too long. You might burn him if he does.

“Gav,” you croak out, the first word you’ve said since you've entered his apartment. 

He looks at you like you’re the weight on his shoulders—familiar but unwelcome. Or maybe he’s the weight on yours. You aren’t sure.

“‘The fuck you want?” he asks. You know he doesn’t mean for it to come out so rotten—that’s just the way he talks and he knows you understand. But it hurts you this once.

You love him. 

You want to tell him—it’s on the tip of your tongue like a word you can’t quite find.

“Don’t slip, dumbass,” you answer with a cheshire grin—it’s forced and you know that he knows.

 It’s better that you don’t .

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Looking Glass (Gavin Reed x Reader)

He can’t love you, no—love is a foreign word on his forked tongue. — A.K.A. they both still suck at feelings. Content warnings: NSFW 18+, gn!Reader, smut, angst, hurt/no comfort, dirty talk, friends with benefits, unresolved feelings, unrequited love, a lot of android racism (it's Gavin, y'all), and lots of explicit language. Read at your own risk. Words: 2.3k read on ao3 read part 1

There’s nothing Gavin hates more than androids. 

Now with the whole revolution thing over, he’s forced to interact with them every damn day. The constant whirring of their LEDs drive him insane, and he hates how they seem to think they’re better than everyone else—yeah, yeah, Connor’s explained a million times that androids don’t exactly think, they just come up with some stupid math equation that Gavin doesn’t plan to understand.

It’s even worse that an android has taken the job he has been working towards for years—Connor “Anderson” now is Sergeant Connor “Anderson” despite being a fucking robot.

Gavin’s pissed—more than pissed. He can barely come up with a word to describe his anger, not that he’s ever been good with flowery language. He doesn’t even understand why he was invited to this celebration for the android’s promotion—the whole department knows how hard he worked for that promotion and how much he hates Connor.

The only reason Gavin even showed up was for the drinks and the fact that this was also Ben Collins' retirement party–obviously, the DPD couldn’t afford two separate celebrations despite hiring several new android employees to replace the older detective.

Gavin knows androids don’t have those issues—growing old and frail. Connor will outlive the whole department—Gavin can’t even fathom working under Captain Connor one day.

The only saving grace is your presence at the party. 

He’s not sure he could even stand to be here without starting something if you hadn’t shown up. Sure, he sorta, kinda begged you to come—out of character for him, he knows—so he wouldn’t end up on the wrong side of a prison cell.

He walks over to you with a drink, a sneer on his face. “I still can’t fucking believe they gave Sergeant to a machine over me,” he grumbles as he hands you the red solo cup.

You don’t say anything as you take a sip, your face blank, almost like you’re lost in thought.

“Hey! Are you listening to me?” Gavin questions, his—now—free hand snapping in your face.

You flinch—that’s the first time Gavin’s ever seen you flinch away from him and he almost feels a bit hurt. Sure, he’s known for his anger and hotheadedness, but he’d never lay a hand on you—he’s baffled you’d even think that.

“Sorry, Gav,” you mutter, your eyes trained on the linoleum floor. You don’t say anything—Gavin finds that strange. You always have something to say about androids, some stupid defense that he’d argue with you about.

“Whatever,” Gavin replies, waving you off. Why should he care about your change in behavior? The two of you are just coworkers and fuck buddies, that’s all. “I’m gonna get a refill,” he gestures to his empty cup before leaving you standing like a deer in headlights.

As he approaches the hastily set up bar sat against the wall, he runs into his point of contention tonight—Connor. “Oh look, it’s the fucking machine of the hour!” he spits as he walks over to the counter and pours himself another drink.

Connor ignores him, sending a glare in his direction. Ever since he became deviant, he’s been better at realizing when Gavin’s fucking with him—Gavin liked him better before.

Gavin’s thoughts move to you and Connor. He’d seen you eyeing the android down when he first arrived at the station—hell, he even made a joke about you wanting to fuck the machine.

Stupid whore, Gavin thinks as he takes a swig of his drink, do they really think that machine can fuck them better than I could? I’ll fucking show them. Gavin shakes the thought—he’s pissed at you.

He needs a cigarette, something to quell his nerves.

He leaves to go out the back door. He glances into the crowd, finding you standing beside the new sergeant with a smile on your face—it’s been a while since he last saw you smile at him.

He rolls his eyes and continues his way out the back door, slamming it behind himself. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cigarettes and the pink BIC lighter he stole from your apartment one night. Leaning up against the wall, he slots a cigarette between his lips and lights it.

The door opens, and your hesitant figure steps out. “Hey,” you say, wordlessly reaching your hand out for a cigarette.

“So, you’re done making heart eyes at Detective Plastic in there?” Gavin says as he hands you a cigarette with the lighter.

“Fuck off,” you reply, lighting the cigarette and taking a drag. He notices that the fire in your eyes when you insult him is gone.

“Oh, come on, don’t act like I’m wrong. You’ve been in love with that thing since it got to the fucking station.”

“He’s not a fucking thing, Gavin,” you spit, your mostly unsmoked cigarette falling to the ground. “I’m tired of the way you talk about him! Why do you care if I find him attractive?”

“I don’t!” Gavin responds, stubbing his cigarette out on the wall. “I don’t give a single fuck about what you think of that thing!”

You’re quiet again. Gavin’s honestly shocked that you even raised your voice at him— he can’t name a single time that your voice has been louder than a peep.

It’s then that Gavin really looks at you. Your lips are turned up in anger, eyes filled with tears—you’re shaking like you’re boiling from the inside.

Now Gavin’s quiet. For the first time, you’re actually angry—he’s watched you get spit on by criminals, called names, and yet you’ve never looked so furious.

You turn and head back inside, rushing off toward the bathroom before Gavin can even say a word. He’s not sure what he’d even say if he had even been given the chance.

He looks down at the half-smoked stubbed cigarette in his hand and debates relighting it or just adding it to the pile of butts on the ground. It makes him think about your relationship—is it really worth the effort anymore? Gav feels like it’s all becoming too real. He never meant to care about you—it’s not in his nature to care about anyone besides himself.

He tosses the cigarette with yours on the ground before heading back inside. His feet stop outside the door to the bathroom, feeling some kind of pull to come in and check on you—why does he care? He wonders.

His hand twists the knob—you left it unlocked. Gavin enters the unisex bathroom to find you sitting on the toilet with your head in your hands. You look up once you hear him click the lock behind him, eyes glossy and red.

“You, uh… you good?” are the first words out of his mouth—he’s never been good at comfort.

You let out a dry laugh as you rub away the tears with your closed fists, head shaking. “Am I good? That’s really what you’re gonna ask me?”

Gavin scratches the back of his neck and looks away from you, his cheeks beginning to heat up. He’s totally out of his element—he should’ve just relit the cigarette outside. “What do you want me to say? Some bullshit about how I’m sorry when I’m not?”

That was clearly not the right thing to say. You stand up quickly and stomp over to him, the fire back in your eyes. “Fuck you.” You state, jabbing your finger into his chest. 

Gavin wants to be pissed, to yell back at you for being so damn defensive over a pile of circuits—but he doesn’t.

Instead, he grabs your shoulders and pulls you into his lips. He expects you to pull away, maybe smack him across the face. He can’t say he doesn’t deserve it. 

But you don’t.

You kiss him back and he turns the two of you around, moving you towards the sink and kissing you against it. Your legs wrap around him and you grind against him—it’s like you wanted this all along.

He sneaks a hand down the front of your pants, hands moving against your most intimate parts. You gasp and it’s almost music to Gav’s ears—he’d rather hear you begging him to fuck you but this is enough.

Your fingers work on removing Gavin’s belt. “Eager, huh?” He mumbles into the kiss with a smirk and you just ignore him, focusing on yanking the leather through the loops and dropping it on the floor. 

“Just fuck me,” you mutter as you unbutton his jeans and pull them down his legs. Gavin doesn’t need any more signal as he turns you around, your pants joining his on the floor just as fast. He spits onto his hand and slathers it on his hard cock—he wasn’t exactly prepared with lube for this.

He lines himself up with your hole before thrusting in, listening to you try to muffle your groans as you take him fully. He grabs your throat and pulls you back, his breath on your ear. “Come on, let them all hear how much of a fucking slut you are,” he groans as he thrusts into you again. “Say it, let every fucking person here hear you. I want that stupid fucking robot to know he can’t fuck you as good as I can.”

You whine louder as he quickens his pace, like a damn cat in heat. You are practically begging him to fuck you harder and faster—he wants to make sure everyone knows that you’re his and only his. You should know this already—Gav could fucking destroy you and you could him. It’s like mutual assured destruction; you both know each other too well.

“I love you…” you moan out and Gavin almost freezes in his strokes—did he hear that clearly? 

“Say it again,” he mutters, his hand gripping onto your ass. “Tell me you fucking love me, whore. Tell me that you’re mine,” he says louder, slamming into you.

And you do. “Fuck—god, I love you, Gavin, I’m all yours.”

It’s not long before Gavin cums, emptying every last bit into you. You’re his. His.

No, that's not right. He pulls out of you and yanks his jeans back up his legs, grabbing his belt and shoving it through the loops quickly. He needs to get out of here. You just confessed your fucking love to him and he wants to run.

He can’t love you, no—love is a foreign word on his forked tongue. Gavin is the snake and you’re Eve—or maybe it’s the other way around. You tempt him—he’s starting to think that he may love you too.

“Gav—” you try to stop him as he unlocks the door and leaves you frozen with your pants down.

Of course fucking Connor has to be stood outside the door, posture as straight as a damn pencil. “Is the other detective okay, Detective Reed? I heard them crying.”

“It’s none of your fucking business, tin can,” Gavin spits before pushing Connor out of his way and making a beeline towards the door. He feels trapped and he needs to get the fuck out of here.

Of course, Captain Fowler would find this the perfect time to step up on stage.

He taps the mic a few times before speaking,

“Now, I know this party is mainly to congratulate Connor on his new promotion and to say goodbye to Detective Collins but I do have a few announcements to make and then I’ll let you get back to it. With Connor’s new leadership promotion, I thought it would be best to assign both him and Lieutenant Anderson with new detectives. Detective Reed,“ his eyes lock onto Gavin, “you’ll be reassigned to Lieutenant Anderson.”

He can’t be fucking serious, Gavin thinks, his face full of anger. Out of all the people in the DPD, Gavin has to be the unlucky one assigned to the washed-up Lieutenant.

Then he hears your name—

“…You’ll be reassigned to Sergeant Connor.”

And his world has shattered just like that. They took you away from him and assigned you to the fucking robot that took his job. He feels he’s wound up in the middle of a Twilight Zone rerun. This can’t be real.

His eyes search for you in the crowd, wondering what kind of reaction he’ll find on your face. There’s no way you’re fine with this. His sight finally lands on you and you are smiling like a fucking kid told they were going to Disney World. 

This is exactly what you wanted—working with that shitty piece of plastic you seem to like so much. Gavin doesn’t get it. You just professed your love to him, and now you’re happy that you don’t have to work alongside him anymore? Fucking bitch! He can’t believe you.

He wants to march right over to you and say something, ask why you hate him so much, but he doesn’t. Instead, he continues his trek out the door.

He has almost made his escape when he’s stopped by his new “partner”, Lieutenant Hank Anderson.

“Leaving already?” Hank asks, swirling the liquid in his red solo cup.

“What does it fucking look like I’m doing?” Gavin fires back—he just wants to get out of this building, feeling like his life is burning down all around him.

“Woah, asshole, it was just a question,” Hank replies, crossing his arms over his chest, “Who pissed in your Cheerios?”

Connor, you, and now Hank—Gavin feels like they all have ruined his life. If you’d never shown up to the station, a meek transfer from New York, he would have his shit together. You are his downfall, someone sent to sabotage everything he’s fought for.

He’s touched you and now he has been burned—he is the forest and you are the fire. Oil and water. Never meant to be. He can finally see through your bullshit—you don’t love him. Your relationship is what it always was—a temporary escape from the stress of the job. 

“Reed?” Hank calls, his hand waving in Gavin’s face, “What’s wrong with you?”

“None of your fucking business,” Gavin answers, finally stomping out of the building.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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i’m finishing up the last few lines of part 2 to One Way Mirror so be on the lookout for that soon! i know you all have been waiting so i’m sorry for being out so long!

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connor’s nose

that’s all. thank you for your time

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[scapegh0st]

hey guys!! this will be getting a part two somewhat soon so be on the lookout!

One-Way Mirror (Gavin Reed x Reader)

Summary: Both Gavin and Reader suck at feelings Content: NSFW 18+, gn!Reader, smut, angst, hurt/no comfort, fingerfucking, dirty talk, friends with benefits, unresolved feelings, unrequited love, basically just angsty smut Word Count: 1.6k read on ao3

You love him.

Or at least you think you do.

Sure, Gavin Reed is the resident asshole of the Detroit Police Department and he can be hard to swallow—both figuratively and literally—but he's something more to you. He's an enigma that you want to—need to—figure out.

You glance up at him from your kneeling position, one hand wrapped around his cock and the other between your legs. His head is thrown back and his bottom lip is between his teeth. You think he’s pretty like this, with his eyes shut and that screwed-up look of pleasure on his face.

When he’s like this, he doesn’t notice you staring—doesn’t make some dickish comment like “take a picture, it’ll last longer.” It’s one of the few times he’s actually quiet—besides the soft muffled sounds coming from his mouth. 

You don’t think he loves you back. You really just think that he’s incapable of love, incapable of being more than this.

He lets you see him like this because you understand him—because you get him. He can call you as many names as he likes and you always shoot them back— dickwad, douchebag, asshole. He likes that about you, you think—that you can match his energy.

Your lips wrap around the head, tongue swirling around like you have to taste every inch of him. He lets out a groan—if he could sink right through the mattress, you think he would. He’s melting and you know that you’re the heat that molds him.

“Fuck… ” he mutters, one of his hands running through his hair and the other gripping your head. He doesn’t push you—he knows better—but he knows you like when he grips your hair. You hum around him before taking him deeper into your mouth.

He’s like water in your hands, slipping through despite how much you try to cup them and keep him there. He’s always two steps away even when he’s right here.

He pulls you off of him, his eyes open and he looks down at you. He’s panting and the wrinkle between his brows deepens. “I don’t wanna finish like this,” he says, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. “Come on, get up here.”

It’s not a demand or an order like he usually gives you, it’s something more blurred—his voice is gentle, not full of spite and a lack of sleep. He’s asking you, letting you deny him even though he needs this. You need this.

You push yourself off the ground and join him on the bed. He’s on top of you in seconds, yanking your pants down your legs–your belt makes a clinking sound when they hit the floor.

There’s this glint in his eyes that you only see when he’s hovering over you. You know it’s probably nothing– just a trick your mind is playing on you–but you swear it means something, that this is what he can give you. It’s not quite love, but it’s enough. It has to be enough.

One of his fingers fills you, drawing a sharp exhale from your lungs. He adds another and your hand clasps over your mouth, drowning the sounds into your palm. He grins that cocky grin that would usually piss you off in any other circumstance—but he’s proud of himself and you're okay with letting him have this. You’d let him tear you apart if he asked.

“Yeah? You like that?” He questions, his own type of pillow talk. “I don’t even have to do this—you’re always ready for me like the good whore you are.”

You should feel insulted—you don’t. Instead, you respond with a muffled moan and a slight head nod. He seems to like that answer as he adds a third finger. 

Your free hand grips the sheets and you feel like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the ground. If heaven was real, you were sure this was it.

“Nobody else makes you feel this good, do they?”

No, they don’t. Nobody else makes you feel like they’re holding your head underwater and that you trust them enough to pull you up for air when you need it. Like sleep to the freezing. Something so good but so wrong.

He pulls out his fingers and you whine, eyes snapping open to narrow in frustration at him. He just laughs that god-awful laugh that you love despite how much it grates your ears.

“What? Is something wrong?” You can hear the smirk in his voice—he’s so smug and you want to fucking throttle him.

You open your mouth to fire back but you’re swiftly shut up by his cock filling you. He’s never gentle when he’s fucking you—it’s hard and it’s fast and it pulls you apart. You’re not sure you ever want him to fuck you any differently.

Your eyes find his face as his hips piston into you, grunts escaping his throat. He’s not looking at you— he never does. You’re always watching him and he’s never seeing you. 

His eyes are closed and you wonder if he’s imagining someone else. Someone more pliable to what he wants. You’re made of stone—he can chip away but he never can mold you into something easier to hold. You’ll always have sharp edges—he grabs you like he doesn’t care if he slices his hand.

You close your own eyes, trying to think of someone else. An old hookup. Your last Tinder date. That new android detective, Connor—you know Gavin would hate the thought and you can’t do that to him, not even subconsciously.

Gavin’s presence in your head is overbearing. Every choice you make somehow leads back to him, from your choice of clothing to the life-or-death decisions you’re forced to make each day.

You’re pulled out of your thoughts when Gavin grabs one of your hands and interlaces your fingers. It’s so… intimate —you don’t know what to think. His hand in yours makes this real—at least to you. It tells you that he’s aware of you for once, that he’s not just fucking a hole— he’s fucking you and he’s conscious of it.

He slams into you again, his head coming down to the crook of your neck. You can feel his breath against your skin, soft pants as he thrusts in and out. “Fuckin’ hell,” he groans, the fingers of his other hand digging into your hip. “You’re so good for me.”

You want it to mean more than it does to him. You could be good for him, you think, you keep him grounded yet you share the same misery—the same reliance on caffeine and these exchanges of endorphins. Maybe you could make him happy, outside of the serotonin he receives when he’s filled you. You’d dote on him; dress up for him, make him a lunch for work, and have coffee ready for him in the morning. It’s a pipe dream and you know it.

“You’re so fucking… fuck… you’re so tight,” the words stumble from his lips as they usually do—he’s close. 

Your free hand reaches down to play with yourself, to bring yourself right to the edge with him. If he asked you to jump, you’d ask how high.

His mouth presses against your neck, his teeth hovering over your carotid. He holds your life in his mouth and you trust him with it despite all the signs warning against it. He’s fire and you’re gasoline.

“I’m gonna–” his hips start to stutter. “Fuck.”

You tumble over the edge with him, legs quaking where they wrap around his waist. He collapses onto you, knocking the air from your lungs—it’s suffocating and you love it.

He lets go of your hand and pushes himself up, sliding out of you with ease. He sits back on his knees, hands on his thighs as he catches his breath. He raises a hand to drag over his face, wiping away the sweat. There’s a faraway look in his eyes, like he’s not really here with you. You wish he was.

His eyes shift to the wall to his right. He never looks at you straight when he’s done—you wonder if he regrets it.

You wish he’d just lay down beside you and pull you close. That he’d kiss your head and promise you things he’s not sure he should. He won’t and you’ve accepted that. This is what he can give you and you’re fine with that. You can savor him better like this—if he gave into you, you’re sure you’d eat him whole.

He slides his legs out from underneath himself, one of them resting on its side on the bed and the other pulled to his chest. His arm rests on his knee, his knuckles pressed against the side of his face. You’d paint him like this if you knew how.

“Well,” his eyes flicking in your direction but focusing on anything that isn’t you. “I’m gonna shower.”

He gets up and heads towards his connected bathroom. You wanna reach out and stop him. You wanna ask why he won’t look at you–why he can’t look at you. He acts like you’re the sun—he orbits around you without ever staring at you too long. You might burn him if he does.

“Gav,” you croak out, the first word you’ve said since you've entered his apartment. 

He looks at you like you’re the weight on his shoulders—familiar but unwelcome. Or maybe he’s the weight on yours. You aren’t sure.

“‘The fuck you want?” he asks. You know he doesn’t mean for it to come out so rotten—that’s just the way he talks and he knows you understand. But it hurts you this once.

You love him. 

You want to tell him—it’s on the tip of your tongue like a word you can’t quite find.

“Don’t slip, dumbass,” you answer with a cheshire grin—it’s forced and you know that he knows.

 It’s better that you don’t .

[scapegh0st]

i get why deer run in front of cars

[scapegh0st]

sorry I wasn’t in the mood to be a person today, sorry I forgot to keep a conversation, sorry my soul needs ironing. give me a moment, a day or a so. it’ll be good. I’ll brush my hair and change my clothes. I’ll laugh a lot. I’ll say important things. it’ll be good.

[scapegh0st]

everything is totally okay i just need to get hit by a car

[scapegh0st]

Andrés Cerpa, The Vault

[scapegh0st]

One-Way Mirror (Gavin Reed x Reader)

Summary: Both Gavin and Reader suck at feelings Content: NSFW 18+, gn!Reader, smut, angst, hurt/no comfort, fingerfucking, dirty talk, friends with benefits, unresolved feelings, unrequited love, basically just angsty smut Word Count: 1.6k read on ao3

You love him.

Or at least you think you do.

Sure, Gavin Reed is the resident asshole of the Detroit Police Department and he can be hard to swallow—both figuratively and literally—but he's something more to you. He's an enigma that you want to—need to—figure out.

You glance up at him from your kneeling position, one hand wrapped around his cock and the other between your legs. His head is thrown back and his bottom lip is between his teeth. You think he’s pretty like this, with his eyes shut and that screwed-up look of pleasure on his face.

When he’s like this, he doesn’t notice you staring—doesn’t make some dickish comment like “take a picture, it’ll last longer.” It’s one of the few times he’s actually quiet—besides the soft muffled sounds coming from his mouth. 

You don’t think he loves you back. You really just think that he’s incapable of love, incapable of being more than this.

He lets you see him like this because you understand him—because you get him. He can call you as many names as he likes and you always shoot them back— dickwad, douchebag, asshole. He likes that about you, you think—that you can match his energy.

Your lips wrap around the head, tongue swirling around like you have to taste every inch of him. He lets out a groan—if he could sink right through the mattress, you think he would. He’s melting and you know that you’re the heat that molds him.

“Fuck… ” he mutters, one of his hands running through his hair and the other gripping your head. He doesn’t push you—he knows better—but he knows you like when he grips your hair. You hum around him before taking him deeper into your mouth.

He’s like water in your hands, slipping through despite how much you try to cup them and keep him there. He’s always two steps away even when he’s right here.

He pulls you off of him, his eyes open and he looks down at you. He’s panting and the wrinkle between his brows deepens. “I don’t wanna finish like this,” he says, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. “Come on, get up here.”

It’s not a demand or an order like he usually gives you, it’s something more blurred—his voice is gentle, not full of spite and a lack of sleep. He’s asking you, letting you deny him even though he needs this. You need this.

You push yourself off the ground and join him on the bed. He’s on top of you in seconds, yanking your pants down your legs–your belt makes a clinking sound when they hit the floor.

There’s this glint in his eyes that you only see when he’s hovering over you. You know it’s probably nothing– just a trick your mind is playing on you–but you swear it means something, that this is what he can give you. It’s not quite love, but it’s enough. It has to be enough.

One of his fingers fills you, drawing a sharp exhale from your lungs. He adds another and your hand clasps over your mouth, drowning the sounds into your palm. He grins that cocky grin that would usually piss you off in any other circumstance—but he’s proud of himself and you're okay with letting him have this. You’d let him tear you apart if he asked.

“Yeah? You like that?” He questions, his own type of pillow talk. “I don’t even have to do this—you’re always ready for me like the good whore you are.”

You should feel insulted—you don’t. Instead, you respond with a muffled moan and a slight head nod. He seems to like that answer as he adds a third finger. 

Your free hand grips the sheets and you feel like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the ground. If heaven was real, you were sure this was it.

“Nobody else makes you feel this good, do they?”

No, they don’t. Nobody else makes you feel like they’re holding your head underwater and that you trust them enough to pull you up for air when you need it. Like sleep to the freezing. Something so good but so wrong.

He pulls out his fingers and you whine, eyes snapping open to narrow in frustration at him. He just laughs that god-awful laugh that you love despite how much it grates your ears.

“What? Is something wrong?” You can hear the smirk in his voice—he’s so smug and you want to fucking throttle him.

You open your mouth to fire back but you’re swiftly shut up by his cock filling you. He’s never gentle when he’s fucking you—it’s hard and it’s fast and it pulls you apart. You’re not sure you ever want him to fuck you any differently.

Your eyes find his face as his hips piston into you, grunts escaping his throat. He’s not looking at you— he never does. You’re always watching him and he’s never seeing you. 

His eyes are closed and you wonder if he’s imagining someone else. Someone more pliable to what he wants. You’re made of stone—he can chip away but he never can mold you into something easier to hold. You’ll always have sharp edges—he grabs you like he doesn’t care if he slices his hand.

You close your own eyes, trying to think of someone else. An old hookup. Your last Tinder date. That new android detective, Connor—you know Gavin would hate the thought and you can’t do that to him, not even subconsciously.

Gavin’s presence in your head is overbearing. Every choice you make somehow leads back to him, from your choice of clothing to the life-or-death decisions you’re forced to make each day.

You’re pulled out of your thoughts when Gavin grabs one of your hands and interlaces your fingers. It’s so… intimate —you don’t know what to think. His hand in yours makes this real—at least to you. It tells you that he’s aware of you for once, that he’s not just fucking a hole— he’s fucking you and he’s conscious of it.

He slams into you again, his head coming down to the crook of your neck. You can feel his breath against your skin, soft pants as he thrusts in and out. “Fuckin’ hell,” he groans, the fingers of his other hand digging into your hip. “You’re so good for me.”

You want it to mean more than it does to him. You could be good for him, you think, you keep him grounded yet you share the same misery—the same reliance on caffeine and these exchanges of endorphins. Maybe you could make him happy, outside of the serotonin he receives when he’s filled you. You’d dote on him; dress up for him, make him a lunch for work, and have coffee ready for him in the morning. It’s a pipe dream and you know it.

“You’re so fucking… fuck… you’re so tight,” the words stumble from his lips as they usually do—he’s close. 

Your free hand reaches down to play with yourself, to bring yourself right to the edge with him. If he asked you to jump, you’d ask how high.

His mouth presses against your neck, his teeth hovering over your carotid. He holds your life in his mouth and you trust him with it despite all the signs warning against it. He’s fire and you’re gasoline.

“I’m gonna–” his hips start to stutter. “Fuck.”

You tumble over the edge with him, legs quaking where they wrap around his waist. He collapses onto you, knocking the air from your lungs—it’s suffocating and you love it.

He lets go of your hand and pushes himself up, sliding out of you with ease. He sits back on his knees, hands on his thighs as he catches his breath. He raises a hand to drag over his face, wiping away the sweat. There’s a faraway look in his eyes, like he’s not really here with you. You wish he was.

His eyes shift to the wall to his right. He never looks at you straight when he’s done—you wonder if he regrets it.

You wish he’d just lay down beside you and pull you close. That he’d kiss your head and promise you things he’s not sure he should. He won’t and you’ve accepted that. This is what he can give you and you’re fine with that. You can savor him better like this—if he gave into you, you’re sure you’d eat him whole.

He slides his legs out from underneath himself, one of them resting on its side on the bed and the other pulled to his chest. His arm rests on his knee, his knuckles pressed against the side of his face. You’d paint him like this if you knew how.

“Well,” his eyes flicking in your direction but focusing on anything that isn’t you. “I’m gonna shower.”

He gets up and heads towards his connected bathroom. You wanna reach out and stop him. You wanna ask why he won’t look at you–why he can’t look at you. He acts like you’re the sun—he orbits around you without ever staring at you too long. You might burn him if he does.

“Gav,” you croak out, the first word you’ve said since you've entered his apartment. 

He looks at you like you’re the weight on his shoulders—familiar but unwelcome. Or maybe he’s the weight on yours. You aren’t sure.

“‘The fuck you want?” he asks. You know he doesn’t mean for it to come out so rotten—that’s just the way he talks and he knows you understand. But it hurts you this once.

You love him. 

You want to tell him—it’s on the tip of your tongue like a word you can’t quite find.

“Don’t slip, dumbass,” you answer with a cheshire grin—it’s forced and you know that he knows.

 It’s better that you don’t .

[scapegh0st]

[scapegh0st]

I'm whatever you want me to be, Lieutenant. Your partner... Your buddy to drink with...

[scapegh0st]

YOU HAD EVERYTHING BUT!!! DETROIT AU!

I KNOW WHAT YOU WANTED

[scapegh0st]

bro please shut the fuck up im looking at the moon

[scapegh0st]

Christian Slater as J.D. Heathers (1989) dir. Michael Lehmann